Home: [1] The
place where someone lives. [2] Where the heart is. To me, home has always
firmly been the former, but with all the plans currently ruling my life, I’ve lately
been thinking a lot about what ‘home’ really means to me. As a foreigner, I’m
regularly asked questions like ‘Where is home?’, ‘When are you going back home?’,
and I never quite know how to answer. It’s tempting to just say ‘east London,
and I plan to go back just as soon as I finish my shopping’, even though I know
perfectly well what they mean. Not because I’m in any way ashamed or
embarrassed about my nationality, but because each time I return, I feel more
like a foreigner in the city I was born in. Of course, the city – like all
cities – changes, and familiar features disappear, but more because it seems
that increasingly, my character simply doesn’t match the environment anymore. I
suppose this may have always been somewhat the case considering I wanted to move
abroad even when I was very young, but it’s undeniable that living elsewhere
has changed my views, my interests, my hopes and dreams. I’d never say never,
but I can’t imagine ever moving back permanently.
Quite a lot of
people appear to think it’s a bit ‘sad’ that I don’t have anywhere I consider
home in the second sense. When I tell them that in fact, I’m perfectly happy
moving around, starting life afresh and meeting new people, they tell me I have
friends who will miss me and who I will miss, that I’m throwing away
opportunities and a range of other wishes and desires they seem to want to
project onto me. But I have friends I regularly speak to in a dozen countries;
some I’ve lived near, others I hope to live near one day. In a world where you
can travel to the other side of the planet in a single day, where the internet
puts friends just a second away regardless of distance and where medical knowledge
has advanced to a stage where most people in the developed world can expect to
live well past 70, happiness to me is experiencing new cultures to a depth that
a holiday would never afford you; getting to know people and their ways and
cultures; and knowing that good friends are the ones you stay in contact with
even when they don’t happen to live conveniently nearby.
I’ve just seen
my parents for the first time in ten months. We had a fantastic weekend, full
of catching up over excellent food and lots of wine, but I can’t imagine doing
that more than once every few months. I love them deeply and I know they love
me too, but the idea of hanging out with them every week just seems a bit…
excessive. Possibly my favourite moment of the weekend was the point at which
my dad told me he’d never want to live around the corner from me – I guess we
may be slightly unusual as a family, but it works: every time we see each other
it’s in the form of a holiday for either me or my parents, so due to the lack
of time we concentrate on all the fun stuff and leave very little time for
arguing, and considering my dad and I are fairly prone to lively disagreement this
arrangement is more pleasant for all involved.
As preparations
continue, more than anything I’m looking forward to calling Greece my home for
a month in 2014. Afterwards, whether I end up in Italy, Russia or Brazil, I can’t
wait to meet new friends, knowing that if a place doesn’t suit me, there are
thousands of other places to try out. That, to me, is happiness – and to those
who think that’s a little insane: no one’s asking you to do the same. That’s
the beauty of individuality and choice.
