There's noplace like home
It's been a long but exhilarating few weeks on the road. I've missed writing, but have been a victim of complete sensory overload on all fronts. Comparisons between my new and old homes abound; I just need a few moments of peace in which to categorize them. I suspect I'll be doing much musing over the next few weeks about what "home" really is. And if it's "where your heart is," how can I break my heart in half?
Remember, in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy looks at Toto and says, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore ..."?
Spending the fourth of July weekend at the midwestern hometown fair of sorts, there was not a single man wearing bright orange, yellow, lime green, or red pants. Nor were there any men with sweaters casually draped over their shoulders - in a languid, sexy, "I'm not trying but I look amazingly good" kind of way. There were, on the other hand, lots of black concert t-shirts and ratty blue jeans. And baseball caps. And guys with bad hair. And copious amounts of beer. And motorcycles. And skankily dressed women. And men in black knee socks.
(shudder!)
What both places have in common - my tiny Italian town and my mid-sized midwestern American one - is that time seems to be at a bit of a stand still. In Italy, it's still 1950 or so, and in middle America it's summertime in the late 80's. Neither is entirely delightful, though one is notably more civilized.
I'm clicking my heels in my mind ... wishing that the best parts of both worlds would somehow come together; and THAT would truly feel like home.
Remember, in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy looks at Toto and says, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore ..."?
Spending the fourth of July weekend at the midwestern hometown fair of sorts, there was not a single man wearing bright orange, yellow, lime green, or red pants. Nor were there any men with sweaters casually draped over their shoulders - in a languid, sexy, "I'm not trying but I look amazingly good" kind of way. There were, on the other hand, lots of black concert t-shirts and ratty blue jeans. And baseball caps. And guys with bad hair. And copious amounts of beer. And motorcycles. And skankily dressed women. And men in black knee socks.
(shudder!)
What both places have in common - my tiny Italian town and my mid-sized midwestern American one - is that time seems to be at a bit of a stand still. In Italy, it's still 1950 or so, and in middle America it's summertime in the late 80's. Neither is entirely delightful, though one is notably more civilized.
I'm clicking my heels in my mind ... wishing that the best parts of both worlds would somehow come together; and THAT would truly feel like home.
posted by Viaggiatore | 7/05/2006
6 Comments:
You know, I feel that way between Pittsburgh and New York City - only a tenth of what you describe. Makes me wonder what the effortless European style markers really are, and what specifically Italian and Spanish men do to make themselves look so very very good with what seems like very little bother.
Feeling like you do not fit in either, though, is not a feeling I would envy. But I think maybe everyone feels that way as they grow up sometimes.
Ahem....don't tell me you were "here" and didn't call!?!?!?
Welcome back, since you are feeling schizo about where home is...
We need to plan when you will come over here. Warning: someday they are going to remove my roof, but what the hey. Open air toilet? There's a shower in the garden.
Now that I am for the most part homeless, or even worse, living back with the 'rents, I understand not quite feeling at home anywhere.
I think home is where you feel most like your true self. Whether it be at the home you grew up in, a friend's kitchen table, local bar that knows you best or in a new place where you can be the person you have always wanted to be. When you find it, you know it.
Miss you,
Unassuming Princess
This is very interesting site... » » »
Where did you find it? Interesting read » »
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