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Monday, October 21, 2002 This morning: got out of bed, took a look out the dining room window, saw that the thermometer read 26 degrees. (Aiiiieeee!!) When I pulled the car out of the garage a short time later, light snow had begun falling. (Aiiiiiieeeeee!!!) To the north, the valley was obscured by a white curtain of snow showers that moved this way. (Aaaiiiiiiieeeeeee!!!!!) Luckily, I was about to head south to Montpelier, so mounted up and bolted, taking back roads above which sun and clouds duked it out, light snow or sleet occasionally coming down. October 21. Snow. Not so unusual in these parts, these parts being northern Vermont. Still, a bit of an adjustment. In Montpelier: went to the gym, picked up airline tickets to Madrid, my return now officially happening on Dec. 2. (Yee-ha!) I'll readily confess that I love being up here in these green mountains, and that seeing this autumn (heading toward winter) landscape whenever I look out the windows is quite a backdrop to the passing days. I've gotten tons of work done, something I often find more difficult to do in Madrid, where there's so much distraction available. But the change will be good, and it'll feel great to be back in the city that feels like a home to this heart of mine. Not the only home, but one of them. Home: an idea that's been a bit of an issue for me in this lifetime -- what does it mean, what does and doesn't feel like it. Growing up I got pulled back and forth between Long Island and upstate New York, on the Hudson north of Albany -– every year from the time I was four, creating a sense of never settling in anywhere. On top of which, my family felt more like a place I was serving time than home. After high school, I began moving all over eastern New York –- even at university, in Binghamton, my residences changed with the frequency of a cheap ham radio. I moved to Seattle for a while three years, retreated back to New York, first upstate, then to the Apple itself. Zipped out to L.A. two years later, lasting less eighteen months before returning back to upstate New York. Sis months later found me relocating to Cambridge, Mass., where I stayed for most of the next 20 years, the first few of which consisted of the same old M.O.: changing residences on a regular basis. And then something began to settle down. Cambridge came to feel like home, maybe the world reflected that back to me. I actually found an apt. where I remained for eight years, a dive on Mass. Ave., between Central and Harvard Squares. That eight years continuous years in one living space remains the record for me. Next: West Cambridge, where I shared a flat with my best friend for a year and a half. From there I found another third-floor joint, this time in North Cambridge, living there for nearly six years. During that last period, I got this place here in northern Vermont, then found my way to Madrid, life veering around between all that -- not a mode of living I ever would have predicted for myself, much less thought possible. I've known people whose lives have been different from that model. My landlords in N.Y.C. lived on that street their entire lives, the wife in the same building. All her life. (In contrast to me: born in New York but out of there at the six-month mark.) Up here it seems fairly common that there's real continuity in where one physically lives their life. My downhill neighbor (neighbor being a relative term in these parts, his house way downhill, across the gravel road), Mo, comes from a family that's lived in East Calais for generations and, apart from his years in the service, he's lived in this town his entire life. Married, in fact, for 50-some-odd years, most of which have been spent in that little house. In Spain, that's more the norm. People grow up in the same place, rooted in the community and in a strong network of family and friends. That seems to be changing, post-Franco, as the country has become more connected with the world at large, but most Spaniards I've met have remained in the same city, the same neighborhood they grew up in, and if they do relocate for some reason, they generally maintain strong ties with family/original community. What's remained constant for me through most of the moving around has been a feeling of the northeast U.S. being home, becoming more specific to New England as time passed. L.A. never fit, though it was an interesting place to experience for a while. Seattle gave me a lot, but never felt like home. Cambridge fit the bill for a while, but so many elements in my situation there changed so drastically with time, along with huge changes in the city itself during that 20 year period, that the sense of home gradually faded. And then I went to Madrid, expecting nothing like what happened. So. Home: New England? Madrid? Somewhere else? Got me. There are ways in which Madrid currently comes closest, in that sense of a place that connects with one in deep, almost inexpressible ways. I'll be curious to see what it's like being back. As it becomes more and more of a world-class city, Madrid, like Cambridge, is undergoing massive changes. But then everything changes, always. That also remains constant, at least in my little world. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's a lovely evening here. The sun's gone down behind the trees to the west of the house, across the valley its last light -- bright orange -- continues to shine on the higher reaches, what's left of the autumn colors showing clearly across the ridges. I threw on a coat, went outside for a walk, and as I'm wandering around I'm thinking Damn, it's cold! After a while, I realize that it feels like winter out there -- genuinely chilly, the air clear and crisp. When I came back inside I checked the thermometer. 5:30 p.m., the evening just coming on, and the temperature is already 30 degrees (-1 centigrade). Northern Vermont: it's beautiful. I love it and all that. But this is really pushing it. rws 3:50 PM [+] |