Welcome home.

Aug 16, 2024
4 min read

For me, the concept of 'home' has always been simple. Home is something you can feel. It's the feeling you get when you're surrounded by the people you love and who love you. It's familiarity. The familiarity of people, sights, smells, and sounds of a place you associate with the feeling of home. For example, I associate home with family trips to the Home Depot after dinner. Those late night trips right before the store closed to pick up that one thing Dad was missing to complete a home improvement project. If I tell you to imagine a Home Depot right now, you could do it (provided that you've been there). You could probably smell it, too. Home Depot has that tire, wood, rubber, paint, toolbox smell that anyone could recognize almost immediately. That's how powerful the feeling of home is.

The complex part of this concept is the fact that our brain can designate more than one place as 'home'. Anyone who has left their "first" home for a new place, whether that be 30 min away, 1 hour away, or 20 hours away, has certainly experienced this. This move to the new place can be brief, or permanent -- it doesn't really matter. Once the new place is associated to memories, or to people you now care for, it is now a 'home'.

For me, my homes are in two different countries, with two different cultures. How lucky am I to call two places my home? Two places where I am surrounded by warmth and familiarity. Two places where I have created a village of people around me, villages that help their members in times of need. I think that's pretty cool.

This however, does come with a downside: when you leave one place for the other (it doesn't matter in which direction), you're met with a bittersweet feeling. That feeling that sours your departure, but makes your arrival so much sweeter, every time.

~Leaving a home for a home~

The 5:30 am alarm blares in my ear. Time to take a shower. I wash and dry my hair, get dressed, knowing it will be the last time I feel clean for the next 24 hours.

At 6:30, we get in the car and drive to the airport. There's a bitter taste in my mouth and heaviness in the air. Could just be the fact that I haven't had breakfast and that Rome is incredibly humid. Or to the fact that I'm a bit sad to be leaving.

We manage to find parking and I stumble through the crowds of people with my violin on my back, my backpack on my front, and a luggage trailing behind me, insisting that I can carry it all myself. I stand in line for what feels like hours to check in, and then I proceed with the hardest part of any departure: I say goodbye, or rather, an arrivederci. Tight hugs and many kisses are exchanged. Thankfully, in August, the airport is FULL of people, so this time no one is paying attention to my emotional arrivederci.

How I walk through the airport when traveling alone: looking like a pack donkey.

I make my way through security and passport control with an hour to spare before boarding. Oohhh I could shop to kill some time and raise my spirits! With the violin and backpack in tow I make my way through the international terminal browsing all the name brands: Gucci, MaxMara, Bulgari, Hugo Boss, Versace, Valentino, Dolce & Gabbana.

About 20 minutes later, I'm walking through the terminal with a brown paper bag, extremely happy with my purchase: 2 cornetti, one plain, and one filled to the brim with nutella. Now that's some smart shopping.

I call my great aunt while I'm waiting at the gate. She asks me where I am, convinced I've already made the jump across the Atlantic. I tell her I'm waiting for my plane at the gate, and she wishes me safe travels and reminds me not to forget about her. I reassure her that I'll only be gone for 4 weeks.

I board the plane, and make myself comfortable in my seat, strapping myself in for my 9 hour and 45 minute flight to Detroit. And just like that, the plane takes off and I'm homeward bound.

~9 hours and 45 minutes later~

Once I'm off the plane, I make a beeline for customs expecting a lengthy line of people waiting to go through passport control. Instead, I'm greeted by a large empty room just filled with stanchions (there's a new word for ya -- it's what those upright stainless steel pillar things used to make lines are called) as far as the eye can see. There are airport workers directing people towards the shortcuts through the stanchions (I've learned a new word so I'm gonna get my money's worth out of it).

"US Citizens and green card holders this way," they say in a monotonous tone, waving their arms to get people's attention.

I think to myself, oh that's me, and redirect my steps towards the US Citizen line. Finally, I make it to the front of the line. I'm panting and sweating after surviving the endless zigzag path through the stanchions with a heavy violin and backpack on me.

"NEXT."

It's my turn.

I walk up and say "Good morning," to the officer. It's 4 pm in Michigan. I'm jet-lagged, ok?

He says, "Look into the camera for me."

While I'm looking into the camera, he asks me a series of questions:

Where are you coming from? Rome, Italy.
Did you pack your own bag? Yes, I did.
Do you have any food items in your bag like cheese, meat, or alcohol? Yes, I have 2 bottles of wine.

He looks up from his computer and says, "Ok, Francesca, welcome home." My eyes slightly well-up with happy tears.

Not yet, I think so myself. I've got 4 hours to go until I hear the flight attendant say, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Sacramento. All connecting flights will leave from this same terminal. If this is your final destination, it's our privilege to welcome you home".

I'm curious, what about you? Do you have more than one home, too?