So I grew up a bit, and continued the pattern. We do what we know, and I know how to move. Move baby, move. I can move with the best of them. I’ve gotten pretty good at having send off parties. Pretty good at staying in touch. Too good at detachment. I develop local pride at a surprisingly fast rate, but that burning passion of hometown identity eludes me.
In Australia, my accent gives me away. “Where are you from?” is an easy one. “The States.” The inevitable follow up question, “Oh yea, what part?” is where things get complicated. Should I say, Iowa, where I was born? Or Michigan, where I grew up? Minnesota, where I lived off and on for the last ten years? Portland, for the last 15 months? Minneapolis, where I spent the last summer? Chicago, where my extended family is based? Los Angeles, where I can’t seem to stay away from for long? San Diego or Massachusetts with their respective 6 month stints?
The truth is, no place feels like home. Throw in the fact that my closest friends are scattered about the globe, and its easy to be lonely. I’m not necessarily the most stable of human beings. And sometimes I wonder if the lack of a hometown contributes toward the condition. On the other hand, its nice to be able to have a couch to crash on in most major cities in the United States, and a fair number throughout the world. It’s nice to be mistaken for a local in four or five places. It’s nice to have a ‘local pub’ in multiple time zones.
But it would be nicer to have a home to call my own.