I’ve never really had a home. Not in the way everybody else seems to think about it. Admit it, when you read the word “home” you thought of a physical location. Probably either the house you grew up in or the one you’re living in now.
When I read it, I’m puzzled. I understand the associations I’m supposed to have, but they’re not there. Not even a little bit.
Well, that’s not entirely true. They weren’t there.
In September I moved to Scotland absurdly optimistic about how things would go here. I thought I would move in, I’d be happy, I’d be comfortable. It’d be simple. I mean, let’s ignore the lifetime of experience I have with the extreme suckiness of moving. Let’s ignore culture shock, let’s ignore homesickness, let’s ignore leaving friends to move someplace where I knew exactly nobody. Ignore it all. This was going to work.
The weirdest thing is, it did.
Scotland is incredible. I know you think you know that, but you don’t, not really, not unless you live here. Edinburgh is incredible. Thanks to my terrible sense of direction, I get lost in this city constantly, but it’s always beautiful. It’s always worth it. I walk an hour a day to get anywhere, half of it uphill. I walk in rain, in fog – I’m sorry, haar – I’d walk in snow if it had actually snowed this winter.
I’ve never been excited about a place while I was actually living there. Never enjoyed the streets while walking along them. (Okay, this is a lie, I loved Copenhagen, but part of that was because I was only there for a summer and didn’t have to deal with a Danish winter.) But this place is something special.
I mean, take this picture for example. This was taken in February. FEBRUARY. Meanest of months. The month that I generally spend under the covers, refusing to leave bed. The month that hits me so hard every year that my ex told me that he’d just accepted that I’d go nuts in February. It’s just what happens. But here, this is February (photo stolen from my friend Jen):
I kind of think that says it all, actually.