By Erica
I'm home for the holidays.
It's funny. In the past five and a half years, I've lived in two different cities in two different countries. No matter how well I've blended in- often, quite successfully- I've identified to all askers that I'm from New Hampshire. I'm a New Hampshirite, a New England girl, where when we wear flannel and hiking boots no one's sexuality gets referenced. Where we know the difference between a snowstorm and a blizzard (hint: one comes with high winds). Where losing power for a week is a part of life and where growing your own produce in the summer is pretty common. Where there's hardly a spring, just six weeks of mud and lilacs. This place is the backbone of my cultural identity.
I promised in the title of this post that I wouldn't mention a certain author, or the book he wrote that has become over-referenced. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't on my mind. It's on my mind every time I come home- back to New Hampshire, that is- especially when I'm only home for a brief period of time. Since I finished my undergrad, most of my visits home have been brief.
As I write this, I'm sitting at a desk in my bedroom that we bought unfinished when I was fourteen and that I varnished myself. The chair is purple, with purple tuelle dangling off the seat, because when I claimed this room as MY ROOM when I was nine I decorated it in a purple ballet theme. The bed behind me is the same one I've slept in, in various arrangements, since I was three, and this house has belonged to my family since it was built in 1984. This place is more my home than any other on the planet. I say this even though I've paid rent on three different apartments and refer to my current one as "home" in many contexts. Even though believing this New Hampshire house to be my true home means that I'm never really at home in the places I'm living.
Truth be told, the area I grew up in has felt less and less home-like as the years go by and I spend less time here. Every time I go to run an errand my mom asks if I remember how to get to my destination. There are new chain stores popping up in my tiny little town, a fact which I find frustrating and inappropriate. I keep expecting amenities that are common in cities but rare in small towns- just the other night, I spent half an hour wandering around in Portsmouth trying to remember where its two ATMs are located. And most of my high school friends are only here briefly, able to meet up once or maybe twice but mostly preoccupied with family time. All the fantasies I've had about moving back here and finding it as I left it in 2004- which I know are ridiculous- are slowly eroding as time goes on. Each time, something is different, and increasingly, coming home has felt like traveling to a strange location.
At the same time, though, for these two weeks that I'm here, certain things do feel familiar and good. My sister and I will be playing flute music for the Christmas Eve Masses as usual, arranged by the same choir director as always, and the Bagelry still makes the best bagels I've ever tasted- even compared to those in New York City. The woods we live in are as thick and wild as ever, the birds in our yard competing with the squirrels for the birdseed we put out for them, and it's still silent and peaceful at night. It makes it harder to think about the fact that Nick and I have started renting a beautiful apartment in Niederkirchen, Germany, and when I move I'll start making that our new home-away-from-home. Next year, I don't know if we'll have the time or money to come home for Christmas- which would be the first Christmas I've ever had away from my family. The thought of needing to feel enough at home in Germany to celebrate Christmas- for me, a holiday about home and community and family- makes me sad and more than a little anxious about taking yet another step away from New Hampshire.
In the meantime, though, I'm home. I've braved a snowstorm and horrible travel to get here, and it's worth it because now I'm with my family, in our home, in my evolving little town. Today- these two weeks, really- all of the changes and strange-ness-es of my hometown aren't important and don't affect the fact that, everything else aside, this is where I belong for now. Readers, I hope that wherever you find yourselves for this holiday season- however you celebrate it, if you choose to do so- you're lucky enough to be with the people and/or the places that make you feel at home. And I hope that, wherever your travels take you, you're always able to find your way back to that place or those people.
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Concerts, Confidence and Courage
by Lisa
I have a confession to make.
I love solo travel. (That's not the confession...stick around a minute, I'm getting to it.) When I'm traveling alone, I feel fearless about being alone. I have no qualms about wandering museums, hiking trails, restaurants, and pubs by myself. I am content with my own company, not shy about striking up conversations with others or tacking myself onto tour groups.
When I'm in my hometown, however, it's a different story. (This is the confession part, for those playing along.) I get nervous and self conscious when I eat alone in my hometown, or see a play, or a movie, or a museum, without having a friend or two along. Why? Maybe because, when I'm traveling solo, I'm the daring one, the interesting one, the trailblazer, who is grabbing life by the horns and enjoying the ride. In my hometown, in contrast, I know a lot of people. I should be able to find a companion, and if I don't have one -- even if I intended to be solo -- I feel self-conscious and judged by others.
I admit this is silly. No one knows if I'm traveling or not. I'm the only one who knows the difference. And so, last Friday, I decided to try something new: act like a traveler in my own hometown.
It all started innocently enough. I found out, a little late, that two of my current favorite bands were coming to town and performing in the same concert (Spoon and Phoenix, if anyone's interested). Since I nearly missed this, the event was sold out. The after-market brokers did have some pairs of tickets available, but at an astronomical price, and since most of my friends don't share my music taste, a pair of tickets wasn't really an option. On the other hand, the single tickets were much cheaper. And so I faced a dilemma.
Should I buy the single ticket, and see these bands I have been dying to see in person, or do I let my weird hometown insecurity prevail, and chicken out about going to a concert solo? Put that way, my choice was clear. I bought the ticket.
Friday night arrived. I had dinner with a friend near the venue. She thought my nervousness was ridiculous -- after all, I'm the same person who drove around the U.S. for six weeks alone, went to a dude ranch by myself, spent a week in Paris wandering solo (where I went to my first opera -- solo). That's when I decided to pretend I was traveling.
Suddenly, I wasn't self-conscious. Suddenly, I was daring. I was a mystery. No one around me knew who I was, where I came from, or what I was doing there. I was magically freed from any concerns about what others were thinking about me -- if they knew me, they'd be awed and inspired, naturally. Alone, I maneuvered easily through the crowded lobby and flirted my way to the front of the beer line. Alone, I found my seat and kicked the young girl wearing too much makeup out of it, sending her to the back of the orchestra where she belonged. Alone, I chatted with the usher, a very nice woman who was so excited to see Phoenix I thought she was going to faint.
There was a minor down point when the young boy next to me (seriously, this guy couldn't have been older than twenty -- I'd say twenty-one, but he and his friends weren't drinking) called me ma'am, but at least he was polite.
Then the lights went down, Phoenix took the stage, and I was transported by the music. Again, being alone was perfect; there was no one I knew watching me make an uncoordinated fool of myself, so I was free to dance and jig to my heart's content, sing along and cheer and jump up and down.
At the end of the night, I walked out, smiling, and fully intending to be a solo traveler in my own hometown as often as possible.
I have a confession to make.
I love solo travel. (That's not the confession...stick around a minute, I'm getting to it.) When I'm traveling alone, I feel fearless about being alone. I have no qualms about wandering museums, hiking trails, restaurants, and pubs by myself. I am content with my own company, not shy about striking up conversations with others or tacking myself onto tour groups.
When I'm in my hometown, however, it's a different story. (This is the confession part, for those playing along.) I get nervous and self conscious when I eat alone in my hometown, or see a play, or a movie, or a museum, without having a friend or two along. Why? Maybe because, when I'm traveling solo, I'm the daring one, the interesting one, the trailblazer, who is grabbing life by the horns and enjoying the ride. In my hometown, in contrast, I know a lot of people. I should be able to find a companion, and if I don't have one -- even if I intended to be solo -- I feel self-conscious and judged by others.
I admit this is silly. No one knows if I'm traveling or not. I'm the only one who knows the difference. And so, last Friday, I decided to try something new: act like a traveler in my own hometown.
It all started innocently enough. I found out, a little late, that two of my current favorite bands were coming to town and performing in the same concert (Spoon and Phoenix, if anyone's interested). Since I nearly missed this, the event was sold out. The after-market brokers did have some pairs of tickets available, but at an astronomical price, and since most of my friends don't share my music taste, a pair of tickets wasn't really an option. On the other hand, the single tickets were much cheaper. And so I faced a dilemma.
Should I buy the single ticket, and see these bands I have been dying to see in person, or do I let my weird hometown insecurity prevail, and chicken out about going to a concert solo? Put that way, my choice was clear. I bought the ticket.
Friday night arrived. I had dinner with a friend near the venue. She thought my nervousness was ridiculous -- after all, I'm the same person who drove around the U.S. for six weeks alone, went to a dude ranch by myself, spent a week in Paris wandering solo (where I went to my first opera -- solo). That's when I decided to pretend I was traveling.
Suddenly, I wasn't self-conscious. Suddenly, I was daring. I was a mystery. No one around me knew who I was, where I came from, or what I was doing there. I was magically freed from any concerns about what others were thinking about me -- if they knew me, they'd be awed and inspired, naturally. Alone, I maneuvered easily through the crowded lobby and flirted my way to the front of the beer line. Alone, I found my seat and kicked the young girl wearing too much makeup out of it, sending her to the back of the orchestra where she belonged. Alone, I chatted with the usher, a very nice woman who was so excited to see Phoenix I thought she was going to faint.
There was a minor down point when the young boy next to me (seriously, this guy couldn't have been older than twenty -- I'd say twenty-one, but he and his friends weren't drinking) called me ma'am, but at least he was polite.
Then the lights went down, Phoenix took the stage, and I was transported by the music. Again, being alone was perfect; there was no one I knew watching me make an uncoordinated fool of myself, so I was free to dance and jig to my heart's content, sing along and cheer and jump up and down.
At the end of the night, I walked out, smiling, and fully intending to be a solo traveler in my own hometown as often as possible.
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