Where are you from?
The waitress did not seem to understand me, as I tried to place my order; thus I asked her if I had mispronounced poutine? She said no, smiled, and asked where I was from, taking me aback. I hesitated for a moment, wondering how to answer. I finally said I was from Florida, as it was at least a partial truth.
Kate and I were in Toronto, sitting at a Swiss Chalet, in honor of my Aunt Helen and her dear neighbor Ann. The Sea Watch, the Piccadilly, and the Swiss Chalet had been Helen’s favorite restaurants. We had often taken her and Ann to eat there, though neither Kate nor I particularly enjoyed their food; the one in Fort Lauderdale closed a few years ago, and thus upon spying them in Canada, where the restaurant chain began, we decided to have dinner at the Swiss Chalet. The food was as we remembered it.
The waitress, who like approximately 49% of the population, in Toronto, was clearly not native to Canada, led Kate to comment on how silly the question of my origin had been: “Obviously, you are from the United States, can she not hear your accent?” Kate said slightly indignant.
Kate’s words took me away from my own thoughts, for a brief second: “Well, if English is not your first language, you may not hear the regional accents,” I said. But the thought of where I was from, and why that was so difficult to answer, kept spinning in my head.
The waitress looked familiar and like the kind of person whom I would normally strike up a deeper conversation. I often talk to strangers, and find myself mesmerized by their stories; I was rather certain that she had an interesting story, and one that did not involve waiting on tables, which she was terrible at, and thus we had to over tip her.
I should have told her I was Cuban, I thought; but the first answer which had darted into my over tired head was that I was from the Toronto Hilton – but we had checked out – checking out of the hotel should not be the reason the answer was untrue, but for a moment it felt the most honest of responses to: “Where are you from?”
Thus far, most of this year has been spent on the road, though we have certainly spent quite a few nights sleeping under someone else’s moniker; we have also been traveling back and forth between our homes in Maine and Florida, often through the most round about ways.
Initially, we had put the house in Florida on the market, moving our life into storage, in Maine, where we rented a room from my older sister, as we house hunted in New England. The search for the perfect three bedroom, two bathroom, ranch style house, lingered unsuccessfully for months; we had originally decided to come north to accommodate the fact that my Mother could no longer travel between my younger sisters’ house, in New England, and mine in Florida. In the midst of the search, my Mother unexpectedly, at least to me, passed away; and left me in a state of sorrow and uncertainty. We went back to Florida, to our very empty house, leaving our life in storage in Maine, to grieve.
In the year and half now, since I lost my Mother and my dear dog Merry, life has changed dramatically. Not only has Kate’s fall impacted our life in an unexpected fashion; but it now seems that we live in two houses in two states, hundreds of miles apart, where we lead two very different types of lives.
Initially, upon returning to Florida, I knew that I had to reconstruct my home, at least to some extent. We could not for long live with only two chase lounges and a barbeque; the house had to be comfortable. With pleasure and perseverance we reinvented our Florida home bringing about one of the strangest moments of my life – walking into a house, which I have owned for over a dozen years, and thinking it is familiar and I like the way the house is laid out, the furniture, the art, dishes, and even the few books present were all nice and to my taste, but somehow I did not feel like I was in my home. It was my house, the first house I had ever owned and the longest I had ever lived in one place and the house in which I had marked endless milestones from celebrating countless birthdays and Christmas’, to early Thanksgivings and graduations and even the passing away of people I had loved, like my Aunt Helen who liked the Swiss Chalet, I had received my first orchid in this house and met dear people who are now cherished friends, yet something was missing.
It did not take me long to realize that what was missing was my history. Aunt Helen’s candlesticks were not on the dining room table, for that matter, the dining room table was not Grandma Tessie’s, none of Mother’s serving dishes were in the china cabinet, and the art hanging on the walls, had not come from Mel or been found on one of our trips, or been purchased during a walk down 8th Street on a Viernes Culturales – all of those things were living in a very foreign house in Maine, which I also owned, though it did not feel like home.
I was not going to bring Aunt Helen’s candlesticks back to Florida, as they belonged on Grandma Tessie’s table, sitting over the runner we had bought in Hungry; but I could bring a picture of Aunt Helen and a copy of the picture which sits in my kitchen, of Kate and the girls, as well as the bathroom rugs which Merry loved scrunching up and snuggling in, the pink shower curtain and grey towels, that do not match the overly brown bathrooms in Maine, and the tea pot which Charlotte gave me for Christmas one year, and the cream and sugar set which Beth gave me when she was working at Starbucks and . . . well just enough to feel at home.
In Maine, I realized that I first had to come to terms with the fact that while Kate had found the perfect house for Mother, Mother was never going to live in it – much like how I had felt about the house in Florida and my Father. I had often thought how he would have enjoyed painting on the patio, overlooking the lake and garden, drinking his Cuban coffee and chatting with my neighbors. While the Maine house was filled with the things which my memoires were attached to, it lacked actual memories. I had to celebrate birthdays in this new house, bringing out the cake lights which I had been putting up for 28 years, since our first apartment in Long Beach, California, I needed to decorate for autumn, and have a great dinner party, to remember that one of my dearest friends, whom I have known for over thirty years, had been the first person to sleep in our guest room, and strike out to make new connections – like going to my younger sister, Caroline’s Bible Study for women.
It was odd, but on my last road trip, I found myself hoping to get “home” to Maine, in time to make the Bible Study again. I had enjoyed the format, a small group of women, sitting around a table, sharing their lives and refreshments, reading the Bible and discussing what different versions of the Bible say, and the meaning of the words and their sentiments – I did not have this in Florida – and afterwards, we go out to eat, with Doug, her husband, joining us for a late supper, at a diner, like we used to do in California, at Norm’s, where once after another church service, a late supper, and hours of conversation, a waitress had actually chased us down, as we were leaving the restaurant. The waitress was holding baby Hannah, whom we had forgotten, at the table. The same baby Hannah who has grown up to also work at Starbucks, on her way to one day owning her own café, and who before we had hit the road, for that last trip, had brewed us coffee. After our short but very pleasant visit with Hannah, Kate and I talked about making a stop to see her, part of our hitting the road ritual, when leaving from Maine. It is a nice idea we decide.
Ten days ago, we were having dinner with Marcial and Adriana, and their remarkable children in Miami, where the day before, I had met Maria, whose store, Sentir Cubano, I had been going to since I lived in California. Maria, one of those strangers that I so enjoy, generously shared her story with Kate and me, and as we stood in her shop listening to Cuban music, discussing politics, history, family, life and death, I was grateful to be able to live in two worlds.
Since that moment, I have closed up the house in Florida, leaving it ready for another friend to occupy it, while she deals with some business in South Florida, made multiple stops up and down the Eastern Seaboard, including staying at a charming hotel with books in the room, all books which did not make the New York Times best sellers list, books which the guest will often take with them, and mail back after they are read, and books which are often added to by the guest, all according to another interesting stranger, Kitty, who manages the hotel, we also made a quick trip to Canada, had a car accident – very thankful Kate was driving a rental, and walked into our Maine house which felt like home.
I do not have one hometown, my friends do not live in one country, my family is not just in one state, my favorite restaurants, beaches, museums, shops, and opera houses are not all in one place, and that is okay, for it is who I am. For now, this is our new normal and I have decided to stop waiting for things to settle down, they are not going to; and if I can get some much needed sleep the next time an interesting waitress ask me where I am from, I will simply say: I am from the road.
The road which will soon call us out again, but for the moment, I am home! That is all for now.
