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| coming home |
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| no matter how much we love our homes, from time to time we need to get away and long for the wide world. and sometimes you can’t get far enough away. so we pack our bags according to the basic “globe trotter” rules, forget the most important things at home and are off. because somewhere else is always better than at home, or is it? |
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the last look over your shoulder is merely obligatory. of course there’s something missing. for example, the season ticket for the tube. it’s probably on the kitchen table, where else should it be. and the key card for the office is in the bedroom. the paper isn’t neatly tucked under your arm either. usually, this series of realizations constitutes the starting signal for the regular morning run around the house: you trip over the edge of the rumpled carpet, then over the paper that still lies in front of the door only to just miss the tube. but not today. today, everything is different because at that very moment on the threshold your much-longed-for holiday begins – what a feeling. everything stays behind – only i am off.
running away isn’t a solution. that’s what we’ve been told from early on and have forgotten many times. but from time to time it’s simply necessary. are holidays the grown-up version of leaving the nest? maybe. although we have spent the last couple of years laboriously building and decorating our little nests, maybe even relocating them to a sunnier place. whether the whole thing is about leaving one’s nest or not, it’s a fact that nowadays we don’t need our own washing machine in the bathroom anymore like we did when we moved out of our parent’s homes to feel free. now, we only need a car, a flight ticket, a couple of fun friends in a train compartment or a number of exactly countable kilometres. today, we just fly away whenever and as often as we want to. probably the one amenity of an own home that’s really measurable.
usually, we also find what we were looking for abroad. everything is better than at home. the weather, the food, even the people. our thoughts of home are swiped away at the latest by an outrageously delicious panini with parma ham at the first rest stop or by the excess luggage check at the airport, they are chucked out of our full suitcases – and stay where they belong – at home. now there’s enough space again. no sign of homesickness at all. holidays are simply great. at least most of the time, or let’s say often, or sometimes they’re not – when the overheated car passes away at the roadside 112 kilometres away from home, when your friends start arguing about where they want to go, when in spite of 38°c you have to spend your days in your hotel room because of your massive sunburn or when you simply couldn’t find a vacant room anymore. a really comprehensible opportunity – not to say a direct hit in a dead-ball situation – for the sudden mean flash of inspiration: at home, everything would be perfect right now.
however, such a perfect case of mishap is not the only opportunity for this familiar vague feeling in your stomach – let’s just call it homesickness – that immediately wants to spoil your enjoyment. occasionally, we realize all by ourselves that we’re not as detached from our familiar nest as we thought we were – or secretly don’t even want to be? homesickness can get hold of us at any time, even on your dream holiday. with its obvious incubation period it’s as good as immune to any kind of prophylactic measures, highly contagious and almost resistant to any treatment. so to speak, the no. 1 travel sickness. no first-aid kit can help, however well-equipped it may be. and, from my own experience: alcohol doesn’t do the trick either.
from our early childhood on, we have had bad experiences with it. back then, it meant escaping to mum’s car with your friends darting contemptuous looks at you because you simply couldn’t stand being alone at the skiing camp anymore. cry-baby. and still today, we rather like using explanations such as “being a home-loving person”, “missing one’s boyfriend” or “looking forward to coming home” than feeling the bitter aftertaste of the word homesickness. but what does it mean anyway? can you really be sick from not being at home? hand on heart – yes, you can. anyone who has never felt this special kind of sickness is highly suspicious to me.
our home simply doesn’t let go of us, or rather – why always put the blame on somebody else – we don’t let go of our home. when we’re on holiday, we basically just swap our home for another one which we adapt to in record time – turf wars included. we always need a little bit of home around us and if we can’t find it abroad we want back our old one. we want to go back, back to where we feel at home, where our roots patiently wait for us to return, back to our cosy nest. we are looking for our ground that can’t be cut from under our feet.
finally, we understand this abstract concept of “home” – and at the same time the favourite in-word of the world: “lifestyle”. because that’s what it’s about. we don’t love our home because of something concrete but because of the warm feeling of knowing that it exists, that there’s a place we belong. if the only thing coming out of thinking about all of this is a familiar ‚not available at the moment’ – and let’s not blame the friendly voice mail tape, hey, it’s trying its best – it can be a painful experience. cured from the belief that abroad everything is better or simply just relaxed, tanned and completely happy you finally return from your holiday. the door opens and you’re given a warm welcome. not exactly by the carpet edge that puts you in a bad mood by making you trip with your suitcase still in hand, but by what we are – and can always be here: temporary leave-takers with a home we leave from time to time and which we always miss. |
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| isabel baier |
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