Home is where you know

I was running around doing errands tonight, and as I walked past the pharmacy and the guitar store, past the bakery and the dancing shoes store (really!), I thought that next year, it will mostly all look the same, and I smiled. It's curious, I think that's a big part of what I like about coming to this city: I know it, I feel comfortable here. I can look at the bus map and figure out how to get from one place to another. If someone says "Rocafort, between Gran Via and Consell de Cent", I know more or less where they mean. And I'm starting to feel that about our neighborhood. I know where to find fresh milk, where they sell organic vegetables, where I can stand in line for underwear (don't ask me why, but there is always a line!), which bar has the best croissants (Vreneli), where the kids' shoe stores are, which hardware store has the most helpful people. The shopkeepers where we go most have begun to recognize us (granted, we stick out just a tad, what with our numerous, loud, rambunctious children who speak Catalan with an American intonation).

Maybe that's what home is after all? Simply the place that you know. I've often wondered why people stay in certain places that I could not bear to live in. It never made sense to me. But I guess it's not that hard. One wants to be where one feels comfortable, and one feels comfortable when one knows how things work, where things are, and what's expected.

I was wondering too, why I rarely torment myself with questions of identity when I'm in the US. And I guess it's because, despite feeling comfortable and at home here, I know I'm so clearly not from here. I look around and I see everyone doing things some way that I haven't learned yet (or don't want to follow).

The kids decided they wanted to buy some new clothes yesterday, and it was very strange, it's not usually something they care much about. And when they got home and tried them on, they both said, "Do I look Catalan now?" and I guess they must get that from me, because I worry about dressing too American (jeans, sneakers, dirty winter coat).

I am getting better about not trying to hide my American-ness. But it is a very conscious decision. Often, when I'm say, buying vegetables, I try to act just like I think a Catalan person would, perhaps as a reaction against the fear that people will try to take advantage of a tourist, perhaps as a challenge to see if I can "pass". But lately, I'm less worried about it, less guarded with what I say, more willing to ask questions that I know (or think) people from here would not ask. Partly, it's because the kids already blow my cover, so there's not much else to do but own up to my differentness, but partly I think I'm finally starting to accept that my American-ness is part of me that I don't necessarily want to hide.

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I saw a woman on the street today that looked exactly like my (great) Aunt Rosalie.