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June 01, 2006
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I finally was able to cut the cord on the old apartment yesterday, when -- on the last possible day -- I had a couple of kids (read: in their mid-twenties) who have their own salvage business come over to pick up the stuff I opted not to take with me to the new place. That was it; the old place was empty, there was nothing left, and my footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as there was nothing left to absorb their sound.
Ordinarily I am a pretty sentimental guy; my natural inclination would have been to linger for a moment to consider the memories left in the place or the pieces of my life that occurred within those walls. But there was no such emotion yesterday. I looked around, uttered a phrase that sounded a lot like "fork this place," only a bit more coarse, and headed down the stairs and out. As I drove away, I realized that my lack of attachment to that apartment reflected that for me, despite having kept that place for five years, I had never considered it "home;" it was just a place to sleep and keep my stuff while I went about my life -- in whatever state I happened to be in -- and waited for something else. I had no connection to it, emotional, physical or otherwise. It was not "home."
After I left, I headed immediately to LaGuardia; I had business in DC yesterday and had a flight to catch (was only there for a few hours yesterday). And when I got off the plane at National (it will never be "Reagan" to me, I refuse to call it that), I was struck by how immediately at ease and "home" I felt (despite it being about 90 damn degrees and more humid than Florida in August). Whether in the cab to K Street, or in Alexandria having dinner with my brother, or traversing in between, I just had the sense of being home -- which is odd, since I lived in the DC area for only three years a decade ago now, while I've been based in New York for seven years (whether I spent the majority of my time here or not, it's been home base since 1999).
On the plane ride back, I was pondering how it is that a place I spent only three years in and left in 1997 could feel more like home than an area I have been in for going on a decade. And I realized that, just like that apartment, I have never considered New York "home;" it's just a place to sleep and keep my stuff while I've gone about my life -- in whatever state I happened to be in -- and waited for something else. I'm not connected to it.
This isn't a slag on New York; every area has its plusses and pros and cons, and some people are going to take to one area more readilly than others, is all. And I do have amazing friends up here... so I am not about to turn this into a "New York sucks" whine. It's just an observation.
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Comments
I think some places feel like home immediately. I spent one month in Florence, one week in Key West, and one day in Basel. They all feel like home. I've lived thirteen years in Staten Island, and though my house feels homey, that's only because that's where my family is. It's not home to me. All along it's just been "the place my parents let me live while I go to college / am not traveling / am not working out of state / am paying off my student loans and figuring out where to go now.
Posted by: Jill at June 1, 2006 08:10 PM
" close quotes
Posted by: Jill at June 1, 2006 08:11 PM
