Feels Like Home

Everything I was looking for was here within me all the time!

“I wanted to run away from everything but I wanted to run towards something too. Don't you see, dear, how it was?”—Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio

(View from my front balcony in the Sant Martí neighborhood)

After twenty five years of teaching English and the humanities at the university level in Chicago, I left the United States to live in Europe.

Everyone told me how brave (or out of my mind) I was—such a bold choice to make for a single guy of a certain age—someone who’s not fluent in Spanish or Catalan, with no established family or solid friendships awaiting there in Barcelona.

But I persisted.

Stubbornly determined to live near the Mediterranean Sea, I have woken up after arriving nearly three years later in my chosen, beloved, Catalan city. Now, when I open my front patio window to the early morning sun gleaming off the turquoise waves that curl into froth against the coastline, I feel like I know what it means to have a dream come true.

But as any expat will tell you, there’s a shadow side to this enchantment that makes the reality of living apart from one’s home country, not always so charming.

But this is a story of following one’s intuition and eventually landing in a place that feels like home—especially where it counts, in my gut. I’ll share shadows in an upcoming installment.

For most of my life I’ve lived in Chicago, but before I boldly stepped off the North American continent after retiring from a long standing career in higher education, I set off on a series of road trips to find a place which would satisfy my longing for vibrant culture—theater, academic lectures, varied dining options, small interest groups. I also wanted to couple my informed lifestyle with access to the splendor of nature (forest, sea, or mountain—vistas that would inspire me daily).

Here’s three American cities that whispered for a while in my ear to travel to them—and to at least try them out as potential home destinations for a season or two, before tying the knot:

Portland, Oregon

This was really the first place I felt truly re-ignited my soul.

My love affair with this arts-centered “town” began in the nineties when I was attending poetry retreats in Port Townsend, Washington, and became dear friends with a freelance writer who lived there, Claire Sykes, (you may remember her recent guest article on spontaneous travel abroad here).

She was the one who introduced me to the quirky, literate, free-spirited Zeitgeist of this “homey” little progressive enclave. At the time I was exploring Portland as a potential home base, there were lots of bearded hippies in dress-down flannels and patched jeans who all looked starry-eyed, (or stoned, perhaps) as if they had just come back from some 1960's “love in” and were still “ecstatic dancing” under a spinning mirrorball. In fact my first human encounter when I arrived by bus to the “City of Roses” was with a young woman dressed as a fairy princess—sparkly pink taffeta around her generous waistline and strap-on, see-thru wings made of nylon—she reached over to me on the sidewalk and drew a peace symbol on the back of my hand with a glitter stick—Welcome to Portland, she whispered.

Claire and I spent many hours on the phone imagining an upgraded beatnik-style life where I would transition into teaching humanities courses at Lewis and Clark College, and co-host poetry readings at her Velvet Sofa Salon, a monthly jamboree cradled in Claire’s cozy home, filled with eclectic musicians and storytellers. Later on, we would collaborate on collecting oral histories from Portland writers or create visual art projects based around seascapes, cisterns, ocean cliffs, and craggy forest paths—or any poetic ephemera that happened to float into our imaginations.

(Claire and I take a long pause in the massive poetry section at Powell’s )

None of it ever manifested but it was a seductive fantasy bubble to live in for a few fleeting years, until it finally popped and I wound up finishing my decades long teaching career in Chicago.

But in my mind I often go back to those stealthy bridges over the river, the charming neighborhoods laced with quaint artisan coffee shops and co-ops, our lingering strolls through the iconic Powell’s Bookstore and our daily search for the perfect bakery buns or the quintessential Portland hamburger.

Don’t think I’m not still tempted in my mind to sneak back sometimes though. Portland still holds onto its crazy allure.

Saugatuck-Douglas, Michigan

There’s still a part of me that is wandering those silky sand dunes in early September, pausing to meditate on the rhythmic Lake Michigan waves, napping in mid-day after reading a passage of Rumi or Robert Frost out loud to the empty beaches below. Saugatuck—my heart and inner campfire, my dreamscape, my boyhood’s scattered milkweed cotton, seeded with naive hopes for romantic love, released into the sky, into the clouds, and far beyond.

For years, my family, along with our next door neighbors, would drive to that Midwestern artist’s enclave and vacation in a shared vintage, cream-colored cottage and pick sun-soaked strawberries to sprinkle over our vanilla ice cream at dinnertime, or trot miniature copper-coated horses onto trails leading into the thick grassy glens and shadowy pinewoods. As adolescent boys, my friends and I would climb the one hundred steep wooden steps up to Mount Baldy, then run barefoot down over the broiling sand dunes, the soles of our feet burning until we planted them in the soft sand-bottomed waters of the cool lake.

I would be remiss to admit that sometimes my mind wanders back to those caffeine- infused hours spent journal writing as an adult at the Uncommon Grounds Coffeehouse, dunking their homemade ginger cookies into a matcha latte, and roaming their summer psychic fairs and tarot card readings. Blackened cod fish fry’s and quirky antique stores on Main Street were always on the agenda, right alongside the caramel fudge shops and hot dog stands selling mayonnaise covered steak fries to be devoured on the town’s yacht piers and jetties.

Saugatuck-Douglas has a somewhat conservative vibe blowing through it these days, but the townspeople are genuinely down-to-earth and friendly and gay folks are seen, respected, and protected, and they can grow old with a sense of purpose and dignity held intact. It’s a few hours drive to the cultural hub of Chicago for those who still need to see a professional play or dine at a cosmopolitan restaurant. But truly, if you haven’t visited, you just don’t know what you’re missing.

Taos, New Mexico

They call the state of New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. And I can vouch for the fact that it’s absolutely true.

If you’ve ever heard the wolfhounds cry at twilight as you’re just about to fall asleep, or carried a treasured wish-smothered rose quartz to the center of a stone encircled labyrinth set out before a mountain trail, or shivered under a blanket at the Santa Fe outdoor opera until the last notes of Madame Butterfly were etched into your memory, or talked to a stranger for hours at a time at an improvised evening of live jazz in the hotel lobby of the landmark Taos Inn and thought you were drinking glowing stars from a Martini glass—then you know where I’m going with this.

When I initially came to New Mexico, I was drawn to the small town of Jemez. The deep red of the mountains and the numerous sites for trail hiking and plein air hot springs were enough to convince me that I had landed in Eden. But after a few long stays there I realized it was too remote, too far away from local arthouse cinemas and concert venues, too small to feel invisible and private when I needed to be. So I traveled further up north to Taos, known for its dense forests and ski lodges, and quirky tree huggers.

I fell in love with the warm milk of human kindness that seemed to flow randomly from everywhere, strangers who would pause for half an hour to give directions or offer recommendations for short road trips. That’s how I discovered Ojo Caliente, a vintage hot springs spa complete with yoga, holistic massage, reiki treatments, immersions in nearly seven types of mineral waters, and even a natural mud bath to bake in. It has been dubbed the Southwest’s “Fountain of Youth” and I believed, oh how I believed.

But what inspired me more than anything was the legacy left by Mabel Dodge Luhan. In the early 1900’s she became a mighty force in the Taos arts community, a patroness who would hold weekly artist salons in her ranch style home and who wrote both a syndicated column as well as her personal memoirs. Her dream diaries broke apart numerous social and sexual norms and her book, Winter In Taos, published in 1935, is considered to be a classic on living a boundless life in New Mexico.

I decided back then that I would live in a small, desert casita with a working kiva fireplace surrounded by cactus flowers and well-chosen, natural artifacts set about me, saved from cherished landscapes—and become a community-based artist, just like Mabel. But that dream slowly gave way to the lure of sunny Barcelona, and now, post-pandemic, here I am today.

What I understand now, that I didn’t know then, was that I had everything I ever needed to be grounded and fulfilled. Maybe I just needed to come “home to myself”—the glue isn’t necessarily in the amenities of the environment or the climate of the place—singer-songwriter Melissa Manchester wrote these lyrics that still leave me breathless:

“I wake up and see the light of the day
shining on me. Make my own time
It's mine to spend. Think to myself,
my own best friend. It's not so bad all alone,
Comin' home to myself again. Now I understand,
whatever I feel is whoever I am.”—from Home to Myself by Melissa Manchester

Resources

Honestly, if you haven’t visited Portland, you haven’t touched the heart of the Pacific Northwest and felt its memorable, thumping beat. Take a glance at this wonderful post that details all the nuances of this one-of-a-kind, captivating American city.

The official, city of Saugatuck website!

Arrive in the stunning Southwest for this world-class soaking spa and stay directly in the city of Taos at this landmark hotel to absorb the hospitality and profound spirit of Mabel Dodge Luhan.

Indulge for a moment in this rare, live version of Melissa Manchester’s Home to Myself.

(All photos by Gerard Wozek or in alignment with Creative Commons.)