People say that home is where the heart is. As beautifully simple as that phrase is, the concept of home is more than just an emotional comfort zone. The last few years of my life have seemed like a constant state of flux (moving around from high school to college, back to Chicago and then finally to Havana) at least juxtaposed with the years of stability I enjoyed during my childhood. But what I have come to realize is that (at least for people like me) developing a sense of home requires serious effort. The first time I ever moved was from California to Arizona, and I was too young to remember it. However the second move, Arizona to Chicago, I remember feeling excited, nervous, scared but mostly optimistic. My mother recalls me asking “do they speak English there?” But home kept coming and going. I always had my physical home, the house on Raleigh road, but every time I would change schools I felt a similar sense of removal or shift.
The next, most significant up to this point, move I made was from Chicago to Portland for school. Not only was I going to a completely new place I had visited only once, I was going to be completely alone. Completely terrified, I made the transition. It took around 3 years for Portland to feel like home. Knowing the city’s geography, being familiar with the area outside of Portland, having favorite restaurants and hangout spots were important in developing that sense, but having relationships with fellow Portland residents was as necessary as those other elements combined. Additionally, the amount of communication I had with my hometown, Glenview, (family or friends living there) influenced my sense of home. This includes visits to my parent’s house, or phone calls, anything that would make me feel removed from where I was physically.
Last week, we went to Santiago and Baracoa. I was struck with my first true bout of homesickness. Aside from the unpleasantries associated with homesickness in general, I was blown away by the strange nature of this homesickness. I tried to remedy the infirmity in any way I could, not going on the internet, not going near my phone, refusing to read old emails from friends, journaling my thoughts through, talking to new people and discussing it openly. I wouldn’t even listen to music I felt would bring back memories, in hopes that the thoughts of home would just go away. One thing that actually helped was meditating, creating a duality between mind and thoughts. And though I practiced this almost daily, thoughts of elsewhere continued to swirl around my head.
I attribute the homesickness partially to Santiago, which happens to be the largest city in Cuba outside of Havana. The busy traffic, the blind corners, my unfamiliarity with the streets, the inescapable heat and pollution, and the resulting exhaustion I felt from being constantly bombarded with stimuli, even in my room, where the street was two feet from my window and noise could be heard around the clock. Baracoa was much better. Five hours away via bus, it is a little mountain town that has a thriving chocolate (tourist) industry and I lived a little farther from the center of pedestrian activity, the streets and sidewalks were wider, and we even climbed a mountain! Unfortunately an hour after descending the mountain I developed a fever and have been sick since. Even though Baracoa was a lovely break from Santiago and Havana’s hustle and bustle, I couldn’t shake the feeling of alienation.
The flight back to Havana produced what I will remember as some of the most terrifying moments of my life. To start, the plane was a repurposed military aircraft with no windows. The flight was loud and full of tourists. During our descent, turbulence was so extreme that I actually pulled out and started the safety information card, which my friends found hilarious. But in the end we made it. Back at the house, I was surprised and excited to find myself relieved of the homesickness completely. Walking through Vedado’s streets lined with sauce trees (kind of like banyan?) the mansions in various states of refurbishment (or decay), the embraces of our host family, the sunsets on the malecón and the familiar sights and sounds obliterated any reservation I had about being abroad. Now I’m not sure if this means I feel like Vedado is my home. I think the point is that home is wherever you want it to be, if you make it so. It’s a lesson I’m still learning, and often reflect on how fortunate I am to have the opportunity to learn it.