This morning, after nearly 24 hours in transit which I am working on blocking from my memory, Tim asked me how it felt to be back in Luzern after three weeks in Australia. More specifically, he asked if it now feels like home. During my holiday, as well as on the drive back to our apartment from Zürich Flughafen, I asked myself the same thing.

The bad stuff about the trip out of the way first: the flights, of course (even though manageable, and we always had at least one spare seat next to us, they were never going to be pleasant), the molars my little girl cut while visiting her new cousin, the jet lag and subsequent sleepless nights that won’t likely let up for a while yet, the ear infection I didn’t realise she had (mama of the year) which resulted in a (now understandably) grumpy bub for well over a week. I wasn’t well myself during the trip, and that coupled with a sense of constant rushing, the feeling of needing to maximise my short time there, and still not seeing nearly everyone I’d hoped to, made it more stressful than is usually associated with a holiday.

The good stuff, as always, outweighs everything else significantly. The girl and her cousins. The girl and her grandparents. Cuddling that brand new boy and his giggling, adorable older brother who has finally learned my name. My dear friends, who I’d missed exactly as much as I knew I would. Sydney, that old heartbreaker, with her spectacular coast and laid back vibe and ridiculously friendly and helpful people (on my first day back, jet lagged and armed with a rickety stroller I had to take two large suitcases to be repaired. This included a walk, a ferry ride and another walk, during which no less than eight people stopped me to offer help. I had forgotten how goddamn nice Australians can be and in my fragile post-traumatic flight state, I nearly burst into tears each time). After eight months, good coffee, which also nearly had me in tears of joy particularly while managing said jet lag. And the eats. Of course, the eats. There was not an Asian restaurant within a five kilometre radius of me that was safe.

But the question of home lingers. It definitely felt like a return to home when I arrived in Sydney, however the longer we remained the more this feeling dissipated. She’ll always be my city, but Motsy’s absence was keenly felt by both the lass and I, as was the slower life we’ve carved out over here. Things have changed there, too. People have switched jobs and addresses, lost and found partners, welcomed little ones; moved along as life should and inevitably will. Such things never matter with old friends but they emphasise the distance, and reminded me that we’re not locals anymore.

Arriving back yesterday afternoon was tough. I’d barely slept (my tall, wriggly girl doesn’t fit in the bassinet and therefore all sleeping was on me, punctuated by tosses and turns every half an hour that ensured at best only patchy snoozes), felt decidedly unwell, and was covered in 24 hours worth of Baby Muck which made me smell and look exactly as fabulous as it sounds. Ads and I were well and truly over each other, and I’m fairly sure she had her grizzle button flicked to ‘low yet constant’ for the last ten hours of transit. Naturally our bags were late during which that switch got turned to ‘high and tantrummy’.  Hotel’s arrival was the best thing that happened to either of us that day, and her little face lit the already Swiss-shiny airport even brighter when she saw her dad. The two of them haven’t stopped giggling since we got back (I have been working on sleeping, and pleased to report I am doing quite well at it).

It’s greener since we left; warmer too (and as I found out today, in a gasp-worthy surprise while looking out at the Alps, we have a nude sunbathing neighbour in the garden apartment below us who obviously likes to take advantage of the sunny weather). The lake is as lovely as ever although definitely more boat-filled, and we’ve already trotted down twice today to look at the ducks (her), be scared of the swans (me) and eat a cheese, pickle and random one-slice-of-egg sandwich (shared in the sun). There are too many wonderful people and things in Australia for it to fully feel like home proper here, but it does have the colossal advantage of having Tim and our simple, peaceful day to day life. Both of which can be anywhere, of course, but for now I guess they’re – we’re – in Luzern. So in answer to his question: it was a fabulous holiday, and it’s wonderful to be back. I am just never, ever doing those flights again. We’re getting the boat next time.

In the early days of our courtship (which I hope makes it sound significantly classier than it actually was), Tim earned the moniker Bread Boy amongst my friends. The first night I went for dinner at his house (a strictly platonic affair, with several other friends present, although we each had one eyebrow raised in the direction of the other) he pulled out of the oven a freshly baked loaf on my arrival. On subsequent dinners, and later breakfasts, the home baked bread continued to make an appearance (as did extra inches around our waists but by then we were locked in, so delicious carbs for all!). Making bread remains a treat, a small tradition we continue on lazy mornings or if we know a toasty breakfast will be in order (so, um, a lot).

As I’ve mentioned, Swiss bread is delicious. Swiss Sunday bread, or as our German teacher calls it, ‘family bread’, even more so. A dough enriched with butter and milk, Zopfmehl is a plaited bread brushed with egg until it is glistening, slightly sweet and irresistible. It’s traditionally eaten here by families on Sunday, a day where the pace slows down and time is spent together around the table and outdoors in nature. It’s a lovely tradition, and one our carb-loving crew has embraced. I only recently learned (again from my font of all knowledge, Irene the German Teacher) that Zopfmehl is plaited from four, not three, ropes of dough, requiring more work to perfect my loaf (and, of course, eat the spoils).

Our little family will be in separate hemispheres for a few weeks. Adelaide and I head to Australia tomorrow, while Tim will kick around Germany and the States for work. Our trip is motivated by the best reason of all: the newest family member, my sister’s boy, arrived a few days ago and this aunty’s arms are already flexing their teeny-tiny-Rupert cuddle muscles.

We’re packed (so many more toys this time! so many more snacks!), strategies have been strategised (I’m not letting her walk in the aisle so she doesn’t realise it’s an option and therefore want to do it all. the. time)(we’ll see how long that actually holds out for an ants-in-her-pants baby), and now it’s just a matter of deep breathing before the solo 23.5 hour flight. As everyone tells me, it comes to an end. Eventually.

The payoffs just over the horizon are huge, though. That nephew, for starters, as well as the three others kicking around the traps. Family, friends, food (dumplings! noodles! yum cha!) and Sydney sun all rank pretty highly. Seeing my girl with her grandparents again will be wonderful (by ‘seeing’ I mean laughing all the way to the beer garden as I leave her in their hands for babysitting duties). It’s been eight months since we’ve been back – Adelaide has now spent equal amounts of her little life in both countries – and I’m excited about her rediscovering, however briefly, the home both her folks love (and the beach. Her two favourite books are beach centred and for a lass that’s only ever been to one, she’s pretty obsessed).

After eight months, there are a few things I’ll be taking back with me. A toddler, who can whisper ‘dad’ and can swing all by herself (with only a few face plants). Some rudimentary phrases of Deutsch, and sadly yet predictably several additional kilos. A sense that our team has become tighter since we started our adventure over here (partly, no doubt, from sheer necessity but also there’s a cameraderie we’ve built as we’ve explored and built a new home). Also, nestled in my bag, next to the almost-export-level of Swiss chocolate, several packages of Zopfmehl, ready to be made into family loaves for Sunday eating. In Bread Boy’s absence, his little doppelgänger (see? totes across the Deutsch) may have to assume the baking honours.