Homesickness? Who, me? No, thanks.
It is the nose sometimes. The smell of wood burning brings me the winter in mum’s, the old wind cutting my face in the narrow streets around the church.
Homesickness, sometimes, is nothing more than a flavour, the urgent necessity of drinking a real Caña after a lot of Düsseldorf Altbier; the thrill of thinking of a tapa of Iberian Ham and a lot of kisses coming back from London after a rainy august day.
Yeah, homesickness is made of light feelings, emotions, such as someone’s perfume in the middle of the tube, or some eyes that remind you some others that are waiting for you in your corner of the world.
But a song casually heard, and suddenly, you are fighting to hold back your tears, thinking about your baby hundreds of miles away. And that is real homesickness.