Milk
On a September evening more than three years ago, my father was dropping me off at my new place in Toronto, on a quiet, leafy street in Riverdale. It had been over a week since I'd moved from Calgary to go to school. The first few days were occupied with finding a room and exploring the city, while I stayed with my step-mother's parents. The day before, I'd moved into my place and went party and bar-hopping with my landlady's son, and his friends. After a final family visit to a great-aunt in Oakville, my father was returning to London. As I said goodbye and walked up the steps to the front door of my new house, the enormity of what I had done finally sank in. I had left home. I was in a city I barely knew, while nearly everyone I cared about was 2,000 miles away. It would be months before I'd see any of them again. I unexpectedly missed the things I'd never really appreciated about Calgary: the torrential rains of a prairie storm, the ghostly whistle of the C-Train as it sped off into the vast expanse of the suburbs, coming home to my apartment in Mission after work on a winter night.
It wasn't the first time I'd had that feeling. When I went travelling in Europe, more than a year and a half earlier, I'd felt it, too. After navigating through the mass of trains and tunnels from Gatwick airport to my room for my first night away from home, I dropped my bags on the floor and the reality sank in. It would be months before I saw anything familiar, and I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach. I put it out of my mind for the first week or two of my trip, as I lost myself in the excitement of discovering something new each day. But the feeling came back, stronger and more achingly, as I explored the cities of Anadalucia. I never completely got over that feeling when I was travelling, but it gradually faded. I still missed home a little, but by the end of my trip, I had learned how to travel, how to soak in a different city and how to appreciate the short friendships you make on the road.
Over time, my homesickness in Toronto faded, too. I made a lot of friends that first year, started writing for the school paper and gradually became more familiar with the city I'd committed four years of my life to. But until recently, I still doubted Toronto was really my home. Bar-hopping on Queen Street, I sometimes wish it was 17th Ave., and I could go around the corner to the Hop-in-Brew. Picking up a coffee on the way to work, I half-wish I was 16 again, stepping into the Planet on my way to school. Even now, there are moments I see something or think of a joke that I know only Julian or Billy or Alex or Chelsea or Jeff or Aislin would really appreciate.
On my fourth day in Halifax, I had the feeling again. After the initial thrill of exploring a new city and meeting new people had started to wear off, I was hit, again, with the reality that I was going to be here for six weeks. Suddenly, I missed everything about my life in Toronto. My house, my job, my friends and girlfriend. And somehow, I missed the little details the most: walking to the grocery store by Sadi's house to pick up food for dinner, getting off work late at night and taking the streetcar home, drinking in the back room at Ronnie's. Ever so subtly, Toronto had slid into Calgary's place. The memories I'd made there had become encoded in my brain, and I felt so comfortable, so at home there. I realised how many friends and how many good memories I'd made, and how unprepared I was to be apart from that.
But beyond those obvious things -- friends, good times -- there's something else that creates our sense of home. Something automatic and inherent in us that craves familiarity, and bonds us like glue to any place we stay.
The homesickness here has started to fade again. I've had a pretty good time at my internship, and I've had a lot of fun getting to know this city. But I'll still be glad to go home in a week. Strange to say, I guess, but Toronto really is my home.
It wasn't the first time I'd had that feeling. When I went travelling in Europe, more than a year and a half earlier, I'd felt it, too. After navigating through the mass of trains and tunnels from Gatwick airport to my room for my first night away from home, I dropped my bags on the floor and the reality sank in. It would be months before I saw anything familiar, and I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach. I put it out of my mind for the first week or two of my trip, as I lost myself in the excitement of discovering something new each day. But the feeling came back, stronger and more achingly, as I explored the cities of Anadalucia. I never completely got over that feeling when I was travelling, but it gradually faded. I still missed home a little, but by the end of my trip, I had learned how to travel, how to soak in a different city and how to appreciate the short friendships you make on the road.
Over time, my homesickness in Toronto faded, too. I made a lot of friends that first year, started writing for the school paper and gradually became more familiar with the city I'd committed four years of my life to. But until recently, I still doubted Toronto was really my home. Bar-hopping on Queen Street, I sometimes wish it was 17th Ave., and I could go around the corner to the Hop-in-Brew. Picking up a coffee on the way to work, I half-wish I was 16 again, stepping into the Planet on my way to school. Even now, there are moments I see something or think of a joke that I know only Julian or Billy or Alex or Chelsea or Jeff or Aislin would really appreciate.
On my fourth day in Halifax, I had the feeling again. After the initial thrill of exploring a new city and meeting new people had started to wear off, I was hit, again, with the reality that I was going to be here for six weeks. Suddenly, I missed everything about my life in Toronto. My house, my job, my friends and girlfriend. And somehow, I missed the little details the most: walking to the grocery store by Sadi's house to pick up food for dinner, getting off work late at night and taking the streetcar home, drinking in the back room at Ronnie's. Ever so subtly, Toronto had slid into Calgary's place. The memories I'd made there had become encoded in my brain, and I felt so comfortable, so at home there. I realised how many friends and how many good memories I'd made, and how unprepared I was to be apart from that.
But beyond those obvious things -- friends, good times -- there's something else that creates our sense of home. Something automatic and inherent in us that craves familiarity, and bonds us like glue to any place we stay.
The homesickness here has started to fade again. I've had a pretty good time at my internship, and I've had a lot of fun getting to know this city. But I'll still be glad to go home in a week. Strange to say, I guess, but Toronto really is my home.