There's no place like...

I went home for a couple of weeks. And now I am home again. And when I head to St. Paul later this year, I will be home there too. I guess I’m not too picky. Home – is it where you lived the longest? Where you have most attachments? Where you feel coziest? How do you decide?

To be less fake-philosophical and more specific, I was visiting my family in, outside of, and around Chicago. Since I went alone and stayed a while, there was a lot of time for familiar things. I slept in the room where my sister and I once laid a line of tape down the middle of the floor, and showered in the bathroom where I once got ready for high school dances.  

And now so much time has passed that the neighbor kids I used to babysit are in college, and we took my nephews to the same pool that routinely turned my hair green in summer.

I don’t wish I lived there again. It’s been about 14 years since I have, and I don’t have much affection for suburbs. But I do have a lot of affection for the people who live there, big and small.

A few highlights of the trip were:

Staying the weekend at Powers Lake, where a bumper crop of mosquitos could not ruin a family picnic or afternoon at the beach.

Playing with Jaden, Jonas, Austin and Phoebe. I learned from them about Black Mamba snakes, mysterious animal bones found in the lake, Lego functions and how to heal a toy giraffe with a broken leg.

Riding a bike past the cornfields and over rolling hills, with Lake Geneva sparkling in the distance.

Sharing music and crossword puzzles with my dad, eating fava bean bruschetta with my mom, chatting over wine and paint with my sister, fishing with my brother, and watching my grandma get a sweet young waiter to bring her free French fries.

There was a morning when my brother Pete and I went to buy bagels in a Jewish neighborhood, at a bakery that also sold churros and was staffed by Mexicans. These are the things that are cool about America.

And, ironically, bonding with complete strangers during my awful journey to Chicago, where after hours in the passport line and a long sit on the runway, my flight was cancelled due to storms and rerouted the next morning through Charlotte. 

People you meet while traveling form little snapshot friendships – you have a few hours (or more than a few) to know each other and open up. Then you move on. As long as your conversation is more interesting than the in-flight magazine, it’s a good one.

And yes, I shopped at Target.

But now I am really at home. It’s not because my stuff is here. It’s not where my friends live nearby or where I get my mail. It’s not philosophical question, and it’s an easy one to answer.

Home is where Brian is.