Home At Last
We recently got back to Lisbon from a six-week summer odyssey that started in Boulder, CO, took me through Vegas, LA, Mexico City and (briefly) Washington D.C. But it was more hectic than it sounds because in Boulder, we stayed at Heather’s sister’s house for one night, then a friend’s house for three, a hotel for three, Heather’s sister’s country house for six, then Boulder for two, before I left for Vegas for two nights while my family flew straight to LA.
So it wasn’t just the travel and the different places, but that I was packing, unpacking and schlepping my bags every few days. Don’t get me wrong, it was a great trip, but living out of a suitcase, not having my office setup and sleeping in so different beds (and for a few days on a sofa) was disorienting.
. . .
In New York City where I grew up, the dream was always to have an apartment in the city and a house in the country. We never had the country house, though we did sometimes rent places during the summer, but I always envied my friends’ families who had the full setup. How nice it must be to have all your things not only in your usual city home, but also in your other one. Stocks of your favorite foods and condiments, your old clothes hanging in the closet. You might travel back and forth with a small bag, but mostly everything you needed was already set-up for you, just the way you liked it.
The really rich people had it even better — in their city house or apartment, there was a piece of the country, maybe a large outdoor balcony or back yard. And in the country there was a little piece of the city, like a nearby charming town with good restaurants and shops.
. . .
I’m the type of person who likes to be settled. I want to have a routine doing things I like, that I know are wholesome and fulfilling. I dream of a country house where I can tend to a garden, sweat in a sauna, swim in a pool and work in a quiet office surrounded by greenery. I want a frictionless toggle between city and country, a short drive with minimal traffic and hassle. Airports with their precise schedules (the plane will not wait if you’re late) and security measures always stressed me out — and this was the case even before 9/11 and Covid made it so much worse. Staying in hotels with check-out times, and having to double-check to make sure you didn’t leave something behind, or staying with other people with their idiosyncratic habits and neuroses is tolerable and often enjoyable, but less than ideal. I crave the stability of my own place, my own schedule, my own things.
. . .
It’s easy to get bored with one’s routine. Waking up tired to walk the dog in the morning, making coffee, checking the MLB box scores, settling down to work in the office, scrounging for leftovers in the fridge at noon, shopping at the same local grocery, chopping vegetables, broiling meat, having one of the five or six things for dinner we have every night, going out to the same group of restaurants, ordering in or meeting the same friends and drinking the same wines and having the same conversations and experiences. Family life. Playing chess or cards or board games with Sasha. Going to kids’ birthday parties where the parents drink wine. Filling up the weekends with activities. The beach, the park, the track for a run, occasionally a trip somewhere up the coast. It’s “one paradise to the next” as I like to say, but it’s a routine. It’s pleasant and enjoyable, but not exciting. Being home is all your habits all at once.
. . .
Getting into Lisbon last Friday at noon, jet-lagged more than usual thanks to a six-hour layover in D.C., I tried to push through and make it until nighttime to get back on the schedule. While Heather and Sasha passed out for five hours, I went to the local grocery, re-stocked supplies, changed the water filters, made the “agua com gas” to which my family is addicted. I re-connected computer cables, unpacked my suitcases and stored all the US-bought goods on which we splurged in their proper places. I defrosted Oscar’s dog food, took him for a short walk and checked the baseball scores for the early games. It felt so good to be back, to re-remember why I had chosen this particular life. It occurred to me how lucky we were to have this apartment (this dog!) in this place waiting for us when we returned. We need adventure, but we also need roots.
. . .
We need roots, but we also need adventure. Five weeks of dislocation, discomfort and dependence on other people, the international travel industrial complex and chance made me better appreciate the richness of my ordinary life. My instinct is to feel relieved — no plane crashes, no serious delays, no covid-induced 16-day travel halts (with five tests) like last summer — now I can go back and have the peace, comfort and independence I prefer. I can work on my sites, do my podcasts, get back to my routine. I am set. I can relax. Finally.
. . .
You never can be set. My routine was boring because I was overdue for adventure. And it will get stale again if I don’t shake it up. I wish it weren’t the case, but wishing will not make it so. No matter how much money you have, how well-tailored your routine to your preferences, there is no escape. The country manor will not save you, nor the fabulous trips to places abroad. From the outside looking in, you can never get the full picture. One way or the other, emotional discomfort is coming, and your attention is required.