I’m currently flying home from home. Confused? In case you missed my previous article The art of getting lost, you’ll notice we get a little existential here from time to time.
But first, let me rewind it a bit:
Early this year I travelled to Indonesia and spent some time in Gili T, one of three tiny islands known for their amazing diving spots, scenic honeymoon stays and car-less streets. Oh and mushrooms are legal, but you didn’t hear it from me. It’s also famous for a very laid back yet fun nightlife (you connect the dots now).
If you’re expecting a disastrous story about a drug-induced party, I’m afraid my story is even wilder: middle-aged British tourists taking over a karaoke bar. It’s no secret that they’re untamed and can easily turn your trip into a bad trip (pun totally intended).
Fortunately, we got lucky with the batch. They were friendly and only moderately drunk. After semi-screaming “Try” alongside a woman with a half-shaved head (who I later found out works as a P!nk impersonator – shocking), I sat downto sip on my Bitang while the intro of the next song started to play.
And like in every trip, the moment arrived: someone was about to sing Take Me Home, Country Road. Whether at a karaoke bar, during a bonfire by the sea or by a street musician with a guitar that’s missing a string, everyone who’s on the road has listened to this BANGER.
This time in particular, while taking a strategic break, I actually paid attention to the lyrics and was surprised to hear everyone was missing West Virginia, including myself, despite never having been there. There was something poetic about a group of strangers on the other side of the globe begging to be taken home, to the place where they belong.
“Where’s that then?” I immediately thought. Only to realize I wasn’t quite sure I could answer that question myself.
Despite having been born in Portugal, I’m currently living in Switzerland, after some time in Romania and France. By now, the feeling of having a home away from home is not totally strange. It’s the concept of home that never quite settles.
The dictionary has it as “one’s place of residence”. I also believe home is a place, but also a point in time, a person, a feeling, a view, a scent, a memory, a mix of all of these and none of them at the same time.
What has always bothered me about this concept is the underlying condition of stillness, the pre-conceived idea of comfort and the unconsented set of expectations that we don’t order but still gets delivered to our doorstep.
Some people are totally fine with that. They’re born, live, and die in the same place—and honestly? I kind of envy that certainty… Or the idea of having it. For others (like me), that means a lifetime quest for a definition of home and, for those even bolder, an actual place to call home.
I’ve often felt like a stranger at home, and at home while barefoot with a bunch of strangers in a karaoke bar on the other side of the world. Maybe it’s not places that ground us, but the fleeting connections that feel strangely familiar.
So at times, I wonder with despair if I’ll ever find a true home. At the same time, I wonder if perhaps I have never left home at all, because I carry it within me everywhere I go.
What does home feel like to youthese days? Asking for… well, myself.
And in the meantime, if you see my sense of belonging lying around somewhere, please send it back!
Sampai jumpa lagi!
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Still lost? Me too. Might as well get lost together.
- Follow the blog, The Art of Getting Lost, for more questionable travel decisions and deep existential thoughts disguised as funny stories.
- Come say hi (or invite me for food and good conversations) on Instagram: @hugofreitas_10
Warning: Following may result in spontaneous one-way ticket purchases and an irrational fear of itineraries.
