“So, where’s home?” a Mexican-American guy asked me once while I was in Belgium. I had to stop and think about it for a moment. Since this summer, home has become a very flexible term for me. My mum moved to the United States with my dad, my grannie stayed in Mexico and I sleep in a new country every month or so, so I haven’t had a permanent zip code in a while. It’s overrated.
However, and maybe thanks to Coca-Cola ads, home started to be a very constant word while Christmas was approaching. People didn’t ask me if I was going home for Christmas, they asked me when. And I don’t blame them, after being away from my family for six months, it was only logical to assume that I’d see them for the holiday season.
Nevertheless, “logic” is something that does not usually fit on a budget.
I assumed from the beginning of my adventure that I would not see my parents this Christmas. It didn’t hurt me that much because I knew that if I took a plane back to the American Continent it would be a one way ticket only and I miss my parents, but I still have a lot of Europe to see before going back home.
I must admit I was very lucky, though. Pau, one of my best friends/sister moved to Spain this year. She was only a 2-hours flight away from my last destination and when I asked her if I could stay with her for the holidays she sent me a list with all the chick flicks we haven’t seen together since February. I took that as a yes.
When I was waiting in Dublin’s Airport for my flight to Barcelona, even though I had never been in that city, I had the feeling that I was going to a sort of home.
Pau’s family was amazing.My firsts days at her place were full of quesadillas, Game of Thrones marathons and anecdotes from our time at Uni.
The holidays were very comforting and interesting. Also, her sister (the real one), is married to a Spanish guy. Therefore, our Christmas was clash of cultures between Mexico and Spain which would have been hard to find in any other place.
However, I am not going to lie. I did miss home… The old one, a bit. I seldom get home sick. But after spending half a year abroad, the Christmas season and my crying mum calls, it gets a harder not to feel nostalgia from time to time.
I miss the smell of Christmas punch in the early morning. My grannie baking Mexican buñuelos with a pinch of cinnamon. Or mum and I cooking until ungodly hours to deliver ten or twelve dinners before Christmas Eve for her catering business. I also miss driving around with my dad during December 25th in search of a place to eat (we never found one). Eating an ice cream on Ghirardelli Square, despite the cold. Or, one of my favourites, watching the Christmas show in the dome of San Francisco’s Westfield Shopping centre.
I can’t really replace any of those memories, but travelling gives you the chance to create new ones. This year, I had the chance to visit a new Christmas market and drink mulled wine in Belfast. I got to see the lights in Barcelona’s Rambla and eat Biscayan Style Cod made by a native Spanish lady. And I also learnt to say Merry Christmas in Irish (Nollaig shona dhuit) and I still can’t pronounce it.
During my time in Spain I had the chance to meet again with some of the Mexican habits I had left with my parents, back in California. Just the chance to speak my mother tongue, slang and all, has been incredibly relieving.
However, I’ve also had the opportunity to discover Barcelona. Its alleys, its music and its Gaudí’s influence lingering on every street make the city look like a quirky fairy tale.
When I started the journey, as wonderful as it sounded, I knew it came with a few downsides. And one of the downsides of having, literally, a world of possibilities is the fact that you have to choose. This year I chose Europe. Maybe next one I’ll choose home again. Or maybe I’ll have a new home.
The fun part is that I still don’t know.
Thanks for reading. I guess I’ll see you on the road.
Love,
