Home is where I might go

A home is a Goliath and I am 5ft 4. Instead of saving for a house deposit to fit congruously with my mother’s Facebook feed of brags , I moved 4,389 miles away.

At 28, I’ve moved 21 times. I’m not sure why I cannot stay still. The walls start to turn yellow, I panic and move. I want the window to open, to hop on a breeze, and leave. And for the 21st time, I think I might.

I moved to Vancouver. I visited Vancouver two years ago on a holiday and I fell in love. All of my “better-life” scenarios could be lived here. I could stroll along the beach at sunset admiring the North Van mountains from afar and decide which I might hike next, all the while smoking a joint, legally. And I have.

But the wonder and wander of a sejour can end.

Experiencing a place and living in a place is a very different thing. I went to Crete last year with my sister, her partner and mine, it was the best holiday. Together we experienced, indulged and bathed ourselves in a culture that wasn’t our own. We fought, but barely. I’ve been told you don’t really know someone until you’ve been on holiday with them. For some reason, holiday (a contextual noun) allows for home behaviour to come out, and explore beyond the grey.

I’m on holiday. I assume the position as someone in a foreign country without a job. I wish I was in Europe. Needless, I would give lung for a smoking area. Not a cornered 6-metre from the entrance smoking area, I mean a Ulster Sports Club trotting into the- overcrowded-alley-barely-getting-the-chance-to-smoke smoking area.

But, I digress. I moved to Vancouver I suppose to escape a life. To leave behind a stationary life. I have an amazing community of friends in Belfast, and I will hold onto them for as long as they keep texting me back. But I was stuck.

I could’ve moved back to London. London is another question mark that I may answer but not now. No, we moved to Canada. We moved to Canada and it’s beautiful. It’s so beautiful I can barely hear my lungs speak. We moved to Vancouver, and you can tell I’m still adjusting by now.

Now, I live here, I can’t believe it. And I miss home.

Everything tastes bad, everyone sounds bad and everything feels bad.

That’s not true. That’s how I feel. Most things still taste bad, no one sounds bad and not much feels bad now, not really.

I’ve moved 21 times, and now it’s continental. I have not found a home in a house but I’m finding it in other things. I’m running towards it.