coming home.

Like most high school kids, I wanted to leave my home town the minute I put down my pen at the end of my last Bursary exam.
During those years, references to our harmless little town usually revolved around the words "hole", "dump", or even "Hell".
Such is teenage angst.
True to our word, most of us did leave immediately, pursuing university degrees or travel or jobs in other, 'better' towns or cities. Anywhere but here, we said.

And now, most of us are back.

Walking down the street now, I am as likely to pass someone I went to school with as if I am actually back on school grounds. The guy at the gym, the girl at the supermarket checkout, the couple pushing a baby's pram down the main street. Physique isn't all that has changed with growing up; somewhere along the way, we changed our minds about Matamata.

So, were we wrong?

It's true that Matamata has changed as well. As much respect I have for the place now, I am sure it actually was something of a hole at some point. In the five years after I left, Matamata gained a shiny new New World, a McDonalds, Robert Harris and several swanky boutique-y style shops. Lord of the Rings helped; the tourist interest in the few remaining Hobbit holes is yet to wane. In fact, the next movie 'The Hobbit' will only bring more hordes of fantasy enthusiasts clambering to have their photo taken with the Gollum statue in the centre of town.

Still, as fancy as Matamata has become, I think there's some truth to "Home Sweet Home", and the old addage, "you don't know what you've got til it's gone".

I don't mind admitting that while my cold, draughty bedroom in my first Wellington flat spoke volumes (albeit barely audible over the howling wind) about freedom and indepedence, it lacked something that couldn't be posted in one of my mum's care packages.

Familiarity.

And so, like others in my year who lamented our lack of a cinema/night club/coffee bar, I've learned to appreciate that bigger isn't always better. That there is comfort in knowing the person who just vaccinated your dog is a friend of your parents and that the lady doing the wine tastings at the supermarket knows your favourite red.

Anonymity can be lonely. And, really, there's no place like home.

Perhaps not for good, but for now.