I really had no idea where I was. Somewhere between Boston and New York, but that’s not saying much. I knew the general geography, but here on the highway, on a bus, I couldn’t tell where I was. There were generic things on the sides of the highway: Bed Bath & Beyond, Kohl’s. I saw a store named Romantic Depot which sat directly in front of one named Screws & More. (No kidding.)
I was between places. Nowhere.
I don’t really fit in in Boston. I like to visit Evie, but I’d never want to live there. Georgia will always be home, but I never quite fit there either. And sitting on the bus, I wondered if I fit in in New York. I wondered if it felt like home or if it ever would.
As the suburban landscape shifted, and we were surrounded by boxy buildings with light-square windows, I tried to gauge my emotions, just as I do every time I fly in or out of the city and crane as long as possible to see the Manhattan skyline. To see if it feels a part of me.
Do I feel ownership of the old Yankee stadium or even the new one? How does it feel to be in Harlem, where the streets become numbered and orderly? I’ve bought a sandwich at that grocery store, is that comforting? How does Columbus Circle make me feel?
I reached no conclusion. Home is a slippery concept.
But I can’t help thinking that if I can just make sure I’m in the right place everything else will just work out.