And where is home?
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Last week, a friend and I went to The American Library in Paris to hear Deborah Levy speak about memory, the strong imagery she uses in her books, and her creative process. “Wisdom is boring,” she stated when speaking of her “living autobiographies,” which were memoirs she had written as they were happening in the moment. In her eyes, it it much more interesting to make mistakes, to play with form. Towards the end of the program, many of us lined up to have our books signed, and when it was my turn, I asked how she was liking Paris in the autumn. She asked if I had been living here long, and when I said one year, she asked, “And where is home?” knowing that one year was far too short for a new city to be fully considered home.
Where is home, at least for the meantime? This seems to be something I’ve been searching for since I’ve left Manila. Thinking about this topic, a date not too long ago comes to mind. He wasn’t bad-looking, but there was something about him that was rather off-putting. Perhaps it was because he seemed to agree to everything I said. Or the fact that he was too direct about wanting to potentially spend the night together. I still continued talking to him nonetheless, curious to pinpoint what exactly it was that bored me about him. It was when we were walking along Avenue Simon Bolivar—the long, winding street that connects the Buttes Chaumont neighborhood in the 19th arrondissement to the animated Belleville in the 20th, with its lineup of trees that hint that the park is not far away, its friendly residents—when I realized what it was. I asked if he liked the neighborhood and he curtly replied, “No, not really.” While he had every right to dislike it, as some people might prefer the constant hubbub of central Paris, it was his haughty laugh that followed that told me he wasn’t even going to give the neighborhood a chance. Many people I knew, locals especially, made comments about how lucky I was to be living here. When I first moved to Paris, I didn’t get it either, but then, as always, curiosity eventually encourages you to explore different areas, leading you to the neighborhood you’re supposed to be in, at least for the duration of what was agreed on in your current rental contract. And so we parted ways before the metro. “You’re sure?” he asked, to which I replied, a little haughtily, “Yes, I’m sure,” and then I walked the rest of the way back with a smile on my face, relishing the charm of my surroundings and the last few weeks of summer in those precious five minutes. On that particular evening towards the end of the summer, I realized that it was one of the first times the neighborhood felt like home.