What makes any place feel like home

It’s a Friday, and it’s early here. The weird thing is that I’m waking up earlier than ever before on our travels. I’m paying attention to my body rhythm more, following some unspoken promise to myself to be more in tune, more something on this trip. It’s working out, I guess, because I don’t have to use an alarm anymore. Some doctor somewhere would surely be applauding their own wisdom. Definitely Jaclyn, my sister-in-law, who is a sleep guru.

I’m staring out at my perfect combination of elements—water and mountains—from the deck of an architectural marvel that my buddy who runs a miniature Airbnb empire told me would surely cost a thousand dollars a night in the states. In Guatapé, Colombia? I still can’t quite get used to the drastically different economies; even after taxes and fees, it’s less than the price of a Motel 6 rolling through Kansas on I-70. It’s beautiful, and I feel incredibly grateful.

It’s chilly, but I’m comfortable in shorts and a long sleeve hoodie shirt that was never not going on this trip with me. Also, I wake up and put on shoes. Not really a barefoot guy.

And I’m thinking about you.

Today, Kristin and I have been gone a month and are moving to stop number three already, moving from Guatapé to Medellin, Colombia. And I love surprises. I was raised by two surprise-loving parents. (On a roadtrip as a child, they once told us we were on our way home when they’d driven to Las Vegas instead.) But what’s funny is the way I seem to be looking for less surprises at the places we temporarily make our home. I am consciously and subconsciously looking for markers that make a place feel like home, even as I crave adventure and excitement. And I have to say, the things I’m coming up with are pretty weird.

Some of these markers will feel common and you’ll wonder how you got this far into this ridiculous set of musings. But what strikes me is that some of these little things are acutely odd. They seem to feed some hungry monster babies in my brain that are unsuspectingly aggressive. And before I get weird, let me say that the main element that’s missing is you. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

No big surprise here—I am missing my desk. I have worked most of my adult career on a desktop computer with two giant monitors and I wasn’t raised in coffee shops and I am still adjusting to using my laptop on my lap. I literally trained for this before we left, trying to challenge myself to work from other places (shoutout, Friday UX coworking crew). But the truth is that it remains a challenge. I am carrying my equipment to uncomfortable places and still learning to be chill about that.

I am missing my desk chair. In Cartagena, I bruised my tailbone by sitting in one bad chair for too long and I had to use Kristin’s travel pillow like a medical donut for my aching arse. I felt like an idiot, and it hurt like hell. For all of you who might earnestly offer concern, you are saints. I am happy to report that I have fully recovered.

I am missing my pillow. Beds aren’t usually a problem for me abroad. I like a good firm mattress and Airbnb mattresses abroad are usually firm, in my estimation. But the pillows are too fluffy, too plastic-y, too much-y all the time. I am a stomach sleeper and I like a decidedly deflated flat pillow, preferably made with real down feathers <pause for eye roll>. The place we’ve been staying in the past week has pillows that are airtight somehow, like children’s swim arm floaties. The worst. And while almost nothing keeps me from sleep, I am waking up with neck pain like some cliched middle aged man in a 1980’s painkiller commercial (pulsing red!).

I am missing my toothpaste. Like an idiot I didn’t think to pay attention to what brand since I just had some rote habit of writing it into a grocery list and never really committing it to long-term memory. My overly minty mouth is on fire and I am foaming from the mouth like I’m brushing with Scrubbing Bubbles.

Like a true bougie bro, I am missing my deli-fresh shaved-style lunchmeat. They just don’t really do that here in Colombia. They are a grocer + butcher + bodega type of culture. And the packaged lunchmeats are truly suspect. A little gelatinous, a little odd smelling, and a lot disgusting. I’ve tried to revert to the childhood version of myself that loved peeling off a slice of that pre-packaged bologna and rolling it up and inhaling, but it’s just not happening.

I am missing knowing what utensils and cookware we have and where it is. This is a totally unexpected disruption that is already a common complaint, and the cursing from the kitchen signals an acute frustration. I can’t quite capture Kristin’s frustration fully without the cursing part. It sucks not knowing what these kitchens are going to have for you to cook with, and it sucks not knowing where anything is.

I am missing my hat and shoe variety. I could live in five outfits for the rest of my life, but I love my hats and shoes. I miss choosing every day. I miss the vibes.

But mostly, I am missing you. If you’re reading this far, you probably care about me, about Kristin, or both. And I’m not being flippant in the way that people say, “Oh, we’ve missed you!” when they haven’t seen their coworker for a week while they were on vacation. 

I really do miss you.

And I know it hasn’t been that long. But it will be. It will be months until I see you again and we go to that place or do or say that thing we always do. And so I’m anticipating missing you along the way.

You have a place in my life. You are in my daily or weekly or monthly or yearly life. I meet you for coffee or pretend to like golf with you or invite you to lunch. I have laughs with you and our spouses and friends over dinner. I pester you at coworking or take a hike with you or ask you for advice about marriage or design work or mental health. I offer you stinging critiques and hot takes, on life, on love, on work, on dealing with your stupid project because that’s just what I do. And you’re up for it. You are my daughter or my son or my brother or my mother or my family or my friend. And I love you. I miss you.

Even on this amazing journey, you are a puzzle piece that leaves the picture just a little unfinished. I miss your energy and your collaboration and your support and your love.

For me, what makes any place feel like home is pretty simple. It’s my partner in life, Kristin. It’s my desk and my chair and my toothpaste and my lunchmeat and my utensils and my hats and my shoes. 

And also, it’s you.

To the road ahead,
Matt