Defining Home

You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone. (...) You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist.

(Zach Braff as Andrew Largeman in Garden State)

When I was a kid my parents moved around a lot. When I was born they lived in a certain neighborhood, but I took my first steps in a completely different location; I remember a Christmas party when I was 4, in a third place, and watching the Muppets when I was 5 in another.

When I was 6, we moved to a smaller town, Petrópolis. And though we lived in three different houses, they were all on the same street. And we stayed there for almost 10 years.

First we lived in this cute small house, with a front yard, and windows only one meter away from the floor - I spent a lot of time jumping in and out of them, pretending I was living big adventures! For one who had been raised in apartments, a house was a world full of wonders. And one fine day, grandma arrived with this tiny labrador puppy, white as snow and with a red ribbon around his neck. He had come inside a carton box, and he could barely poke his head out to look at me. I named him Rolf - because of Rolf of the Muppets.

Also, there was this really tall boldo stalk in the garden, with leaves that felt like velvet. I decided it was a she, and called her Gertrudes. And on my bed was Pimpa, the stuffed Panda bear my grandma had brought me from one of her trips.

A couple of years later we moved to a second house. It was huge, and it had the cutest porch ever! In the back, stairs that led to a terrace - Rolf's realm. I took Gertrudes in a vase with me, and she lived in my window. And though by that time there were shitloads of stuffed animals on my bed, Pimpa was still in the centre.

When I was 11, we moved to a third house. It was gorgeous, all in white and salmon. There was this huge yard around the whole house, with Rolf running everywhere; a garden, where Gertrudes could live, and a beautiful stained glass covering one of the living room walls. On the second floor, my bedroom with Pimpa on the bed, and my bathroom; there was an attic and two terraces with a pool.

There I discovered my dad's Beatles collection, and some of the best books I'll ever read. I learned how to do the dishes (well, kinda) and how to peel potatoes (and almost my hands); I almost peed in my pants out of terror, while watching I Know What You Did Last Summer with my friends in that living room; and when my first crush ever took me home after our first date, we spent hours talking on those front steps - with Rolf looking from afar, afraid of the stranger that engaged my attention so, and ready to have at him if he tried to do anything! Guess that boy was Rolf-approved.

It was also where Rolf died - the evil next door neighbor gave him lead to eat. I cried my head off, and my dad, in an attempt to cheer me up, rented Dr. Dolittle for us to watch.

What a doubly horrible night.

I moved to my grandma's, in Rio de Janeiro, when I was almost 16. And though I was leaving a lot of things behind (including Gertrudes), it was kinda fine: I was going to live in the house where my dad had been brought up, and where I had spent my every summer vacation, and most of my Christmas parties. It was, I guess, still home.

In 2004, however, she decided to sell the place, and move to the south of Brazil. She asked me to come along, and I said no. Instead, I went to a boardinghouse, where I lived for 4 years.

I hated everything about that place.

There was nobody there waiting for me, to hear about my day; I couldn't have a dog nor a plant. Just me and my stuffed Panda. It was just a place for me to crash at night. And I did whatever I could to spend the day out.

In the middle of 2008 I finally moved to where I live now, with Roomie. And it's a great place, I have no problems whatsoever with staying in - it's my house, it's where I feel comfortable.

But is it a home? I don't know. What makes a home after all? (And please don't say "A home is where your heart is", that's just cheesy). Is it the presence of your family? Maybe - maybe not.

When I think "home", I sometimes think of either my grandma's old place, or my white and salmon house, where Gertrudes might still be. Every now and then, I visualize my old college which felt like home to me for good 4 years - specially the library, and most specially the German Literature section.

And someday I'll probably think of a house where people wait for me - a man who wears a ring just like mine, a couple of children who will have my hair and his eyes, and this huge white labrador running everywhere.

But most of the time, the word "home" makes me think simply of a stuffed Panda bear called Pimpa, that still lies on my bed.