#homeswapping

I am sitting in a strange woman’s kitchen in a small village called Bradley, in North Yorkshire, England. 100 miles away, this woman—who I know only by name and occupation—is at my home. We have swapped houses. Several years ago, I didn’t know that home swapping existed, but now, on our family’s fifth swap, I can firmly vouch for its credibility. So, while a woman and her husband, whom I’ve never met, sit at my sea-green kitchen table, I sit at theirs, indulging in the chocolate cake they’ve left me, and gathering clues about who this family is that lives here.

Their house is delightful. An old mill conversion, criss-crossed by large wooden beams and geometric ceilings, the fifteen-foot windows let light flow in from all directions. There are bounteous photos of mountains. Which, I suppose, is why they’ve chosen our house, to walk straight out the door and into the fells. Around me, there is evidence of children—two girls between the ages of ten and thirteen. I spy a card on the windowsill. Inside it reads…”Happy Stepmother’s Day…we love you”. They like antiques—an ancient rotary telephone, iron weighing scales, and china tea sets—and bunting; they are infatuated with bunting. Plentiful strings of handmade fabric flags adorn every window, carrying words like “love” and “home”. Over their kitchen counter hangs their motto: “Food, friends, family and fizz”. I make a mental note to leave them a bottle of Prosecco, and envision them in my kitchen, peering at the large photograph of my kids at two and three sitting in barrels of flowers in Tuscany. We scout the area—the parks, canals and castle—and at night we retire to their luxurious bed. Like sleeping inside a warm French baguette, it is pure layers of feathery comfort. I jab my husband in the middle of the night—"We have to get a better bed!”

At breakfast, Daddy puffs his chest and calls out his favourite question: “Is everybody happy?!” The kids raise their hands and quickly stand in their chairs, reaching their arms up high, singing “I am! I am!” They gobble up their cereal and happily explore the house, finding exciting games that could only be spawned by this setting. My husband notices the damaged laminate flooring in the kitchen, and the damp in the bathroom, his senses on alert from our own renovations. I’m happy he won’t be getting out his tools. Have the couple spotted our impending projects—the avocado green toilet or our painted 1970′s doors? What stories do our belongings tell? Will they like our up-cycled furniture and my colourfully abstract painting that hangs over the wood burner? Have they picked up my husband’s guitars or his travel guides?  

The novelty of the home swap still expands before it contracts. More than a chance to tour the country, it satisfies my curiosity for humanity. Being allowed to leisurely stroll into another family’s life offers a window into my own. The objects that adorn their walls and counters, the decorations and fabrics, all tell stories about the people who live here. And in thinking about who they are, I, in turn, reflect on myself, and how my family chooses to move around in the world. My husband and I often ask each other the question: ‘what do you want to remove from your life, and what do you want to add to it?’. Such a simple question can spark some life altering results. And, again and again, we tend to choose experience over substance—which is why our last pennies are spent on plane tickets rather than upgrading our sixteen-year-old car. The new doors and baguette bed will have to wait.