Homes Away from Home II: Part of the Family

(Did you miss Part 1? Read Homes Away from Home: Adventurous Accommodations)

My last view of Italy, through a smudged bus window, was the sight of two friends embracing, laughing through their teary eyes, as one bid farewell and one departed. I wish I could emphasize the moment with a sentimental image, like a flower blossoming or a piece of paper blowing in the wind. The reality, however, is that in that moment my eyes fell to the sidewalk where the stub of a large cigar smoked off the dirty pavement. Though it wouldn’t have been my choice, the old-fashioned litter of tobacco and embers nevertheless instilled its own vague impression of passing time, of things coming to an end.

For me, that bus ride to the Milan airport was both an ending and a beginning. The next stretch of my journey brought me to the cold, sweet-smelling air of Belgium. I seemed to be ever passing over the country where it all began, my first home-away-from-home...flying to Milan from London...to Brussels from Milan...taking the train from Brussels to London again.

But at last, I made my return to France. By the start of Christmastime, I stepped out onto the platform of the train station in the village in Burgundy where my friend and her family had hosted me for a homestay in high school. She was there to greet me — we laughed through our teary eyes, embracing — and she drove me home.

As we pulled up to her family’s house, she asked me what looked different from the last time I was there. I said that the color on the house seemed darker. She laughed and told me that that was the only thing that had stayed the same. They had planted new trees, which had grown quite a lot. But I hadn’t noticed those. Perhaps it was the winter light which made what was the same seem different than when I was there in summer.

When we entered the house, though it had been seven years since I was there, I still experienced that amazing sensation of feeling like I’d never left. So many little details once forgotten seemed so familiar, even — in a trick of the mind — expected. And most of all, the loving welcome of my friend and her family was just the same as it had been all those years before.

Christmas in France as a part of her family was the most wonderful, joyful time. They truly did take me in as one of their own; I had a name place at the dinner-table and in their hearts. (Forgive the cheesiness, but come on — it’s Christmas!) Our adventures were bountiful, from bringing home the most enormous tree you ever saw to visiting her sister (who is like a sister to me) and other family in the region of Alsace and seeing a variety of Christmas marchés. Even the little moments, like eagerly anticipating the next color in my friend’s nail-polish Advent calendar, sparkled.

Beyond the Christmas festivities, being a part of my French family’s daily life, in particular my dear friend’s, allowed me to “be” in a way that no traveler can ever “be.” We didn’t just attend a party together, I was there while the plans were being made and switched and altered and arranged. We saw a cookbook in a store...and then she got it for Christmas...and then we went on a grand grocery store hunt with her cousin for the ingredients to make the recipes. There’s no “travel hack” here. It is simply about the time spent together to truly fill up all the little moments of what it means to “be.” And to fill up travel time with these moments, with a friend, makes the place you visit come alive to you in an entirely different way.

There is one way for the tourist trekker to get a glimpse of such “being” in a faraway place. And I hope you’ll understand if I skip over the opportunity at a very obvious pun…

Yes, I’m talking about Airbnb. For some, traveling is all about the main attractions. But while I adore the Tour Eiffel in Paris or St. Paul’s in London as much as the next person, there is also infinite charm in living out the more mundane moments belonging to a place. While staying in the U.K., at an Airbnb in Reading, my host and I watched the Great British Baking Show together. It’s available to watch in the U.S., of course, but not while also sitting in a small British living room, visiting, and discussing Brexit in the terms of friends rather than newsreaders. At the end of my U.K. trip, I shared a lovely chat over tea with my host in Stratford-on-Avon, in which, when I mentioned seeing Antony and Cleopatra, she very memorably asked me “Is that the one where she completely disrobed?” and I responded, “No, it was the one that had a real live snake.”

In a shared apartment in Milan, the instruction “Don’t let the kitten out” proved a source for endless misadventures. At a family’s house in Belgium, as I walked through the hallway, the children of the place scurried away whispering, “Airbnb! Airbnb!” At the same house I helped let the chickens out and shut the coop at night; had long talks over “cheap beer” with the host; and was invited to a family crêpe dinner. In a guest house in the small, snowy fishing village of Otaru in Hokkaido, I sat with the couple hosting us in their living room near the space heater, phones out on the table, practicing each other’s native languages on Duolingo and sharing new words.

Making new friends is also a kind of home-away-from-home. Food is often a good introduction. One friend offered me an unwanted egg at breakfast, which led to a daylong downtown excursion and cursive lessons in a smokey coffee shop. Another friend sat with me in the shared kitchen area of a hostel, eating dinner and talking and getting along famously. It turned out I would be traveling soon to her home city. We met up there and she showed me some of her favorite places and we discovered new ones. We were like the two people in a movie, she said, who met each other only to leave again, then meet again. The people in the movie fell in love, but after all friendship is a kind of love. We met up twice in her city. The second time, she helped me to ride the bus to my last touristy destination, while she got off at one of the stops to make her way home. In my memory, I can still see her through the bus window, waving goodbye as it drove on. Missing friends is a kind of homesickness.

Another soon-to-be friend came into the kitchen of a hostel in Paris with a galette to share. We ended up having all sorts of adventures together, including meeting another new friend. We stood in line for ages on the “free museums” day to clamber to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, which made our native Paris friend laugh at herself for doing exactly what the Parisiennes usually make fun of...

...but man, what a view. We ventured into an artists’ atelier and discussed — either in earnest if we liked it or in jest if we didn’t quite get it — the many projects inside. On my birthday we had a final terrific night out, and she who introduced herself by sharing her galette treated me to a fantastic dinner, before my two new friends rode the metro with me to my last accommodations for the night in France...until they got off at one of the stops and I continued on.

Earlier that day I'd said farewell to my dear friend in France of so many years, after our final time together. In the evening we played a riotous round of a nostalgic video game. In the morning, she gave me a birthday present and baked me her signature chocolate cake. After she drove me to the metro station, we embraced, tears in our eyes, and I walked on with my heavy pack on my back and a heavy weight on my heart. Missing friends is the most poignant kind of homesickness.

At the beginning of the end of my eight-month adventure, I experienced another birthday party. It was an evening to celebrate the birthday of the guest house hostess; and it was a reunion of many students and travelers who had stayed there through the years. The atmosphere became a rush of excitement and love the moment the first guests walked in the door. I found myself accidentally joining in the chorus of Hisashiburi (long time no see) instead of Hajimemashite (nice to meet you). Although I hadn’t stayed in the house for very long, I could tell that being there would mean becoming a part of this family. Looking back, my mind fills once more with another teary goodbye...at the train station on the way to the airport...the last embrace of my journey from the final new friend I had made.

My journey seemed to often be marked by the cheer and sentiment of birthdays — including that of one of my longest and dearest of friends. I visited her in an unfamiliar new place, where she made a home with her determination and grace. We did quite a bit of exploring. One day we went far, far off the beaten path. Following the navigation on my phone GPS, we ended up on a road that would not have passed the regulations for a rollercoaster at a theme park. My friend, who was driving, bravely coasted down the narrow, winding, steep road — and when I say steep, I mean that I don’t know how the car didn’t flip over back-to-front on us. After a lot of half-panicked, half-humorous shouting, we made it to the end, only to realize that we had somehow passed our destination on the way. With all the courage of two people who were not going to be denied the reward they had fought so hard to earn, my friend drove back up the road until we got to the cute little coffee shop we were aiming for.

Beyond our adventures, some of our best times were spent in simple evenings together, playing card games and drinking sweet wine. We also spent a lot of time lost in the wonder of her beautiful young son just walking around and saying “Wow — wow” with his pure, childish joy. There really is no place on earth you can travel to that compares to such simple times.

When my visit ended and she drove me to the airport, my heart was once again so full but so heavy it could burst.

Having friends around the world is homesickness for a journey — for the journey that brings you to them. It’s also homesickness from that journey — for the journey that always, eventually, leads you on…in a perpetual state of missing.

But after spending time with so many wonderful friends, old and new — after being a part of the family — I wouldn’t have it any other way.