Kevin comments on the nature of a home. For a long time, home has been where I hang my hat. When people ask “Where are you from?” I don’t have a good answer. I usually answered “everywhere,” but that led to lengthy questioning. The truth is, the longest I’ve lived anywhere was the five years I spent in Seattle, but that doesn’t feel at all like home.
These days, I usually just say “California,” which for many on this coast is the equivalent of saying “Mars.” In other words, my interrogator simply answers “oh.”
I’ve had a recurring dream–one of those dreams so real that it seems like it must be–of a place with tall white buildings and lots of water in canals. I thought for a moment that I had found it when I visited Singapore, but then I realized it was too hot to be home. I’d still love to find that place, but I am increasingly concerned that it is only in my head. Not that most homes aren’t in people’s heads.
I was perfectly happy being a “citizen of the world” for the longest time, and then last year I got a funny feeling when I visited southern California. As the plane settled onto the runway, I had this strange feeling in my belly. At first, I thought it was just the roller-coaster feeling one sometimes gets on landing, but then it washed over me: I’m home.
So, that should settle it, right? My flag of convenience–“the OC” in recent parlance–has become my home in the heart. So, I guess that’s that.
Only recently, I got that same feeling landing at JFK. Very confusing. I’ve always been a late bloomer; maybe this is my nesting instinct kicking in. Or maybe I have always been without a home, and now I am finding that I am at home in the global city, wherever that may be. Or something.