Don't drink the water in Damascus.

Perhaps someone could help me out with a definition of a home? I've come to the conclusion that I'm not really sure I have one anymore. A 'home', as opposed to a 'house'. I know I still have one of those. 
 
Is it somewhere you can always return to? A classic version with a Brady Bunch model family, with childhood memories of swings and cake fights. Hold up, but what if your parents move to Palooza? Is it, perhaps, a little less literal? Somewhere you base all your adventures, landmark bookends for all the stories in which you’re the main character? Alternatively, and unromantically, is it simply walls and a roof making up a place you yourself live? I'm confused.
 
I used to think it was a country, or a city in which you step off the plane and could 'breathe out' - somewhere everything wasn't so complicated, where you could anticipate life, somewhere just 'getting by' wasn't such a struggle. You knew certain things for sure - how to catch a taxi, sneak into a nightclub underage, if you could drink the water without losing 5 kilos, how to buy a loaf of bread and if you could cut lines without getting stabbed - the essential day to day stuff.
 
But now I'm not so confident in my 'breathing out' theory. I've started to feel an annoying void between anxious and comfortable, even in places that feature heavily in my passport stamp collection. Suddenly places I've never been seem oddly familiar and places I visit regularly are equally as foreign. My life itinerary has become a confusing mix of comfort and alienation. Juxtapositions between first class footrests and morphing carry on liquid rules, of pre-plane vino and post flight custom checks. I'm frustrated; homesick for a place I suddenly feel I've never been and might never know. Somewhere I can gently blend spontaneity with regulated life, where I can come home happy, where I know the number of paces it takes to cross a dance floor but not what bone shaking moves I’ll pull across it. Where I can be the star of my own midday and midnight show and where I can love my life without questioning the notion that I'm living it.
 
But on a more practical note...Is it really possible to be homesick if you don't have a place you automatically think of as home? After much deliberation, I've decided that I think you can. Primarily because if you think about the question in reverse it seems so improbable; just because you don't have a home doesn't mean you don't get homesick.
 
And by saying that I feel somewhat comforted, it seems I don't really need to define what a 'home' is after all. Because a 'home' in reverse has to be, by default, wherever I happen to be at any point in time. And for practical reasons if it's not a family, a landmark or four walls, then maybe it's just a friendly smile and trustworthy advice on drinking the water.