By some strange coincidence, yesterday I saw Dorothy repeat “there’s no place like home”, while clicking the heels of her ruby slippers on a gigantic plasma screen. I have watched this scene a million times and yet it never before felt so hollow. As irony would have it, I have never felt less at home, and worse -perhaps for the first time ever- I have no idea where home is.
My parents’ house in Mexico City always harbored my idea of home… you know, the place that comforts you after a long day at work, or the place you are relieved to take shelter in after a trip. I arrived here last week, after a couple of years of living and traveling abroad, to discover that the house that I grew up in was no longer my home. I still have a room here but it is closer to a storage space than to the treasured spot where I used to read, sing, listen to loud music, and have sleepovers in. I barely recognize my old bed in a room buried in boxes. What about the homes that followed? My tiny New York studio overlooking the Hudson: gone. Passed on to the next student wanting to experience Manhattan on a budget. Our lovely one-bedroom in one of those great English houses in North Oxford: gone. The thought of another tenant occupying it after merely a week since we left it breaks my heart.
Well -I tell myself in an attempt to find solace- perhaps none of these places are my home anymore, but that’s because I’m building a new one. As attractive as this proposition sounds, and as much as I hope it will be a reality over the next few months, as of now, I have to admit that I have no home. If home is a place to call my own, then I am totally and utterly homeless.
“Home” is not only a place though… it’s also a feeling. It’s that warm fuzzy-wuzzy sensation of belonging. To a country, to a city, to a group, to a family. Sadly, I am also struggling to find this feeling since we left Oxford. I feel like a stranger in my own home town, suffering allergies from the pollution and cursing the traffic, the current electoral drama, and the general chaos that is the Great Tenochtitlan. I even suffer from a mean and unprecedented case of Montezuma’s revenge… I, who used to pride myself on eating in the shadiest and most unsanitary spots of the city to enjoy its delicious treats. Welcome to the jungle. That is the phrase that constantly comes to mind. The tired, messy, hot and rainy urban jungle that is Mexico City in late June.
The thought of seeing my family offered consolation as the bus left Oxford for Heathrow Airport a week ago. I love each member of my family fiercely and being far away from them was difficult. And yet, I somehow feel like the prodigal daughter that cannot quite adjust and cannot quite come home. As much as I love seeing them, especially my little sister in all her toothless joy, I feel exhausted and disappointed at the inevitable conflict and dysfunction that arises after a couple of days.
Perhaps my marriage would provide this cozy feeling, as it always has in the past, if I wasn’t childishly shifting some of the blame for my discomfort on my husband. Sometimes I catch myself reacting like a toddler or a puppy, faulting the nearest person when feeling pain and hitting or biting back. I scream as I realize that family drama has been automatically doubled by marriage and I now have to deal with twice the inane visits, annoying relatives, and endless family events. Perhaps I am selfish for having moments when I wish I was Samantha from SATC, living in New York with no attachments and no hang-ups. But then again, I’m sure every married woman has these moments. I love my husband and these complaints are petty compared to the bundle of happiness that is A.
The optimistic fortune-teller inside my head tells me that I will find a great apartment in one of the funky and centric neighborhoods of the city. That my eyes and respiratory system will adjust to the altitude and pollution and I will be able to sleep, exercise and live healthfully again. That I will grow accustomed to the fast pace and the traffic and learn to relax (before I grind my teeth down to my gums). That my husband and I will be blissful again, living in our own space and rationing family time (and thus family drama). That we will find a cool job that we genuinely enjoy. That I will regroup with my lovely friends and find my place here again.
That I will click my heels three times and feel at home.
My parents’ house in Mexico City always harbored my idea of home… you know, the place that comforts you after a long day at work, or the place you are relieved to take shelter in after a trip. I arrived here last week, after a couple of years of living and traveling abroad, to discover that the house that I grew up in was no longer my home. I still have a room here but it is closer to a storage space than to the treasured spot where I used to read, sing, listen to loud music, and have sleepovers in. I barely recognize my old bed in a room buried in boxes. What about the homes that followed? My tiny New York studio overlooking the Hudson: gone. Passed on to the next student wanting to experience Manhattan on a budget. Our lovely one-bedroom in one of those great English houses in North Oxford: gone. The thought of another tenant occupying it after merely a week since we left it breaks my heart.
Well -I tell myself in an attempt to find solace- perhaps none of these places are my home anymore, but that’s because I’m building a new one. As attractive as this proposition sounds, and as much as I hope it will be a reality over the next few months, as of now, I have to admit that I have no home. If home is a place to call my own, then I am totally and utterly homeless.
“Home” is not only a place though… it’s also a feeling. It’s that warm fuzzy-wuzzy sensation of belonging. To a country, to a city, to a group, to a family. Sadly, I am also struggling to find this feeling since we left Oxford. I feel like a stranger in my own home town, suffering allergies from the pollution and cursing the traffic, the current electoral drama, and the general chaos that is the Great Tenochtitlan. I even suffer from a mean and unprecedented case of Montezuma’s revenge… I, who used to pride myself on eating in the shadiest and most unsanitary spots of the city to enjoy its delicious treats. Welcome to the jungle. That is the phrase that constantly comes to mind. The tired, messy, hot and rainy urban jungle that is Mexico City in late June.
The thought of seeing my family offered consolation as the bus left Oxford for Heathrow Airport a week ago. I love each member of my family fiercely and being far away from them was difficult. And yet, I somehow feel like the prodigal daughter that cannot quite adjust and cannot quite come home. As much as I love seeing them, especially my little sister in all her toothless joy, I feel exhausted and disappointed at the inevitable conflict and dysfunction that arises after a couple of days.
Perhaps my marriage would provide this cozy feeling, as it always has in the past, if I wasn’t childishly shifting some of the blame for my discomfort on my husband. Sometimes I catch myself reacting like a toddler or a puppy, faulting the nearest person when feeling pain and hitting or biting back. I scream as I realize that family drama has been automatically doubled by marriage and I now have to deal with twice the inane visits, annoying relatives, and endless family events. Perhaps I am selfish for having moments when I wish I was Samantha from SATC, living in New York with no attachments and no hang-ups. But then again, I’m sure every married woman has these moments. I love my husband and these complaints are petty compared to the bundle of happiness that is A.
The optimistic fortune-teller inside my head tells me that I will find a great apartment in one of the funky and centric neighborhoods of the city. That my eyes and respiratory system will adjust to the altitude and pollution and I will be able to sleep, exercise and live healthfully again. That I will grow accustomed to the fast pace and the traffic and learn to relax (before I grind my teeth down to my gums). That my husband and I will be blissful again, living in our own space and rationing family time (and thus family drama). That we will find a cool job that we genuinely enjoy. That I will regroup with my lovely friends and find my place here again.
That I will click my heels three times and feel at home.
Bonita!
ReplyDeleteSólo quiero decirte que me encantó verte ayer y estoy triste que quiensabe cuando nos volvamos a ver... Sé lo que sientes y sé también que pronto volverás a experimentar el home feeling... ayer después de verte supe que parte de mi "home" está en ti después de darnos cuenta que desde los 15 no hemos estado en el mismo "home" and yet, ahí seguimos... quizás "home" son las personas, y por extraño que parezca verte ayer me dio un poco de libertad en el tema... te quiero mucho and you'll always have a home in our friendship!