Home is...

That's the thing...where is home? I've lived so many places in five years, I feel part wanderlust, part displaced. I was thinking about it on the way home, as I watched the pink glow slowly fade to purple behind the Adelaide city buildings. I wondered where home was for me--if it is the first place I ever lived, then how have I lived displaced in life for so long? Even in Rochester my family has packed up and lived in six different homes--this does not include the places my father has lived. Does that mean that even in Rochester home is a place I no longer live?

Sometimes I miss home--or I feel that strong, nostalgic sensation that grips my heart strings and pulls just slightly at them. But it's never the same place. Sometimes I long for home in Washington DC. I remember the lights from the Capitol building as I head to my favourite Irish pub, or I remember the long walk from the Arts Center to the metro station. I even long for the cramped, sweaty rush hours rides on the metro cars, so I can run up the escalator steps to feel the cool rush of city air greet me at the top. Or the view of the city at night from the top of a building, where I climbed with my friends to escape the crowded loft below. Then DC feels like home to me.

But sometimes I miss the Corwith Cramer, a home where the scene was always changing. I remember the feel of her lines beneath my hands and I can hear the luffing of her sails. I can also smell the salt that enveloped us. I long to feel the wind from the bowsprit as I watch the sun set below an empty horizon. I miss the smell of pitch on my skin as I grasp rigging. I even miss my tiny, hot, dark bunk and its strange odour. Sometimes I feel like I would do anything to have it back.

Sometimes I miss Massachusetts. The runs along the beach where the cold winter wind would nearly knock me sideways. I miss the empty roads on Cape Cod, where I used to walk three miles to town (Woods Hole) just to have a coffee. I long to sit in Pie and the Sky and watch the ferry go out to Martha's Vineyard and see the gray winter ocean stretch out for miles. I miss the smell of old books in the Marine Biological Laboratories as I walked the stacks at midnight, waiting for a ghost to appear at any moment. I miss sunsets from the knob--the quiet alone time before heading back to campus to finish celestial navigation problem sets.

Often my nostalgia rests on Toronto, a place where being a foreigner never stopped me from feeling at home. I miss the long walks while the weather was still good. I even miss the 3am walk from Tess's to Shannon's down Bloor Street where we would stop for a few minutes at the U of T playing field to see the CN tower blinking in the distance. I remember late breakfasts at Futures and the first afternoon we could sit on the patio and soak in the city sounds. I miss the rush down the cold, snowy, icy streets with a book in hand to make it to the nearest coffee shop. Moments later, the two of us would be settled in with cups of coffee and I'd be pouring over a Jane Austen novel. Ben dragging us up the fire escape to have a better view of the city. Going after class for a chicken shawarma at La Zeez, especially after a boring lecture. I even miss the cold Saturday mornings, where I wake up and realize I can snuggle under the covers and go back to sleep.

Of course I miss Rochester--I grew up there. It's the beginning; the most important part of any story. Not always the most exciting, but certainly the most influential. I fell in love with photography because of Mr. Eastman and his house. I learned to love sailing and the water. I miss summer days with the hot deck burning my feet and the creaking of the fore boom in a light wind. I miss nights sitting at Schooners, sipping a cool drink and feeling the sunburn prickle underneath my light sweater. I miss white Christmases where I would stand outside staring at Christmas lights through the stillness of the night--so still that you felt you had to hold your breath. I miss the magic of the first crocus in Mom's garden--a promise of spring and the end of another school year. I miss walking the old railroad tracks just to see where they would end and getting lost in the process. I miss watching the tadpoles from Grandma and Grandpa's farm. It is a place I do not hesitate to call home.

But, as the months have flown by I find myself looking to Adelaide as home. I find myself comfortable and content in my workstation. I like my coworkers and often join them for morning tea (milk, two sugars). I look forward to lunches on the grass with Shannon, where we run to Woolies and then sit with our vegetables in the hot noon sun. I long for dinners at a restaurant on Rundle, where we can sit on the sidewalk and enjoy the mild weather. I love breakfast in North Adelaide at the Store. I will miss running around the Port, pointing in wonder at all the buildings I have seen in the photographs at work. I will miss walking to Cold Rock (same as Cold Stone) and then standing there unable to make a decision. I will miss late night walks with Shannon as we try to lose ourselves among the beautiful homes. I will miss Tim Tams, Lamingtons, Farmers Union iced coffee, wedges, tea time, cherry ripes, nutrigrain and blue lemon baguettes. I will miss my morning walk and my evening walk (probably the morning one a little less). I will miss the gum tree in the parklands were I watch rainbow lorikeets and galahs every morning while on my way to work.

Once I got over the fear and awkwardness of the unknown, I found myself at home--in all of these places. I look to each one as home and I carry each memory close to me. In a life where change is the only constant, I at least know that I have one more place to call home. And sometimes, when I have a spare moment, I like to let the nostalgia wash over me, so I can feel at home again.