On Homes

I read somewhere that single women are the second largest group of people buying homes, behind heterosexual couples. Makes sense to me. I’ve just acquired (read rented) a new home in Atlanta. My roommate, with the help of his parents, is breaking the mold by being a 23 year old male homeowner. Meanwhile, I’ve taken over his peaceful home with a nearly aggressive round of cooking and bringing friends over. I’ve demanded a porch swing and rearranged the cupboards. Honesty, I hope he is not regretting his decision to let me move in.

The house is old, but furnished and refinished blandly but recently. There is a useless fireplace in every room and a large front porch screaming for a porch swing (currently no porch furniture, but that will be remedied). The kitchen has an island and a pleathera of spices (my roommate is Indian). The mattress is like heaven, but does not quench my insomnia.

My globetrotting inclinations have always been complicated by a strong aching desire for a place to love and live. Since I stopped calling my parent’ s place home (my roommate still does) around the age of 22, I’ve had one place where I planned to stay indefinitely. Some of you might remember 2575 Le Conte, too small for most, but for me an airy nest with ideal nooks and crannies and a large gas Wedgwood.

After Lindsay moved in, there might never be another place to top it in my memory. We crawled over that building like a tree house fort, sipping wine (were we old enough to sip wine?) on the roof, watering my kumquat tree, swinging legs off of the fire escape. The slim sliver of the Bay glimpsed from a window seat made the furnishing complete, even when Lindsay refused to furnish the rest of the room besides my oversized chair. At night, she would pull a mat from the closet to sleep. Sam would come over for breakfast, Christina and Alicia practiced acrobatics in the afternoon sunlight. Daniel would make furtive night visits and then sleep late while I fetched Nefeli Sandwiches and coffee. Lindsay paced the room on the phone while towers fell and Daniel and I cuddled closer to escape the sound. Mansur and Lindsay plotted aircraft across a hand drawn Middle-Eastern map pinned to the wall. Times were good, in a desperate unknowing sort of way.

So I’m seeking home, in the most illogical way possible (travel?). Each time I return to San Francisco and fall for 48 tense hours into my old life I am reminded that home has less to do with the physical structure and more to do with the people that inhabit it. Loved ones are best for this purpose, but sometimes alarmingly charming new friends will suffice on warm Southern nights.