#homeabroad

Coronavirus is dragging us through some delicate times right now. The situation is, let’s say, far from ideal. Tens of countries are currently paralysed and, who knows, it might as well shake things up some more. In Spain, where I am right now, it made people go into quarantine. And let me tell you, quarantine sucks. It’s so boring. Not like, “Oh I don’t know what to do now cuz my Netflix show is over” kind of boring. It’s genuinely SO boring. But it does gift you time. Time to contemplate e v e r y t h i n g. So here’s a few words about something I’ve been thinking about lots over the years and now more than ever. Home.

The main thing about quarantine is that you’re stuck at home. You’re in lockdown and have to remain inside pretty much at all times. But if you’re lucky, and I consider myself extremely lucky to have a safe space to wait this over at, at least you’re at home. H o m e.

Okay, let’s stop here and talk about that word for a second. I mean, we’ve got time, right?

Like many others around the world, I’ve been stuck at “home” for the past couple of weeks. Right now “home” means a (super) tiny flat in Madrid. An apartment I fall asleep in and wake up in everyday. An address printed in shit quality ink in my residency documents. A space. My space. But, is it home yet?

Now, you see, my worried mum called me the other day and said “I want to bring you home. I’ll buy you flights home.” What she meant was “I’ll put you on a plane from Spain to Poland, so as you spend the quarantine in the place you were brought up in. A building where your family lives.” But, is it still home?

Right now I’m here, in Spain. And I’m here because I chose to. I arrived a while back, like a little nomad, and hoped for the best.

It turned out not too bad. Madrid is where my life happens now and it does indeed feel like home. I know its smell, its little secrets and hidden gems. I know at what time rubbish lorry collects trash in my street. I know that my neighbours from 3rd and 1st floor hate each other. I know my floor makes lots of noise when you step on it and that one of the windows leaks when it rains too much. I know every little detail because it’s my place. I’d be comfortable calling it my home. But then again, not quite.

Because then, what about the house in Poland? What about all the memories made in it? What about my family who live there? What about my room which hasn’t changed since I left. Hold on a minute! Aren’t those just elements of a defence mechanism launched by nostalgia? Let’s focus on facts.

Last time I was “back home” an air refresher made me jump by releasing the product as I walked past it. After dinner I kept trying to place my plate on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, while it’s been years since they’re moved to the bottom one. Last but not least, I had to ask for the WiFi password because the network was not saved on my phone. I mean…

So, here’s what I think.

I think I’m too attached to the memory of my home, where I’d have coffee with my mum every afternoon and where my cat stays in my bed overnight. I think it’s hard for me to admit that I’m more of a guest in it now and I’ll probably never form part of that household again. But despite it all, I strongly believe I’ll never be able to not call it home.

You may ask yourself why on earth would I even contemplate it. Or maybe you’d want to recite one of the famous lines, so happily promoted in Poundland’s decor section, “Home is where your heart is,” “Home is where your bed is,” “Home is where…” I’ll stop you there, because although there is a little bit of truth in all of them, I’m afraid they simplify the issue just a tad too much.

You know, the key to this whole situation is that I like being a nomad. I like changing my address from time to time. I love packing my bags and moving to new places. But at the same time, I suddenly feel like it’s time to sit on my bum and find a place I could *really* call home. So I find myself in a limbo. And I’m hanging in there, somewhere between a mortgage and plans for the next big move.

I guess the best way to finish this little story is with yet another cliché. “Home is where I am”. Do you like it? Ha! Took me a minute to figure it out. But really, “home” is a feeling. You carry it within you. And if you feel like it refers to more than one place, then let it be. It’s fine, there are no rules.

Now that I have it sort of clear, I’ll just have to get used to it.

And what about you? What do you call home? Would love to hear your thoughts! In the meantime, make sure you’re taking good care of yourself and those around you. Have a lovely day.