I’ve traveled to 70 countries - these 5 always feel like coming home

The first place that ever felt like “mine” wasn’t my apartment. It was an airport. Middle seat, no sleep, bad coffee, and that strange, sterile promise of the jet bridge.

I’ve stamped my passport through seventy countries, some gorgeous like a museum you whisper through, some chaotic like a grocery aisle before a storm.

Five always unclench my shoulders. I walk out of baggage claim and my feet remember where to go. Home isn’t one address for me. It’s five different countries that hand me the same feeling: you can be yourself here, with a little curiosity and clean socks.

1. Thailand, where Tuesday has flavor

Bangkok wakes up like a kitchen. Heat, noise, laughter, woks arguing with fire.

My first morning there, a woman at a cart cracked eggs into a pan that sounded like applause and handed me pad krapao in a paper bowl. I ate on a plastic stool and understood why people fall in love with cities. I’m late thirties now, a former restaurant owner, and this place still makes me feel like an apprentice—in a good way.

Things that feel like home: the BTS skytrain gliding above traffic when you need your sanity to stay put, iced coffee that could apologize for any mood, and the soft politeness of wai greetings that lower the volume on your day. I rent close to a market so dinner starts as a conversation with a vendor, not a recipe. The rhythm fits me. Morning errands. Midday work block. Afternoon truce with the heat. Night walk by the river when the air forgives you.

Thailand taught me to measure a day by sequences, not accomplishments. Eat simply, move often, smile like you mean it. When I return, my calendar gets friendlier and so do I.

2. Spain, where time stretches on purpose

Spain made me suspicious of clocks.

In Madrid I learned the pleasure of landing nowhere in particular at 10 p.m., of standing at a crowded bar and eating something that looks plain and tastes like an argument your mouth wins: tortilla, pan con tomate, razor clams that arrive like punctuation. In Granada I wandered a street so narrow two strangers had to negotiate past each other with half-smiles. The city taught me that intimacy can be urban policy.

Here, home is a chair pulled into the shade and a waiter who does not hurry your soul. It is the way small talk includes weather, politics, and a cousin’s wedding in three sentences.

It is the nap you actually take because the shops decide they’re tired too. People like to argue dinner hours with Spain. I stopped. You either join the rhythm or you try to outrun it and lose. When I fall back into Spanish time, I cook later, talk longer, and mistake fewer things for emergencies.

Spain handed me this: life can be delicious without being expensive. That was good news when I ran restaurants. It is even better news now that I run my own day.

3. Japan, where attention is a love language

In Kyoto I once apologized to a chef for a sloppy request. He bowed like I’d handed him a medal. Then he made the dish better than I had the vocabulary to ask for. Japan calms me the way a well-set station calms a kitchen. There is respect for process, for tools, for the quiet hum that happens when you do things properly.

Home, here, is the convenience store that sells better onigiri than my most nostalgic memory of lunch. It is the vending machine that always works, the train that arrives when it says it will, the tiny bar with eight stools and one bartender who is also a storyteller. It is the sound of slippers on tatami and the way a stranger will walk you to the right platform instead of pointing and wishing you luck.

Japan taught me that joy hides in maintenance. Sharpen the knife. Fold the towel right. Bow to the day a little. When I leave, I bring back a stubborn tenderness for details. My kitchen stays cleaner. My mornings smell like green tea and intention. And when I mess up, I try again without theatrics, which might be the most Japanese souvenir I ever packed.

4. Mexico, where hospitality laughs first

Mexico is a chorus. The first time I was handed a plastic chair at a roadside stand and told, “Sit, you look hungry,” I believed in the world again. Mexico City moves like a novel. Oaxaca cooks like an archive. On the coast, I learned that afternoons are for argument and hammocks. My Spanish got better; my posture got worse in a way my chiropractor would approve.

Home is a salsa bar that dares you to choose wisely. It’s a mercado that doubles as a museum of color. It’s the grandmother who tells you your mole is a good first draft and then shows you what your draft forgot. I have eaten meals here that tasted like someone took decades and reduced them to a sauce that apologizes for nothing.

Mexico taught me to welcome without apology. Put an extra chair at the corner. Add water to the soup. Offer seconds like a thesis. I bring that back into my life everywhere. Strangers become neighbors faster when the first thing you hand them is a plate.

5. Portugal, where melancholy tastes like dessert

Portugal does this magic trick where it lets you slow down without making you feel lazy. Lisbon’s hills argue with your calves, then reward you with a view that shuts you up on cue. Porto smells like river and patience. A tiny tasca taught me that salt cod can be a love language if you commit. And yes, a pastel de nata with a coffee is an acceptable breakfast, lunch, or apology. I tried to resist. I failed with dignity.

Here, home is tiled walls that refuse to be plain. It is the sound of fado leaking out of a doorway and turning a corner into a confession. It is the way people look you in the eye when they pour wine and somehow also tell you to take your time. Portugal made me braver about being quiet around other humans. You can sit beside someone, say little, and still feel accompanied. That is a rare hospitality.

Portugal taught me that melancholy is not the enemy of joy. It is the marinade. I come back kinder to whatever the day decided to be. I let the light do more of the talking.

The test for “home”

Countries that feel like home aren’t the easiest. They’re the ones where my better habits wake up first. Thailand gets me walking before I think about it. Spain pulls me into conversation without checking my calendar. Japan makes me clean the counter until it shines like a promise. Mexico gets me feeding people for sport. Portugal lets me exhale while I still care. The five aren’t a ranking. They’re a map of who I hope to be on a good week.

Two small scenes that still rattle my pockets

The Bangkok repair

My air conditioner died at noon. Back in the States, that’s a three-act play with hold music. In Bangkok, the building office texted back in two minutes. A tech appeared with parts in a backpack, replaced a capacitor, wiped the unit, bowed, and left. No lecture. No surprise fee. The rest of the day felt like a miracle, not because of the money saved, but because the friction vanished. Home is where small problems don’t hijack your mood.

The Madrid detour

I was en route to meet friends, late, hungry, borderline dramatic. A bar with no sign opened its door to me like I had a reservation under the name “Hope.” The bartender poured vermut, slid me two olives that tasted like they remembered sunshine, and handed me a small bocadillo that could have been a lullaby. I texted my friends that I’d be ten minutes later. They arrived instead. We never made the original plan. We made something else. Home is where you can change the plan, and it gets better.

How I pack for these five

I try to bring offerings that make me a good guest. In Thailand, a few words of Thai and a willingness to eat what’s handed to me. In Spain, the stamina to eat late and talk honestly. In Japan, patience and a clean pair of socks because someone’s floor will deserve them. In Mexico, appetite and a compliment for the cook’s mother. In Portugal, shoes I can walk in and a pocket ready for pastry crumbs. I also pack humble curiosity. It has never failed me.

What these places repaired in me

Travel once made me feel impressive. Then it made me feel small in the right way. These five taught me generosity with time, attention, and appetite. They rearranged my priorities. I do not ask if a city can entertain me. I ask if it can help me be gentler with the people I love and braver with the hours I’m given. Over and over, these five answer yes.

I used to chase “new.” Now I chase “true.” Sometimes they overlap. When they don’t, I know where to land.

Final thoughts

Home is not just the place where your mail arrives. It’s the place that hands you back your better self without a speech. Thailand gives me sequence and flavor. Spain gives me conversation and a wider clock. Japan gives me attention that feels like care. Mexico gives me welcome that feels like a sport I can train for. Portugal gives me quiet that tastes like music. I could live in any of them long enough to grow roots. I come back to all of them often enough to keep my feet honest.

If you travel for bragging rights, you’ll miss it. Travel for the spots that lower your shoulders. Travel for the streets that return your curiosity like a loan with interest. Find your five, even if they’re towns an hour away. Sit on a plastic stool, pull a chair into the shade, bow to a stranger, eat what’s handed to you, listen to the sad song that isn’t really sad. Call that feeling “home,” then carry it back to your actual address. That’s the point. The passport stamp matters less than the Tuesday you make when you return.