Familiar faces weren't as comforting for Peter as they were for other people. Most of the faces he saw belonged to people he needed and then left behind, individuals that he wanted nothing to do with anymore. The only other faces that he saw were the ghastly shades of family members he watched die in the house fire all those years ago. Their visages haunted him in his sleep but sometimes they lingered during the day, hanging just out of the corner of his eye.
"It's always been home to me," Peter lied easily. Maybe a long time ago he would have been able to say that and mean it, but in recent years, nothing has really felt like home to him. The fire had changed a lot of things and taken a lot away from the survivors and one of the greatest things Peter lost was a sense of belonging. Nothing really tied him to Beacon Hills except the easy promise of getting what he thought he needed. Once he had it, there was no question in his mind that he would disappear altogether, seeking out myths and legends on other continents and starting over. For those reasons alone, he's had his eye on Russia for a long time now.
"No, I've always liked keeping my feet on the ground." That went for everything from cars to planes to boats. If he could avoid them, he did. "Motion sickness," he lied again. The truth was that Peter didn't like being out of control or disconnected from the ground. It made him feel vulnerable and he hated that.