The Places I’ve Lived
I remember him the way I remember Kansas: a distant childhood memory, adorned in backyard mud, sidewalk chalk, and spilled yoo-hoo; sweet, but, now, practically imaginary. Much like the duck pond in Maryland, though that’s where it all began: my story.
There’s always Colorado, and the general store—45 minutes from normalcy—that accepted IOU’s, and sold old-fashioned candy cigarettes, and glass bottle Cokes; population unknown.
Still, I reminisce about the way my knobby knees use to knock against the off-white cabinets in our Florida house; sitting on the countertop eating chocolate chip cookie dough from the mixer; inventing games in the pool, the taste of salt. A time when it was just my sisters and me against the world.
And Texas was when we believed in Jesus and wore gold crosses around our necks, and read the bible, even prayed before meals. That was just in Texas, though.
Bermuda is different. The warm pink sand that we built villages in, like snow, and later the way it would fill our lungs, as the forceful tide catapulted us to shore; the smell of breakfast tea, and mini orange muffins, and melted rocky road ice cream and marshmallows sticky against our palms. Our fruitless endeavor to pursue an adventure among the backyard banana trees, and feed the starving ants in our mildew-ridden closets. Bermuda was the first time I intentionally ran away from home. Back when promises were made on pinkies, wishes on eyelashes, the best of secrets were kept with birthday candles, and when mistakes were only made with crayons; when all problems were caused and solved by sugar, sisters, and band-aids.
A time when I knew this much for certain: My older sister would be the next Queen of England. Mom made the very best grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Sometimes I preferred animals to humans. Brussels sprouts were not to be trusted. I was deeply in love: with nature, poetry, and milk chocolate. That teatime was the best time and that I could easily eat five mini muffins, yet still not feel full.
Beijing meant bright lights, smoky bars, ladies markets, and silk scarves. Where we learned the lesson of cheap goodbyes and DVD’s, and overcrowding.
I will always be Shanghai: the thick steam from local noodle bars, the surplus of bicycles, the street vendors on every corner-selling exotic birds, tiny turtles, CD’s, and flowers, or bamboo carvings. The smell of mango.
Remember in Hong Kong the plethora of cheap beer? The way we would chuck our empty bottles, like messages, into the sea. When SARS struck, and birthed an intense paranoia of illness, and chickens.
Everyday, I miss the Weihnachtsmarkt’s in Frankfurt, Germany, the lingering taste of gluhwein against my tongue, doughy soft pretzels, and kaffee-kuchen from the backerei’s, the thick glazing of snow that painted the branches of the Black Forest white, and frosted them, so whimsical, like a fairy tale.
The life in the California desert that I abandoned; I never once looked back at the breath taking, naked, dry mountain tundra—the kind that made me feel small—the sky, red, like a field of Indian Paintbrush; at the road runners that I once thought only existed in cartoons. The palm trees that seemed misplaced; at the dust settling from a storm. Or the boy I thought I loved.
The nostalgia I own for Pennsylvania, for college, and curing beer hangovers with pub grub; the endless diner coffee, and jogging against the wind along the open, dandelion fields. Where I first fell in love—the real kind; and subsequently recovered from my first heartache with roommates, tequila, and to-go cheesecake.
New York City once meant theater, fallen yellow leaves in Central Park, and too many hot dogs & Halal purchased from street vendors. A city I once loathed for its filth, crowds, and extensive depth. I remembered its bitter autumns, spilled marshmallow-crusted hot chocolate, and the day a stranger spit in my younger sister’s hair. Also for Eloise, whose Hotel-dwelling character’s shenanigans mirrored a life I could relate to. I undervalued the streets, the veins of the city, and the beauty resting at its core. The way the city transforms and camouflages, yet, ultimately, remains exactly the same. How uncovering hidden gems is a daily occurrence, like “A Little Taste” coffee and flower shop on West 28th Street, and how, in spite of the chaotic metropolis, life stills at each of the parks. I didn’t recognize that, like me, New York understands goodbye’s and hello’s and foreign tongues. A city peppered and seasoned with more change than a tip jar at a cash register. At the time I didn’t know, that one-day, it would be New York I would grow to miss the most.
As a kid, all I understood about travel was that it made me unusual. I mastered the role of new student, and became a pro at packing. I understood that my bedroom walls were not to be painted, or cluttered with tacks and posters.
I can argue it was nurture, not nature, that birthed my physical need for travel, a well-made case considering I don’t have roots, just wings.
People always ask where I’m from—spoken with such simplicity, as if to ponder how I like my coffee (black). And in terms of running away, some might say I still am. But the thing is, I’m not running away from home, just towards it. My scaffolding: all these places that I’ve lived, where I’ve left pieces of my heart, my memories, all 14 locations. And when people always ask me where my home is, I always tell them, it’s with you.
It’s with you.
Lindsey Conklin is an MFA candidate at the University of Maryland, with a BA in English & Writing from Gettysburg College. She is obsessed with travel, writing, and coffee. This is her second publication in a review. Her nonfiction story “Watermelon Seeds,” was published in Assumption College’s “Thoreau’s Rooster.”