make your eye a nomad,
go up to churches and strange
cathedrals in the midday heat
of a weekday and press your face
against the windows. Act like this
toward every part of your city,
like an infidel, a barbarian,
like someone deliberately lost.
Forget how to speak. Enter
the restaurants and order
the strange names with gestures.
Taste those alien words like fruit,
like the fruits of another planet
on which you are marooned,
these fruits which may bring death,
or visions, or eternal youth.
– from Cities of Rain by Robert McKay
I remember hearing 'To be a tourist in your own city' six years ago at the #Burlington Book Festival, after having a chat with Robert McKay himself about his quirky writing methods. Ever since then, I will occasionally remind myself that old places are just as exciting as new ones. I felt this sense of familiar dissection when I returned home to Connecticut for the holidays.
I haven't had time to blog for a couple weeks due to the hectic traveling and family time, but I did have time to write in my journal while relaxing in a hometown cafe. There are no excuses for not writing! I simply saved my thoughts for later. The following is my ink transcribed to Times New Roman - or whatever font this is.
I passed by tearful parents and lovers at the TSA checkpoint with a triumphant grin. Finally, after a dozen heart-wrenching farewells at the Dublin Airport, I was walking hand-in-hand with my husband to 'visit' family in Connecticut. We fantasized about this day for so many years. Luckily, neither of us were probed or retained by security! A smooth sail through the uniformed terrorist-catchers led us to the #AerLingus plane where we sat side by side. During the flight, we synchronized two movies (#Incredibles2 and #GoodWillHunting) and had an end of flight fight about who gets to eat the second brownie. I lost.
When you return home, everything is the same as you left it - except for the season and the old apple tree that finally met its demise. Home is where even the bare winter trees hug and enclose you on a gray day; it is the familiar traffic lights that always turn red too fast and the stop sign that reminds you that 'today is a gift.'
I am in the depths of a vacation within a vacation. A few blog posts ago I was sitting in a Dublin eatery, pondering home. Now, I am 5,000 km to the east, sitting in Cafe Sol - a cozy spot in a seaside town - and sipping #MightyLeaf green tea. I am in a satisfied state after devouring a toasted multi-grain sandwich stuffed with roasted veggies and hummus - and I'm not sure I want to ever leave again. The sidekick of the day: tri-colored Greek pasta salad and a sour pickle. Both cafes I have written in emit a different atmosphere conducive for the creative flow. The music in this cafe isn't the #Beatles, but rather a calming playlist of Lily & Madeleine. The chatter isn't foreign voices, but rather familiar New England banter about the ski slopes in New Hampshire. Local abstract art decorates the walls for viewing pleasure and writing prompt ideas. One painting in particular catches my eye. Framed beside the bathroom door is another 'Cafe Sol,' but the caption tells me it is one in Dublin. I smile.
I am beginning to notice that people here are friendlier and more giving than I previously thought. I believe this comes from the 'tourist' perspective that I now have, and should always carry. I suppose as humans we have a tendency to assume the grass is always greener on the other side. But my suspicion is that the grass can be green on both sides.
As the poem I opened this blog with suggests, we forget to look at the place we grew up in with excited eyes. It's not until you're thrown into a new home and develop new habits (and boy is that hard!) that you drive to all your old haunts with a travel-luster's eyes. Memories are attached to the landscape. When you see the Eiffel Tower, you are thrilled and when you visit the Cliffs of Moher you are on top of the world...but where are the memories?
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