Home

I struggle with this word. 

Don’t worry: it’s not a bad struggle. It’s a comfortable struggle. 

When I say I’m going home, or that I’m at home, or ask you to come to my home, what do I mean, exactly? My home is where I live. But is home also where I have lived? For if it is, then I have many homes. 

Many expats and immigrants use the word to refer to their country of origin. I’ll confess that I do too, but now, in writing, I tend to put it in quotation marks. This is because although it’s my home country, it’s no longer my home, and I have no plans to return to it as a place to live in the near future. I’m not sure if this makes sense. I struggle with this, though, because Canada, while no longer where I live, still feels very much like home to me. 

But then so does London. And New York. And Bangkok. And Hong Kong International Airport, for that matter. 

Where do we draw the line? 

So, today’s truth is more of a musing. If anything, my truth is that I’m struggling with the concept of “home.” I might struggle with it forever. But here is what I know right now, at this moment:

  • Home is my abode in Singapore, where I have a spacious two-bedroom apartment, which I share with a queen kitteh, Flower. It’s here, where I know the bus routes and which restaurants just opened last week and which ones are closing and, it is where my neighbours say hello at the playground behind my building. It’s where I stare in amazement at the skyscrapers in the CBD, knowing that they and the land they sit on were not in existence 50 short years ago. It’s where I’m learning about racial relations and history and culture and flora and fauna every day. It’s also where the night shift security guard at the commercial building next door says “good morning” to me each morning as I shuffle to the very affordable MRT on my way to work, and where I pause to look at the lotus flowers, because I still can’t believe I live somewhere where lotus flowers grow all the time.
  • Home is Calgary, the city I am from, where I spent my childhood playing softball in the field behind my school, ice skating on the lake down the road, and bicycling through Fish Creek Park. It’s also where I drove to Banff on weekends in a friend’s car in high school, just to skip stones on the river while we ate candy and drank coffee, and where I learned to ski and hike and camp in the surrounding mountains. It’s where I learned to do nearly everything — drive a car, kiss boys, sing four-part harmony, write essays, play the piano, play tennis, swim, play street hockey, fish, and act in plays. It’s where my friend died when we were 13, as he stopped at the crosswalk with his bicycle on his way to school, and where I learned what qualities defined the best and the worst teachers.
  • Home is Vancouver, the city where I spent 7 very formative years — 5 of them in university, supposedly studying for two degrees, but mostly spent socializing, drinking, building friendships and relationships and learning about how this green, easy-going city and its come-as-you-are inhabitants could both entertain me and teach me more about myself. The other two years I spent here were two of the poorest, leanest, and most unhappy years in my life… and yet, I still felt at home and comfortable… and I didn’t want to leave. It’s where I drank too much coffee and spent too much time at the beach, lost in my thoughts, and my words, and my future.
  • Home is New York, where I spent another two lean years, ten years later, where my apartment was so small you could barely sit on the toilet and you definitely couldn’t sit on the floor. It’s where to find the best pasta outside of Italy, the best falafel outside of the Middle East, and the best pizza in the whole world. It’s where my crazy-ass neighbour nearly set the building on fire, and the other crazy-ass neighbour played loud music at 3am. It’s where I wrote an 86-page thesis, in between diner visits and museums and jazz and coffee walks with the hippies in Washington Square Park.
  • Home is London, where I ventured into adulthood and out of Canada for the first time, thinking I knew everything there was about being a teacher, but nothing about being a traveller (turns out it was the opposite). It’s where I fell in love with clubbing till sunrise, West End musicals, and live music at the Jazz Cafe. It’s also where I learned to drink beer and watch rugby, and dressed up to go shopping at Waitrose on a Saturday. It’s where health abandoned and then found me again, and where I found the rest of Europe on weekends, thanks to travel deals on every high street.
  • Home is Hanoi, the city that wins the prize for shocking me the most with its lack of infrastructure, constant hums and screeches of noise, and hospitable and friendly culture. It’s here where I learned a difficult language, and that I can live without water, electricity, or Internet, but perhaps not very happily. It’s where I rode side-saddle three times a week, watched dogs go off to the slaughter, and found myself on stage surrounded by friends. It’s also where I found the kitteh queen, the best coffee yet, my passion for tech-infused learning, and most of my home decor.
  • Home is my grandmother’s house, in the far-reaches of northern Alberta, where the Aurora Borealis rumbles and shines at night, and where the air is crisp and cool after sunset. It’s where some of my most treasured and warm childhood memories sit, and remain, and will never leave. It’s where love lives: in the pores of the brick, in the dust in the carpet, in the vegetable garden, and most certainly in the pasta sauce. It’s where rules were just suggestions and where generations know they can always return to. 
  • Home is my parent’s home — wherever that may be. It’s where there is an extra room, with towels, and where there is abundant coffee, cheese, and wine, and music in every corner. It’s where meals are events and drinks are required social contracts, and where a handful of tech questions await. It’s also where pajamas are always appropriate, where the TV is on (tennis, golf, or CNN), and where sleep comes easily and quickly and comfortably.  

I have many other homes than these… and perhaps I’ll revisit them too, from time to time. I didn’t mention Bangkok, or HKIA, or Bali. They are all varying degrees and types of homes.

Home is many things to me. It’s certainly many places. And it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to pin down. But I don’t want to pin it down. Not yet, anyway. Is that okay? No, really — is it? 

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