Last Sunday evening we got home from a wonderful trip to tiny Bornholm Island in the clear Baltic Sea. I was nervous to come back to our Copenhagen, fearing that it would not feel like a homecoming at all. When we finished our London spree in the Spring, our return to our flat was just that – a return. We were still too displaced to feel as though we were coming home. Thankfully, this time when we cracked open our door and wadded through a week’s worth of unnecessary mail, we found that we were happy to see our apartment, to wander through the rooms raising the shades and opening the windows, and to sleep in our own beds.

After the first few minutes of re-orientation though, I started to feel a bit ill at ease. Sure, part of it was just the let-down of coming back to the mundane tasks of the everyday after a week in a sunny slice of heaven. But there was also an underlying twitchiness that made me feel as though there was some uncompleted task following me through the quiet rooms. Then it struck me – where were the housemates?

Since 1998 we have always lived with wonderful housemates–some for short terms during life transitions, some for years as we watched our histories weave together. After ten years of coming home to someone, the sudden nuclear family-ness of it all has left us disoriented. Now, once we’ve unlocked the door, flopped down our bags and grabbed a drink of water we start to wonder…where are our housemates to talk to? Who can we tell about our trip? Who can we ask about how work is going, or whether or not the garden survived the record heat? And most importantly who’s around to explain why the dog’s tail is purple?!?!? (Yes, once our housemates dyed the dog’s tail with kool aid. She’s quirky, that Emily.)

It’s odd to live just us four after ten years of living with Sharon, Susan, Lindell, Duffy, Amber, Josh, Kristen, Rebecca & ‘Ren. I don’t dislike it, but it’s strange, so strange it’s affecting my dreams. Last night I dreamt we were moving into to a sublet rental. It belonged to someone we knew, and we had thought we’d let them leave their office set up in the spare room. Then I realized, “Hey! We could have another room for someone to live in!” Next scene: a garage sale and a guest room.

My guess? That communal living thing, it’s not just a part of our past… it’s simmering on the back burner. I hope so. I certainly do.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 6th, 2008 at 1:38 pm and is filed under Immigrant Diaries, Soulstories.
Tags: Immigrant Diaries, Soulstories



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