"Home"

Slightly brain-numb from the exhaustion of traveling and overwhelmed by the Archeological Museum of Naples, Tristan, Kelly and I let our eyes drift over the knickknacks, books and posters in the bookshop. Some of the images seem pretty and I wish we had been able to see the originals, the vast majority of which are currently not on display. I think I might be interested in a poster if I can figure out what each rolled up and saran-wrapped image is, and while we’re looking at them Tristan mentions that he wouldn’t be able to get it home. Glancing up at Kelly, I realize we’re both uncertain and I turn to ask Tristan “Home, as in Florence, or home as in school?” He responds with a laugh “Oh, I just meant the hostel. I don’t want to carry that around all day.”

It brings up an interesting point, at least for me at this point in my life. What is my home? Is it the place where I lay my head? That’s what Tristan meant. And for the moment, that’s where I belong you might say, with reservations and plans with the others to spend the night there.

Or does it need more? A space that will be yours even while you’re not there? A community you belong in. A place to come home to. Does the house of my host-family in Florence count? I notice that I can’t seem to call it my house. But arriving at the train station in Florence I don’t need to pull out a street map and check my progress at every corner – I can walk strait home and pass the familiar shops and restaurants. Dinner is waiting for me when I get there, and there are people to greet me as I finally walk in the door, to ask how my travels went and welcome me back. There are places to put away all my things, and unfinished tasks waiting for me as I sit back down at my desk. Today, on my walk to and from school, I waved a quick greeting to the cobbler and the wine store owner – both of whom I have made eye contact with enough times on my daily commute to recognize. Knowing a place and the people in it, and having them know you, does that make a home? There are people here who care about my well being, provide for me, and help me out. There is a room that is mine, where people ask my permission to enter. Is this my home?

And of course, the debate about Stanford campus and Encinitas. I call them both home. When people ask where I am from, I’m not always sure which answer they want. I spend the majority of my time at Stanford now, so if they want to visit me the best odds are to go to Stanford. I have a family of friends there, who I can look to when my world falls apart, or simply get a second opinion on a new dress. We have our regular routines and I have a room all my own, with my things and a key to lock it shut from anyone else. I know the local restaurants well, and I know how the public transportation works. There is a community on campus of common interest and shared experience. It is definitely a home of mine.

But Encinitas, despite only living there for two months out of the twelve this year, will always be home for me. My family, and my old friends, and my old self all live there. The people there know me at a deep level, better sometimes than I know myself. I can walk into Pannikin and have the waiters say “Wow you’ve grown up! I remember you when you were five!” The community of home is stronger there than any other home I have, and at this point the physical place of that home is so ingrained in me that it has strength too. Even if everyone moved out and strangers bought the house, there would still be a connection to this place. So even though I can go home and be surprised by the changes made in my months of absence, I can slide easily back into a place worn comfortable for me over the years of living. Unlike any of the other homes mentioned, 1402 Eolus Ave will keep the title of “Home” forever.

It seems, though, that it will have to learn to share.