It was grim when our nest emptied so we left too. Hagar and I traveled around the United States and Europe for a year, and then renovated a beautiful leafy house which we swore would be our final home. After sixteen homes in nine countries it was time.

We moved in nine months ago. Our house has a lush tropical garden, a small pool, friendly neighbors, and is a minute from the beach and fifteen minutes from town. A desk at a bay window overlooking purple jacaranda became my writing space and Hagar turned the basement into her studio. She's an artist.

We hung our pictures, stacked our books, planted a herb garden, and yesterday, as I write, rented the house to a German couple with three children for two years.

We're going to San Miguel de Allende in Mexico to learn Spanish for a month, and then plan to wander slowly through Latin America, writing and painting.

Why? I don't have a clue. Hagar says it's because we're wandering Jews.

After all, we met on the road.

I was a 26-year-old news cameraman and Hagar was a 19-year-old Israeli army sergeant. Driving to Jerusalem I passed this smiling Yemenite thumbing a lift and hit the brakes so hard I almost banged my head on the steering wheel. That was thirty-nine years ago and we've been together ever since.

The road is in our family's blood. Guy left home age fifteen for the Royal Ballet School in London and has hardly been back since.
Jonathan left school age fifteen to go surfing around the world.
Daniel is studying in New York.

At the door, with their bags in their hands, I spread my fingers across the boys' bowed heads and blessed them with the words I learned from my father:

May God bless you and protect you.
May God's face shine upon you and be gracious to you.
May God lift God's face up to you and grant you peace.

I wished them well and they were gone.

But when I fell sick I at last woke to find all three at my bedside, hugging Hagar. We smiled and kissed. And when I recovered, they left again.

That's the way of our little world. Everyone is seeking their story.
I write mine, Hagar paints hers, and the boys are living theirs. For home, it is true, is where the heart is.

—Martin Fletcher
Jacob's Oath