Home.
Nothing standard here
Today’s blog post is inspired by words that are not my own. In fact, I took them verbatim from my friend and yoga teacher, Fiona.
On Tuesday, after Fiona’s energizing “rocket” yoga class, I sat around a Scandinavian-inspired table at one of my favorite Hamburg bars, The Standard. With a minimal and stylish atmosphere and artfully-plated appetizers and light bites appearing as soon as you order a cocktail, The Standard is my kind of bar. As I relaxed at the wooden table, in my post-yoga glow surrounded by friends, candlelight, and a lovely glass of red wine, Fiona casually said, “This feels like home!”
The three of us girls (me, Fiona, and Sylvia) proceeded to discuss how we’d come to establish a sense of home in Hamburg, a place we’d all relocated to rather recently. To all of us, that definition of home is a bit different, but it got me thinking this week, as I stressed out about packing, cleaning, and organizing the one million insurances for my new home, about how important that feeling of home is.
In actuality, my current flat doesn’t really feel like home, and I think I accepted that a few weeks ago. But what’s striking about this realization is that I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because there are so many other elements to the word “home.” Home to me, is my standing Friday night dinner plans with my best friends Josh and Fabi, where we drink slightly too much wine and discuss everything from politics to profile pics. Home to me is spontaneously hopping in the car of my friend Janka and riding off to hike in the flower fields in Lüneberger Heide, feeling awe-inspired at this piece of calm so close to the city. And home is that moment, post-yoga, around a table with friends, just being.
And as I realized this, I let out the most massive, figurative exhale after weeks of anxiety surrounding my apartment hunt, relationship mess, and overall uncertainty. Wherever I land, it will feel like home, because I’ve put such work and energy into this life of mine in Hamburg, that whether it’s 40 square meters or 40 square inches, the walls will be filled with love, laughs, and wine-stained smiles. It’s time for me to let go of the tightly-pulled reins I try and saddle on everything in my life, and just be.
Because those moments at The Standard, sipping Primitivo and spilling ideas are my “living room” feeling, cuddled on the couch. Friday night dinners with Josh and Fabi are the heart of my week, just like the kitchen of any home. And day trips, bike rides, and runs in the park are the paintings, colorful rugs, and decorative vases that add flair and character to my structured, organized life.
So, literally, I may be a few days away from my dream home. But if I’ve learned anything from this past month, it’s that home has nothing to do with an address or a name on a mailbox (though having my name on the mailbox of my new place is something I’m quite looking forward to). I’ve lived everywhere from a Manhattan shoebox, to a Portuguese grotto, to a floating mega-ship and yet somehow, in Hamburg, Germany, I now understand the meaning of home. And funny enough, faced with mountains of paperwork to properly live here, I’m realizing it has nothing to do with Hamburg and everything to do with me.
Me, putting in the work to find friends who inspire me and workout classes that challenge me. Me, committing to language lessons and daring myself to enter an environment twice a week, where I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing (my poor German teacher…). And me, accepting that, for once, I don’t have all of the answers. And I could be wrong, but I’d say it’s that beautifully delicate balance of self-assuredness, curiosity, and inspiration that I hope everyone finds, much moreso than a great color palette for their living room or pinboard for their patio.
Because, honestly, without my self-confidence, optimism, and my incredible community of friends all over the world, these past few weeks would have swallowed me up for dinner, like the homemade arugula pesto at The Standard.
Home is not an address. It’s a feeling.
And man-oh-man, it’s great to be home.
Thanks, Fiona. And everyone else who’s helped me weigh the pros and cons of studios, answered the phone for late-night chats (I’m lookin’ at you, Sinah), and written cute German-isms to prospective landlords when all I could mutter was “Vielen Dank.” I only hope I can return the feeling of home to you someday…