Finding My Rye

Every May, like clockwork, I get homesick.

Which is odd, considering I am home — in the same Swiss village I grew up in and returned to after 9/11. But the truth is, I have a second home: San Diego, California.

In May 1997, I visited San Diego for the first time and fell instantly in love. The palm trees, the ocean breeze, the laid-back vibe, it all clicked. I returned again and again, and in 2001, I moved there for good. Well, until life had other plans. But the imprint stuck.

Now, every May, the longing creeps in. I get itchy feet. I start scrolling old photos, messaging friends across the pond, and watching travel videos. And as it often goes, a clip about SoCal somehow led me deep into a documentary on New York City - a place 2,500 miles or 4,000 km and an entire mood away.

My relationship with NYC is complicated. The first visit? A disaster. It rained nonstop. Our cab driver was rude, the hotel was a scam, and the people were anything but friendly. Even our breakfast included an unbothered cockroach and an even less bothered waiter. When I accidentally took us to the wrong airport for our flight home, it felt like the city was personally rejecting me.

But years later, married and traveling with our 10-year-old son, NYC gave us a second chance. The sun was out, we had a plan, and we avoided taxis altogether. And then something magical happened: In the middle of a tourist-packed street corner near the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, a Swiss acquaintance spotted me. Out of millions, we bumped into each other. What are the odds? It was a moment I’ll never forget.

Lately, I’ve been feeling oddly connected to the city again, especially to the iconic “Lunch atop a Skyscraper” photo. Staged or not, those men were real ironworkers, often Indigenous Mohawks or immigrants, working on beams with no safety nets. They had a saying: “You’re either quick or dead.” 

New York grit in a nutshell.

So yesterday, in honor of that grit and craving something unmistakably New York, I decided to make myself a pastrami on rye. With only an hour to spare, I raced to the store, grabbed my ingredients, scanned them like a good citizen at the self-checkout, even though there’s barely any space to put your stuff while you scan. Balancing pastrami, cheese, and my sanity, I headed home, only to discover I forgot the rye.

There it was, abandoned at the scanner. My New York moment - carb-less.

I sulked over a sad pastrami-and-cheese salad. It was fine. But not great. It had no attitude. No foundation.

Today, I went back. Same time crunch. But this time I got in line at the one serviced checkout. Because I wasn’t risking another heartbreak.

And this time, friends, I got my rye. I made my sandwich. I took a bite. And it was glorious.

Sometimes, home isn’t just a place. It’s a feeling, a city, a memory, or even just a sandwich. On your kitchen counter, stacked between slices of rye, reclaimed from the chaos of modern grocery life. 

Staying focused on your goals matters, but if you stumble along the way, don’t worry. The real victory is in picking yourself up, trying again, and celebrating the small wins. Whether it's getting that sandwich right or overcoming life’s hurdles, it’s all part of the journey.

Is there a place - or a taste - that brings you right back to another time in your life? Do you ever get seasonal homesickness, too?