Coming Home Again
|
I don’t mean for this to sound (quite) as harsh as it probably does, but coming home to Ottawa is a bit like stepping into a black hole. I’m always excited to get home; the problem is that within days, or even hours, of arriving back here I start to forget that I ever left. I’ve been home this time around for two and a half weeks now, and already Barbados feels like months ago. My travels around the South? A distant memory. Grad school in the UK? That was just a crazy dream I had, wasn’t it? It’s so hard to keep a firm grip on the memories and lessons I pick up on my travels. I always feel like I’m growing when I travel, but coming home I slide right back into old routines, old thoughts, old me. Part of the problem is that nothing ever changes here. Oh sure, when I got home this time around, the Indian restaurant across the street had changed names, and a new drycleaning/tailoring outfit had opened down the block. But the essentials of the city – the faces and places – stay the same. So on a Saturday night I might head to the same old burger place, with the same girls I’ve been hanging out with since high school. Don’t get me wrong: the veggie burger with sun-dried tomatoes, ripe avocado and goat’s cheese is still fantastic, and I love my friends. I’m grateful that they’ve all chosen to settle down here, giving me a ready-made community to come home to every time. But there’s something un-nerving about the unchanging scenery. Sure, the staff has rolled over since we started hanging out here 10+ years ago. But the new waiter always seems to have been in my class in the fifth grade, or the bartender on my little league team. It’s that kind of town. While I was driving around the South, one of my friends bought a house; last weekend we all gathered there to help re-paint the place. It’s a great house, and I’m happy for her. But it just happens to be around the corner from our high school. So I was faced, on painting day, with the prospect of riding the same bus that I spent an hour on every day for five years. Seven years later, could I really climb on the #148 at the Billings Bridge station without regressing entirely? Would I find myself smirking while I leaned against the wall below the “No Loitering” sign at the entrance to the mall? Or ringing the bell for every stop, until the driver threatened to throw me off? I couldn't take the risk. I caved and called another friend for a ride. |
Well I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one who feels this way!
Though on the other hand, I've always sort of hoped that Ottawa itself was the problem, and that this isn't a permanent state for me... :)
And yes, Hal, I shouldn't complain too much - the burgers are great!!
I feel the same way whenever I come home from a trip, or even when I came home from college. I'll be going through the same thing in just over a week.
I think this is true of "home" everywhere, for everybody, especially when you spent your childhood there. Those eerie half-memories of youth will always be with us to color the places where we grew up.
I must say I'm jealous, though. There's nowhere in my childhood city to get a veggie burger with sun-dried tomatoes, ripe avocado, and goat's cheese. Sounds delicious!
Great post. I feel similarly: "I’m always excited to get home; the problem is that within days, or even hours, of arriving back here I start to forget that I ever left."
I think that's why I'm pretty much in permanent travel mode.
Found an interesting book today, El Infinito Viajar (Infinite Travel), by Claudio Magris, in which the author discusses the concepts of the trip--a journey with a fixed start point and end point--and infinite travel. Got me intrigued!