My in-law's house is amazing. It's huge, it's gorgeous, it's a short jaunt to the Atlantic Ocean (it is their dream retirement home after all). The carpets are plush, the hardwood floors are as smooth as silk, the sheets are softer than air, the towels are cushy and so absorbent that they practically dry you when look at them. There are plenty of comfortable places to hang out, and there's even cable (we refuse to pay for it ourselves when we barely watch any tv, although we did enjoy it on vacation). We love Hilton Head, even at its summer season tourist peak, because of the greenness, the trees meeting overhead, the huge beach space when the tide is out, our favorite restaurants (Market Street Cafe, Aunt Childada's, the Crazy Crab, Jump and Phil's), our traditions (fudge at Coligny Plaza, Black Market Minerals, playing at the mall playground), and the fact that there is always something new to do.
But this morning we are really happy to be home. Yes, there's tile and a lower grade of carpet, our sheets are a lower thread count, the towels not as plush, we can't spend money like we're on vacation, and it's back to our usual routine, but we love it.
There's no place like home.