To end this year my hubby decided to take me to Sweden, in a place where he grew up and spent his childhood. Here I am now sitting in my in-laws home, with the view outside couldn’t be more ravishing— line of trees covered by white frosted snow. Captivated view that my eyes have never been captured before. The aromatic hot tea sits perfectly on the desk, ready to sip. Whilst the fragrant smell of my mother in-law cook is dancing seductively in the air.
My mind is sleepwalking. I remember asking a friend with a classic question: “where is home?” A tricky question for people who love travelling—for whatever reason they have to justify it; business or pleasure. A question that my hubby fails to answer.
When I flew here to Sweden, I read a witty article of Pico Iyer—a renowned travel writer—about what (or where) is home for a frequent traveler like him. It fascinates me, on how he sees or describes a term called “home”. Where is home?
As far as my memory could travel, I have always wanted to come to England. I think it was because my uncle once posted in Indonesia Embassy in London, and my parents had opportunity to visit him at that time. Then, the tale of the Great britain was begun. It wasn’t London that beckoned in my heart and mind, but it was Cambridge—the Isaac Newton’ dearest city.
One summer day I flew all the way to Cambridge, by my self, clueless and yet excited. I was around 20 at that time. I reckon it was my first soul fulfilling travel experience. I stayed with a lovely family with twins—a boy and a girl, around 15 minutes away from the city centre. With the warm English welcome, Andrew, my house father, then took me around Cambridge. He showed me how to get my course place, where the city centre is and beyond. I was jet lagged and yes I couldn’t care less. All I wanted was to shut my eyes. “This is a small loveable city, you won’t find it hard to like it,” he said.
As predicted I was lost on my second day, couldn’t find my way to my house parent’s house. I cycled round and round, trying to find some familiar clue or something that registered on my peanut brain, and failed. I sat on a park’s bench and tried to calm myself down. I looked around with perplexed feeling. I suddenly missed so called home, a place miles away across the continent. Where everything is familiar and mundane. I tried to hold my tears, and searched the fireworks within. It was the first time I appraised the word “home” .
After a phone called, Helen—my house mother— picking me up with the twins. She smiled with arms wide opened, offering a big hug. My tears dropped. Came out, the house just stone away from the park where I sat. I missed one turn. Soon as we got home Helen made me hot tea with milk and fresh homemade pancake. It made me better, instantly. On my second day at Cambridge, indeed it wasn’t as divine as I thought it was. It wasn’t because of the city, it was because of my distress weary heart.
It didn’t take long time for me to make up the horrendous day at Cambridge, with warmth-hearted family I stayed with, everything was painless. My global experienced was widen by I happened to make friends with Sarah, an attractive girl from Belgium, alluring Japanese girl Saori, Francesco from Italy and Carsten from Germany. The connection was linked by English—a language we learnt on that summer days. After years and years the picture when we were punting together around University river seems vivid—the greenish colour of the water, the medieval building that never fails to captivate me and the breeze that freshen up our burnt out soul. We were just laying on that punt, simmering down. Composed. Then, somehow I felt home. At that point I could no longer begin to say what is home and what is ‘abroad’.
As Pico Iyer said home is essentially an idea we carry round with us, redefining at every instant. It has less and less to do with piece of soil, and more and more to do with what might be called as a piece of soul. I have always said and thought that Yogyakarta—city where I born and grew up was my ‘home’, there is my parent’s house, a vast concrete building that protect me from rain, storm and heat. There is my room in which I hide or lock into every time I feel blue. But then I realised, it wasn’t because of that bricks building that is older than me that makes me feel home, instead the presence of my mother, father and brother and even my childhood teacher that makes my heart’s content. It is the soul that build a home, not the soil.
I happened to come back to the Great Britain again and again, until one and a half year ago I decided to move in. Somehow this country knows how to make its presence distinct. I met my Albanian husband at the North part of the UK, and thus we thought it is a good place to start the ‘familyhood’ in a place that is familiar for both of us. Undeniable, we all avoid the strangeness. Things that are mundane are more accessible and friendly. We tend to seek comfort. Yet, it takes time to call the neighbourhood as “home” It takes a year to get to know well who live next door, to create longer conversation—more than “hi, are you alright?” I (instead) somehow feel at ease everytime I switch on my 13 inch MacBook Pro, log in to my Skype account and seeing my dearest friends online, whilst my hubby’s voice from the other room composes calmness.
As the year gone by, and I realise that UK is not our final destination as well, I then have chosen not become to attach to any place, anyone—part of family, and basically anything at all. I don’t want to fail myself to adapt with the uniqueness that different places have to offer. My mother has to eat rice everywhere she goes. She will say she hasn’t eaten if it is not rice; even when she just had bread or pasta. And I know many people do the same thing. I try not to—an attempt to embrace its peculiar culture or even habit.
One autumn day, I sat with a friend over cappuccino, his life exists in his Dunhill luggage. He travels loads. By the end of the day we both come to agreement; home is where your heart belongs. It is on Skype, where I can chat and see my family and friends, it is on Paolo Coelho’s books where I can feel inspired, it is in a cup of fine tea in which calm me down, it is in my hubby’s voice that always lighten up my day, and yes it is in English language that most of the time save me wherever I stand on this planet Earth. Home it is.
*Copied this from my old blog. A note from 2010-2011
An awkward winter greets. With no snow, and above five degree Celcius temperature. Strong wind that reminds me it is winter time. Those stack of woods burn on the fireplace creates an aromatic scent. I love. This earl grey in transparent mug never leave my right hand. Tea and I. Like always. Some things are remain the same, regardless seasons oddity. Earl grey and the memory of you.
Warwick sky early autumn 2011
….and then i realised, time when i miss you most. at some foreign land. when your shadow seems more real than any other day. when i need something mundane… you. linger… twisting in my mind. sequences of your smiles… your chats. heart navigates on its own way. directing towards you… in other foreign land.. with that exotic aromas. of herbs.. of chai.. of your woody aramis perfume. struck on my senses. chills. this very heart of mine, longing your bright blue eyes.
Travel is the simple chance of reinventing ourselves at new places where we are nobody but a stranger.
Travel is the discovery of what and who we miss the most.
Travel is the same pair of jeans for a week and different experiences every day.
Travel is finding new things and new people to miss.
Travel is discovering the part of yourself that you never knew existed before.
Travel is that one song in your iPod that will forever remind you of that one sexy afternoon somewhere.
Travel is the discovery of who misses us the most.
Travel is answering the question ‘business or pleasure’ without blinking.
Travel is deciding who will be the last call before you take off and the first call after you landed.
Travel is a test of your physical and emotional tolerance.
Travel is a one hour conversation that could lead to a lifelong friendship.
Travel is that one boarding pass you keep in your wallet to remind yourself one day when you’re gray and old that you were once cool.
Travel is waking up in a strange bed and feeling home and waking up in your own bed one day and feeling like a stranger.
It’s learning not to take every second for granted.
Travel is learning that the journey is as memorable as the destination.
Travel is discovering that random act of kindness does exist.
Travel is learning to communicate with just a smile.
Travel is not wanting to sleep because for once reality is more interesting than your dream.
Travel is not being afraid to fall in love with a complete stranger.
Travel is where broken English is welcomed with a wide smile instead of greeted by a grammar nazi.
Travel is where people that you talk to really try to understand what you’re trying to say.
Travel is finding out more reasons to write. And more reasons to live.
Travel, sometimes, is the rediscovery of our nationalism.
Travel is that one stranger across the street you will always wonder if he/she is your soul mate.
Travel is wearing those clothes you couldn’t wear back home.
Travel is realizing the things you cannot live without.
Travel is realizing that maybe you know nothing.
Travel is wearing a stranger’s jacket and feeling home.
Travel is meeting you.
yes i do. how are you ?
things are still the same here, me… who always try hard to create witty conversation just to impress you. i want to be at the same level with those women around you… and beyond. i want to be special. i try hard.
there were days we knew we long for each other. remember?
i still do.
what if, if you showed up that day ? or if i had enough courage to knock at your door?
i miss you. at a time like this, i miss you more.
I miss my characters. You know I write this novel, and yes due to my intolerance laziness I have been absence writing for.. God knows how long. It feels like broke up with your bf or gf through sms… There’s unfinished business that somehow haunting me. I miss them. Whenever I write about them I feel in love… I feel like I have an affair. Yes I do enjoy the creativity process of writing. The madness, the stress, the frustration, the jitter. Perplexed indeed. I don’t know why I even stop writing it.
Perfection kills. Seriously. It holds us back. Thus, I never finish whatever I started. Shame, eh?
Winter is coming. This time id for real, I mean the temperature is getting low and low now. I won’t be surprise if the snow falls next week. Hibernate. Best time to write again. Please God help me to finish my novel. Please brain be good.
Autumn leaves in Edinburgh
