Home. Quite literally, a place of permanent residence; a place that is comfortable; a place that belongs to you just as much as you belong to it.
In about one week, I'll be going home for the first time in al-most two months. Needless to say, I'm excited.
Fall Break offers itself to me as a moist morsel of mid-term relief and respite. A chance to catch up on all the hours (perhaps, by this time, days?) of sleep that have been sacrificed for late night Wawa raids and/or a few more meaningful minutes of heart-to-heart with my new mates in 1942. It'll be an opportunity to sleep in a bed that I can actually roll over in, and a chance for me to shower without wearing sandals (and the fears of catching fungal diseases).
I'll finally be able to fulfill my overwhelming craving for cheap, greasy El Tarasco-made salsa and enchiladas. The weather won't jump from sweltering to that of the South Pole on a daily basis, and the leaves (or, should I say "palm fronds?") will once again be green. My car will finally come out of dust-ridden hibernation to drag me past my old schools and Scooter's Records and Live Oak Park and the Pier and all the other places that make "home" just that — home.
My dogs will sniff the air and bark lovingly at my scent, while my parents will turn their noses up at it. The rest of my family will be glad to see me and will ask me numerous unanswerable questions about "The East Coast" that I still won't have the answers to. Most importantly, though, my girlfriend will get the goodnight kiss she's been waiting for all this time.
And yet, while a smile races to my face when I think about my upcoming trip home, I can't help but be a little nervous, too. Well, actually, nervous isn't really the right word.
Interested. Interested to see what thoughts and emotions come crashing into my head and heart as I walk down the airport terminal and into my mom's once oh-so-familiar arms. Will it all still be the same?
Will I remember what the streets look like in October? Will the sights and sounds of Los Angeles' concrete jungle feel as foreign as Princeton's lush Prospect Garden once did? Will I still be able to rush up the stairs in the dark? Will my room feel bigger than before? More importantly, will it still feel like my room?
We've been gone a long time. For me, these two months mark the longest I've ever been away from my humble suburban bubble of Manhattan Beach, Calif. It has been a time rife with sadness and feelings of extreme loneliness. I've come back from long lectures many a day to my single and realized that nothing is familiar here; no one is on the same page as me. At times, I've raced to this page to hash out some sort of sanity, to remember why I'm here (the learning stuff, remember?).
It has also been a time doused with the wonderment of new experiences. I've often come back to my room in amazement that a new friend, from a whole different background and culture, is into the same exact things as me. I've finally seen trees with golden, red, (Princeton) orange and whatever else colored leaves. I've walked through and around and past buildings that were built centuries before I was, and I haven't even thought twice. I've realized what it's like to be the dumbest kid in my class, and I'm better because of it.
Through it all, I have survived, which is no small feat. Save my years as a toddler, I've learned more about the world around me and the way that I fit in it over these last two months than at any other time in my life.
When I got here, I was sure that I would never be able to live out here on my own, that my life could not possibly go on without any connection to my past by my side. Soon, though, somewhere between "Dad, what does Bounce do?" and "Why can't you mix lights and darks, again?" I was actually doing my own laundry, eating my meals at Wu and setting my own hours of study, play and sleep. I was living on my own.
Much to my surprise, somewhere along the way, I've begun to get used to life out here on the East. In many respects, this place has become quite comfortable. In many respects, this place — this "Princeton" — has begun to feel like (gulp) home.
So where does that leave me when I get off the plane? Am I home? Am I "just visiting?" And, if so, am I "just visiting" Manhattan Beach, or Princeton? Or, perhaps, neither one is "home" anymore. I don't really know.
They say that "home is where the heart is." If so, it must be said that California will always be where my heart resides. These two months have taught me that much for sure. But, as much as I hate to admit it, Princeton's paws are beginning to dig in and find a home in me.
Slowly but surely, this place is growing on me like mold. And, you know what? I'm not entirely sure that I don't like it.
Alfred Brown is a freshman from Manhattan Beach, Calif. His columns appear periodically in 'Campus Notebook.' He can be reached at aebtwo@princeton.edu.
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