I had an interesting conversation with a friend several nights ago, in my cramped efficiency apartment (but that's irrelevent, just a little information on the status of my current environment). She is going through this period of intense thought concerning romantic relationships, and was equating the way a particular man makes her feel with the way the Sistine Chapel makes her feel. According to her, there are certain things in life that just unzip us and make us go "ploosh" (her terminology, not mine, though I think it works). I was intrigued by the comparison, and posed this question to her: does she distinguish between the love she can have for a place and the love she can have for a person? Or is it the same kind of love?
After several silent moments, she decided that--to her--they are the same. She quickly followed this up by explaining that not many places do make her feel this way (just as not many people would make us feel this way... that's why people are widely monogomous, I think). But sometimes, as with people, certain places can just "click," feel like home, automatically, on the first visit.
I have yet to find a place that does this to me. I tend to rely on other people for my home, not my surroundings, but then again I have never been to Florence (the place that my friend considers her home even though she's only lived there for one year out of her 22). I've only cried for leaving a place once; all the rest, I cry for people that I am leaving behind. The one time I did actually cry for leaving a place was when I returned to England after staying in Northern Ireland for 2 weeks. The connection was intense, but I'm aware that other factors beyond beauty and sheep were at work. I had been studying in England for the past few months, was the farthest from my family in Ohio that I have ever been, and during these 2 weeks in Northern Ireland I was suddenly part of a family again. I was staying with my friend Johnny and his three brothers, his dad, and his mom, and it was during Easter, so I even took part in their family holiday traditions (which pretty much boiled down to throwing eggs at one another in the back yard). So even though I thought, as I wiped away tears in the airport, that I was crying for Northern Ireland, I think now that I was crying for everything that it stood for. Which maybe is what home is all about.
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
