When people described having a 'home away from home' I had difficulty grasping a concept that seemed oxymoronic. Home is the one place you can go where it feels like you, where you drop your bags and sigh at the relief of returning to your inner sanctum, the place you feel loved and at peace. It's supposed to be like no other place on the planet for you. Well, it's only taken four decades but I have discovered my capacity to find the feeling of home elsewhere. It is in a small community near Los Angeles overlooking the water. My dear friend has lived there for several years and has slowly curated a gem of an apartment. It is graceful and stylish, warm and inviting and she graciously opens her doors to me whenever I venture West. Upon my arrival the other day, after a long flight filled with screaming babies, handrest hoggers, endless anxiety-ridden thoughts during air turbulence, and a knuckle-biting cab ride from LAX, I found my way to her place, unlocked the door, dropped my bags and sighed that wonderful sigh.