The first night in a new house is a funny one. I have moved 22 times in my life (thank you, crazy Egyptian landlords) and spent "the first night in a new bed" over a hundred times. But it's different when you know that the four walls that surround you will be "home" from now on. You feel anything but home and find it hard to believe that in a few short weeks, you'll know nothing else. Last night, I went to a new bed once again. And it is mine from now on. When I'm away, I will miss that bed. I will miss the new closet that holds all my things that I hated just yesterday. Soon the ridiculous road noise will not bother me anymore. And finally, the strangers in the hallway will hopefully become friends. But when does it happen: when does "a room" become "home"?
I have lived in a fair share of dumps. For the majority of my adult life living alone, I had no money whatsoever. Location, furniture, amenities and flatmate suitability were criteria I had to forego if the price was right. The most drastic experiences were places in Egypt where I shared the rooms with various insects and a pile of dust at all times because I couldn't afford a place with sealed windows (and in case you think it doesn't get cold in Egypt, I curse you for your ignorance). Coming from a warm family home growing up, where mother sets the heating timer on extra hours in the winter, moving out was an experience of realizing privilege: this warmth was normality until a snow storm hit Scotland and my room there had a crack in the window. I slept with four coats, gloves and a beanie.
Yet, the day that I left each of these places, I stopped in the doorway and looked at the times that I've had there. Once, I got evicted by a crazy Egyptian landlady after just three weeks because some rich folks had offered her a better rent price for our abode. In those three weeks I had managed to put up my fairy lights, scent the place with my candles and, most importantly, get excited about finally having a refuge from the crazy. Every time I leave a place, it hurts a little. I often compare the experience to creating a horcrux, just in positive: if you've done or experienced something fantastic next to an object, it will assume some of your soul. After living happily in a bunch of rooms, the rooms take mine.
So where does it happen? I walked into a barren room last night without any charm. The previous tenant had taken all her character bits (except for a bra and an advent calendar behind the dresser) and left an empty shell for me to fill with my stuff. I took a few minutes to deliberate where each piece of furniture should go. This morning I already hated the arrangement; I had made the wrong decision. Then I started filling the room with my fairy lights, candle holders, clothes and things to survive. As the vicious mess slowly became an organized one, I felt that it would be hard to make this space feel like my last one in Cambridge (no place will ever be this good). It will just have to become another one.
Once everything is in the place I have designated for it, new habits can start. I will no longer reach for my brush in the drawer of my desk because I no longer have a desk. This habit seems wrong at first because I'm used to having my brush in the drawer. And hence, the first few days will not feel like home because, at home, my brush used to be in the drawer. But a brush will find a new home. So will all of my other stuff. I no longer have an ensuite, so I now have to grab a robe at night to go pee. That obviously doesn't feel like home. Being naked does, not thinking about who's waiting for the shower to be free, having a brush in the shower. Once these habits have changed, I'm home. The good news is: that happens fairly quickly.
No comments:
Post a Comment