Redefining Home
I recently returned to the United States after traveling in Europe for over two months. I arrived in Philadelphia, an unfamiliar city, but it still felt like a homecoming.
I gave up the traditional sense of a home when I moved out of my apartment in May. I have friends, family and things in Los Angeles, Chicago and Kansas City, but none of them qualify as home. That's because my definition has changed. Home is no longer a place; it’s a wealth of familiarity. I don’t mean to sound like a cheap plaque, but it’s true.
It’s odd, but observing homesickness is a good way to define home. When I was homesick as a child it meant I wanted to be back at my house, precisely. I longed to be with my family, my comforts and my status quo. Those elements still hold as I’ve grown older and moved around, but they’ve expanded and evolved.
It’s still good to be closer to my friends and family. Even if we’re not in the same city, it’s much easier to communicate. We can easily schedule calls. I receive messages when the sender intended them. I don’t have to wait hours for responses to dumb jokes. The changes are small but significant.
Being back in my own culture, however, is much more drastic. Feeling comfortable somewhere involves more than understanding the customs. It includes having mutual expectations about them.
Take the American café. I know I can work on a laptop without attracting smug glares. I don’t have to deal with the confusion of whether I should order at the counter or a table, or if I will be charged for sitting down. I’m familiar with the menu items and I can order “one coffee” without further questions. Or water. Jesus. A typical European interaction:
ME
And some water, please.
WAITER
What kind? Tap? Still? With gas? Without gas? Sparkling? Natural? Mineral? Frizzante?
ME
Water, dammit!
Some words simply don't have the same meanings across cultures. I don’t know if I can consider somewhere home that defines “breakfast” as a lonely croissant. Or muesli with room temperature milk. Europeans don’t know how cruel they are to themselves.
After being abroad, entering an American supermarket elicits schoolgirl excitement. “Oh the variety! How I missed having 15 options of the same thing!” I can get shredded cheese and obscure toiletries in the same store. Eggs are refrigerated and accompanied by substitute liquid variants, in case I’m watching my cholesterol like good ol’ American newspapers told me to. Might as well grab a few frozen dinners too, just to test out the space age appliances.
The Philadelphia Airbnb I stayed in had particularly salacious indulgences. I only booked it because it was a cheap room in a decent location, and I was unaware it was newly renovated. Golly! The fridge poured filtered water and tallied the ounces. There was a washer and a dryer, both immaculately efficient. The shower was large enough for me to move my arms in it. Hell, I was just excited to plug in my electronics without an adapter. I doubt these luxuries would be included in my status quo considerations if I was anything but American.
My definition will keep evolving. It changes whenever I acclimate to a new environment. With this I’ve found a comfort beyond familiar culture and warm dry clothes: Knowing that home is up to me. I define it, not my address.
