A few days ago, a friend of mine asked me what I was missing about home. I responded by sending her a list of the first six things that popped into my head. Little did I know she was asking to try and suss out what I would like sent over for Christmas, so the list I sent was completely useless (please find a shortened and annotated version below).
Throughout my travels, I’ve been jotting down lists: Things I’ve Lost, Countries Visited, Books Read, etc. What I realized when my friend messaged me, was that I also seem to be keeping mental lists. And I figured where better to jot those down than the Internet.
Things I miss about home:
- People.
I get the funniest reactions when I tell people this. I hear things like, “There are people where you are.” or “Don’t worry. You’ll meet new people.” Now, when I say I miss people, I don’t mean that I am without people—I am constantly surrounded by new faces, and they are fantastic faces at that. The people I’ve met in Scotland so far are absolutely wonderful. I have wanted for nothing since arriving—they’ve fed me, they’ve housed me, they’ve “watered” me with liquor. They’ve done everything in their power to make sure I feel welcome in this community, and for that, I am so grateful. When I say I miss people, it’s more that I miss my people. I miss the history of those relationships and the sense of ease that accompanies it.
The more time I spend away, the more I come to realize that my whole life was a series of various routines. I drove the same routes to the same places. I ate the same food at the same restaurants. I bought the same groceries from the same store. And I did so with the same people around me. And for some, this may sound like a nightmare, but for me the familiarity was peaceful.
Settling into new routines can be easy: you find a new grocery store, new places to eat, new ways to get to your new job. The adjustment time for those things is next to nothing. However, fostering a relationship with a new person doesn’t always happen as quickly as remembering what aisle in the supermarket houses the cereal. People take time and effort. And while I’m looking forward to putting in the work, I find I miss the intimacy of already established relationships.
- Driving.
Alberta is #blessed with beautiful back roads—highways that you can drive for kilometres without seeing a single soul. And setting out on one of these roads with nothing but a carefully curated playlist to accompany you is almost euphoric.
Walking, on the other hand, takes a little more planning. You have to account for the weather. You have to be mindful of whatever load you may be hauling. And you have to have to be realistic with distance—how far can your body carry you, and how long will it take you to get there?
There’s a freedom that comes with driving that you can’t get from walking or riding a bike—you can’t just get in (buckle your seatbelt, of course) and go. As much as I love and care for the environment—and as good as walking is for my waistline—I still really like driving. And having a place to hoard half empty travel mugs.
- My things.
Remember when I wrote about how cleansing it was to purge all my belongings? How I gained a clearer headspace by having less stuff? Yeah, that was a short-lived, minimalist pipedream of mine. Turns out I like things, but, in the same breath, I hate that I miss my stuff. It seems silly to be missing clothes and books and records and various kitchen wares. WHO THE HECK MISSES INANIMATE OBJECTS?
Do you think my sweaters and novelty sock collection have noticed I’m gone? Nope. Or that my knives haven’t helped me prepare a meal recently? Not likely. They’re all happily suffocating in a garbage bag-lined boxes out at the farm without the faintest clue that it’s been months since they’ve had any human contact. You know why? Because it’s just stuff. It doesn’t give a shit that I’m gone. Yet, here I am hoping that the Canadian winter isn’t too hard on my knits.
- Being able to plug things in without an adaptor.
Plugging things into a wall without a contraption is a luxury I never realized I was privy to.
Things in Scotland that make up for what I’m missing:
- The buildings.
My favourite part of any city back home was old buildings. Maybe it’s a nostalgia thing—I grew up in quite a few older homes—but I’ve always found old buildings to be comforting. I like the ghosts that come with a lived-in space. I could spend hours imagining what a room looked like when the previous owner lived there: how did they arrange their furniture, who came ‘round to visit, did they ever think about who would live here once they’d gone.
Canada is a very young country, so most of our architecture is rather new. The suburbs are almost exclusively newly-built homes and buildings over 150 years old are a rare find, or are completely non-existent in the western part of the country, so I didn’t often get the chance to let my imagination run wild in that way.
In Scotland, however, the imaginative play never ends. All the buildings are old and it seems like every square inch is bursting with history. The ghosts here aren’t just confined to a singular old home; they populate the entire block. These ghosts wander the streets in groups, guiding me through their city, and encouraging my imagination.
And really, what kind of hipster would I be if I didn’t geek out over getting to open my front door with a skeleton key?
- The weather.
Unpopular opinion of the century: I love gloomy weather. No, that doesn’t mean that I hate sunshine (although, my fair, ginger skin isn’t always the biggest fan of direct sunlight), but I love cloud cover and adore rain. There’s something about the moodiness of rainy days that appeals to me. It’s the perfect excuse to stay inside, cosy in a blanket with books and tea, wearing comfy pants with stretchy waistbands.
But I also love going out and doing things on rainy days. They are the perfect day to go for breakfast with a friend; sit and talk for hours over coffee; bundle up and go for a walk; or simply drive around for hours, listening to sad music, wallowing in your own melancholia.
I think what I enjoy about it so much is that you manage to make the best of an “imperfect” day—you made the most of, what some would consider, less than ideal circumstances. You met up with that friend even though you got wet heading to the car. You went for a walk despite having to put on an extra layer. You contributed to climate change by making a special effort to listen to the same sad music you do every day.
- Accents.
This one speaks for itself.
- People
I could not have picked a better place to settle, simply because of the people.
They always look picture perfect but are never rigid. They’re prideful without ever being cocky. They’re a people of perpetual laughter. They’re sympathetic without being pushovers. They’re dead serious about being goofy. They’re utterly enigmatic.
As I said in an earlier post, I’ve been fortunate enough to meet some absolutely wonderful people on this trip, and Scotland has been no exception to that. The only difference is now I have the opportunity to get to know them and they, me.
They are some of the strongest and most generous people I’ve ever met and, as I mentioned previously, I’m so grateful they’ve welcomed into their world. I feel lucky to be surrounded by their incredible generosity and kindness. There is so much that I admire about the people I’ve met in Aberdeen so far that if I were to write it down I’d sound more like a kiss ass than I already do. Instead, to surmise, these people have so much to offer and I hope whatever it is that makes them so wonderful rubs off on me.
If I’ve learned anything about settling in another country, it’s that my head is going to be in a constant state of conflict, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. There will always be things about home that I miss, but there will also be things about where I currently am to soften that absence—new things to hold dear and new things to undoubtedly miss in the future.
Solivagant 