"Homeward" Bound
In a few days we'll leave Guanajuato for five weeks in the States. Recently I've heard Barry say to various people, "We're heading home for a few weeks."
"Home?" I'd think. "But is Eureka home? Or is Guanajuato home?"
"I don't think about it much," Barry said, when I asked him. "Does it matter? Heck, I feel like our van is 'home.'" He's referring to our beloved Westfalia van, which at the moment resides in California, but will be the conveyer of our belongings sometime in the next year when we move more of our worldly goods to Mexico.
But to answer Barry's question, "Does it matter if we know where home is?": I guess there's no reason it has to matter, but I'd love to know. I like decisions made, uncertainties clarified. Unlike Barry, who lives more lightly, freer of categories and definitions and labels.
Ironically, for a couple in our 50s and 60s, our "home" in Eureka isn't even ours. It's a funky second-story apartment that looks like somewhere a graduate student would live. But it is charming and cozy.
I'm looking forward to certain aspects of the States, and feeling a little guilty about that. I want Guanajuato to be completely satisfying in every respect, yet there ARE things I miss from time to time. Certain people. Baths. My bicycle. Our portable hot tub. Easy access to books. I have certain rituals, too, that I'm fond of in Eureka: the various places where I shop for food, the library, my favorite roads for bicycling, running or skating. These are my anchors. I'm in the process of creating similar rituals in Guanajuato, but they're less established.
We'll bring the hot tub and our bicycles down to Guanajuato in the van, but it hasn't happened yet.
"Are you moving to Mexico?" people ask. "I don't know," I answer. "It's a work in progress. Not just the house...but us, too."
I notice, however, that I WANT to feel like Guanajuato is home, more than I want Eureka to be home.
"Home?" I'd think. "But is Eureka home? Or is Guanajuato home?"
"I don't think about it much," Barry said, when I asked him. "Does it matter? Heck, I feel like our van is 'home.'" He's referring to our beloved Westfalia van, which at the moment resides in California, but will be the conveyer of our belongings sometime in the next year when we move more of our worldly goods to Mexico.
But to answer Barry's question, "Does it matter if we know where home is?": I guess there's no reason it has to matter, but I'd love to know. I like decisions made, uncertainties clarified. Unlike Barry, who lives more lightly, freer of categories and definitions and labels.
Ironically, for a couple in our 50s and 60s, our "home" in Eureka isn't even ours. It's a funky second-story apartment that looks like somewhere a graduate student would live. But it is charming and cozy.
I'm looking forward to certain aspects of the States, and feeling a little guilty about that. I want Guanajuato to be completely satisfying in every respect, yet there ARE things I miss from time to time. Certain people. Baths. My bicycle. Our portable hot tub. Easy access to books. I have certain rituals, too, that I'm fond of in Eureka: the various places where I shop for food, the library, my favorite roads for bicycling, running or skating. These are my anchors. I'm in the process of creating similar rituals in Guanajuato, but they're less established.
We'll bring the hot tub and our bicycles down to Guanajuato in the van, but it hasn't happened yet.
"Are you moving to Mexico?" people ask. "I don't know," I answer. "It's a work in progress. Not just the house...but us, too."
I notice, however, that I WANT to feel like Guanajuato is home, more than I want Eureka to be home.
posted by Louisa at 4:53 AM
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