The first city I fell in love with is Chicago. It was 2003, and I hadn’t traveled all that much yet. All I knew about the Bay Area cities I grew up around was that I was bored of them – I was a teenager ready to escape. Being in Chicago helped me feel a sense of locality in a place where I wasn’t one. I learned that I could get to know roads and routes, become a familiar face, and even learn to embody certain tropes of the cultural landscape. But mostly, it was about the people. Once most of my Chicagoan friends left, I didn’t really have a reason to go back. Last year, I made a day-trip and hardly left the Loop. I ate at steakhouses and sandwich spots surrounded by tourists, I stared at my phone screen during the cab rides back and forth from the airport. Sometimes you can feel so familiar that you no longer even notice it.
Over the past couple of years, some cities have nestled into my heart – the places where I’ve actually called home; Oakland, New York, D.C. And then Honolulu, New Orleans, the vastness of New Mexico. None of those are places I’m moving to. My next venture to L.A. feels strangely predictable. I know it well enough to see beyond its vanity. I might even be able to catch the slow pace that I’m looking for, but who knows. I might get swept up. I won’t be settling in until the end of the year (or later) and in the meantime and preparing for several months of vagabonding. While I’m out at sea, or air, or concrete, I’ll be exposing myself to new cities but I’ll miss all my beloved places the same. How much room do I have in my heart for so many locales? When does a constellation decide to connect its last dot with the first?
I ended my most recent project in New Orleans last week, and as I boarded the aircraft I wondered when I would return. “The door’s always open for you,” various friends said in various ways. What does it mean to be always passing through? How do I find a sense of home in my transience?