home-sweet- (paris?)

I dont know what happened.
Last night as I walked home from the metro station, I felt like I belonged here. This feeling has come over me a few times in my life, generally in the two places I have lived for the majority of the time-- Anchorage and Chicago-- but I didnt expect it here. It could have been a combination of things: doing laundry at a laundry-mat down the street, finding out what Parisians really do on a Sunday (absolutely nothing, in case you were wondering), and perhaps the simple fact that I was alone. If only for a moment I felt that this street, this alley, this garbage can, this lamp post, this sagging stone step, this door, this courtyard were all mine. I wasnt getting funny looks as I walked by my fellow Parisians. I wasnt so disturbed by all the feces on the street. I wasnt anxious as to whether I looked like I belonged here. I wasnt carrying the map that was my security blanket for the first few weeks.
Perhaps I've got it all wrong. Maybe I felt this way because the "magic" of Paris has finally worn off. I'm not as amazed as I was last week by the people, shops, cars, and buildings. Maybe feeling at home means I've forgotten where I am and focused on what I am doing and who I am with. Home doesnt have to be a place, it can be much more intangible than that. When I wake up in the morning I dont say to myslef, "Good morning, self, you are in Paris.", it goes more like this, "Good morning, self, you are at Home."