The morning after the night before: sitting at MY table in MY living room looking at MY stunning view of the Alps behind MY Milan, rain-drenched as it was, the day after coming back from our reconnaisance trip to Sweden. The first morning back at home.
Except that technically, it isn’t home. The flat is rented and most of the furniture in it isn’t ours either, we’ve only been in Milan for 4 years, don’t have any family in Italy at all. But it was undeniable: in my post-travel daze I felt warm and fuzzy, comfortable and content, here. Which is funny, because although I feel like we’ve come a long way, settling in here wasn’t easy and I still have plenty of negative things to say about this city.
In any case, soon here will be there. In 3 months or so we will move to Sweden and start all over again. Start again how? What makes home home? How do you feel at home in a country that isn’t yours? That morning after the night before got us thinking.
Perhaps home is the place in which you know your way around without really having to think about it. Where to go for the everyday basics, where buying a stamp doesn’t seem like a herculean task, where you know which tram gets you from A to B fastest.
It’s also the place about which you know a few little secrets. Knowledge of the locals, if you like, which is guaranteed to make you feel like you belong. Where to get the creamiest burrata or the richest hot chocolate. When to climb to the top of the Duomo to get the best sunset. What the trick is to getting a few extra strawberries lobbed into your shopping bag at the market.
In any case, soon here will be there. In 3 months or so we will move to Sweden and start all over again. Start again how? What makes home home? How do you feel at home in a country that isn’t yours? That morning after the night before got us thinking.
Perhaps home is the place in which you know your way around without really having to think about it. Where to go for the everyday basics, where buying a stamp doesn’t seem like a herculean task, where you know which tram gets you from A to B fastest.
It’s also the place about which you know a few little secrets. Knowledge of the locals, if you like, which is guaranteed to make you feel like you belong. Where to get the creamiest burrata or the richest hot chocolate. When to climb to the top of the Duomo to get the best sunset. What the trick is to getting a few extra strawberries lobbed into your shopping bag at the market.
Home is where there is routine. There is chaos in the morning and stillness during the day and chaos again at night, but I know when the chaos and stillness occur. I feel like I know what will come tomorrow, and the day after, and it is comforting and normal.
It’s where bureaucratic palaver is still irritating but no longer terrifying. It can be tackled without help but with much swearing - in the local language, of course.
Home is the place of adopted habits, though without being able to pinpoint when or how this became so. When did I start thinking post-lunch macchiato was essential to my survival, and HOW did I become one of those people who interrupts others mid-spiel?
It’s where you’ve made memories, though you might not have realised that at the time either. Our first Italian Christmas, the grubby little playground around the corner where the Bean’s bum is practically imprinted on the slide, we go there so often. So often without giving it a thought at the time, but I’m certain I’ll remember that slide, those benches, the daisies he picked for me in that playground, long after we’ve left.
It’s where bureaucratic palaver is still irritating but no longer terrifying. It can be tackled without help but with much swearing - in the local language, of course.
Home is the place of adopted habits, though without being able to pinpoint when or how this became so. When did I start thinking post-lunch macchiato was essential to my survival, and HOW did I become one of those people who interrupts others mid-spiel?
It’s where you’ve made memories, though you might not have realised that at the time either. Our first Italian Christmas, the grubby little playground around the corner where the Bean’s bum is practically imprinted on the slide, we go there so often. So often without giving it a thought at the time, but I’m certain I’ll remember that slide, those benches, the daisies he picked for me in that playground, long after we’ve left.
So very soon here will become there, and we have to start all over again. There are moments when the thought fills me with fear, but then I remind myself: we have made a strange place home before. We can do it again.
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