SETTLING IN
I’ve been back a full week now. The bags are unpacked, laundry’s done. I even went to the grocery store. That was a bit of a mistake — in my excitement to eat home-cooked meals again I indulged my every whim at Whole Foods and therefore obscenely overspent on everything from butter to salad to wine to fish to bread to soup. The checkout girl cheerily announced my total; I sourly pulled out my credit card. I do not regret, however, the many six-packs of Abita Strawberry beer I carted home. That’s some tasty stuff.
The problem with homecomings is that they aren’t ever what you expect or want them to be. Should you desire fanfare, there will be none. Should you require quiet reflection, there will be not a moment’s peace. And because South By Southwest is currently ongoing here in Austin, the homecoming will in fact be a horrifying mix of frenetic fanfare and anxious isolation, as you adjust to being “home” in a town overrun by thousands upon thousands of strangers.
All that and the cats are in Dallas. Literal cats. My two cats, Puck and Erwin, who provide this little residence with a friendly calm that I sorely miss. I look forward to their return; I think it will officially signal that I am “home.” For now I wake up each morning vaguely uncertain of my location.
I felt this most acutely my first Sunday back when I bolted awake at 4am, totally disoriented. My bedroom was dark and I couldn’t make out any features that might indicate a particular place. For two minutes I experienced true panic: I groped around for a bedside lamp and my glasses, couldn’t find either, and strained to find an outline of a door, or a window, or something. I was expecting to discover a small, square motel room. Instead I saw the glow from a neighbor’s porch light illuminating the window in my living room. (My bedroom door opens into a small hallway, which in turn opens into the living room.) All at once I grasped the layout of the space, recognized it as my own, and puffed out a literal “whew!”
It’s an odd thing to not recognize your own home. Something of the sort happened to me once before, several years ago. I was at a grocery store, and felt a figure hovering near me. I turned to see who it was and came face-to-face with an older woman with wavy blond hair holding a bag of English muffins. I had two simultaneous thoughts: “Well isn’t she pretty!” and “Oh I like that brand of English muffin.”
The woman gave me a perplexed look and said my name. Only then did it dawn on me that I was looking at my own mother, wanting to know if I wanted her to buy me a bag of English muffins. The recognition was as sharp as a pinprick. And similarly painful. Why?
The music festival will be over this weekend. There have been moments I’ve really enjoyed in spite of the crowds. Meeting new people (Oh hi, Seattle!), sneaking Strawberry Abita into venues, and sitting on my friends’ freshly-built cedar porch are three that come to mind straight away. But I’m ready for everyone else to get the hell out of here. Go home so that I can come home, please.
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