I decided on the Tuesday before Halloween: I was going to go home, and I was going to do it as soon as possible. I was sick as anything, and getting out of bed seemed like the world’s most daunting and horrible task. So I stayed in bed, moving only to get more Gatorade from the vending machine in the lobby of my building and looked at flights to Palm Beach International Airport.
I texted my mom with the intention to spring my idea upon her over the course of the conversation, but she was the one who suggested it. At first, she wanted me to come home Halloween weekend, to which I said that I’m sick, not on my deathbed. And I had already ordered my costume accessories on Amazon Prime. I would be getting that email from BU Dorm Mail any minute. There was no turning back now. The conversation then turned to the possibility of me coming home the weekend after Halloween, which I agreed to wholeheartedly.
So my flight was booked: 7 p.m. on November 7, I would be taking off from Boston to land three hours later in Florida, where it would be at least 30 degrees warmer and even more humid.
It was my first time navigating any airport on my own, never mind one as huge as Boston-Logan, and it was weird. It felt like I was being a pretend adult and playing a game up until the moment I landed in Florida. My dad was waiting for me at the baggage claim, and he pulled a classic Dad move and went the wrong way up the highway to get us back home. We finally arrived at my house – my real, actual house – at around 11:30 on Friday night. We’d pulled off the surprise. My sister jumped into my arms and didn’t let go, and we both cried, and it was exactly how I pictured it.
I was exhausted, but I didn’t want to go to sleep and risk missing out on even one second of being home. It didn’t matter that I’ll be home in two weeks for Thanksgiving anyway. I wanted to use my 48 hours here to the fullest.
Waking up in my very own bed was bizarre to say the least. My best friend kept asking me why I was being so quiet, but I really couldn’t tell her. It was just weird, being here, knowing that I’m a visitor instead of a resident. I went to my favorite cafe and had my favorite sandwich that I’ve missed dearly (and have tried to recreate many times at the Charles River Bread Co. to varying degrees of success), and walked around the mall, finding myself looking around in awe of the fact that I am actually here. It continued to feel like I was playing make-believe, a tourist in my own home.
I had made a schedule of places that I wanted to eat, and as I walked out of the restaurant we went for dinner on Saturday night, I found myself saying it before I even realized it was coming out of my mouth: “I miss Boston.”
I think my best friend was offended, as if I was somehow telling her that I would rather be in Boston than right there with her. That’s not the case, of course; there is no place I would have rather been, including Boston, than sitting at one of my favorite restaurants in Boca Raton with my mom, my sister and two of my best friends. But I still missed Boston, and I still felt weird. It felt like even though I was home, something was missing. There was this weird sense of “do I belong here anymore?” that I couldn’t shake. I realized that I don’t even know where home is anymore.
Laying in bed as Saturday night turned into Sunday morning, my mind started to wander, and I started to think about why I was feeling like this. Could I really have acclimated to Boston so quickly and irreversibly that Florida didn’t feel like home anymore? Why did it feel like home when I was talking to my mom or cuddling with my sister, but not when I was alone in my bed or walking around the mall?
Home, I’ve realized this weekend, is more than just my house, or more than just a place where I can shower without flip-flops on. Home is other people: my sister Lindsay and the massive, ten-minute-long hug she gave me when I walked in, my mother and how she cried a little bit when she saw me and it made me cry a little bit too, my best friend and how she kept on looking at me like she couldn’t even believe that I was real, and that we were right here, in Boca Raton, Florida, where all of our memories are, together.
Home is also my roommate and the sense of trust and understanding and love between us. Home is meeting my friend at the George Sherman Union for lunch every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Home is knowing that I can always retreat to my friends’ room on the 13th floor of Claflin Hall for a laugh or to de-stress. Home is a sense of belonging, and I am incredibly lucky to have found that in so many places and people.
(I’m still kind of dreading having to go back to dining hall food until Thanksgiving though).
