I have known many homes in my life, but few have held the true comfort I long to have in the place I reside. My time at college has left me with small dorm rooms and shared bathrooms. The summers have given me time to experiment with different apartments--one in the deep cornfields of Illinois, one in the vibrant and coming Wicker Park, and one kept quiet in the mountains of New Hampshire. All of these apartments had elements of homes, but none have had any permanence in my heart--I always knew they were for only a few months and then I would be on the road once again.
This small place at the edges of the great city of Moscow will be my home for the longest--at the least nine months. It doesn't feel like a home yet, though. I am still woken up by sounds from the heater and bothered by the cigarettes our neighbors smoke in the hallways.
But it will be a home.
I have begun to think that a home becomes a home when you forget that there is somewhere else you have known. I think this place will feel mine when I wake up in the morning and my first thought is not, "I'm in Russia". When Russia stops feeling like a place I am just visiting or just getting used to, this place will become a home and I look forward to nesting in that feeling.
|I do love this little kitchen.|
|Look at that door! Isn't that incredible?|
|What was once punk, is now the footwear of small, elderly Russian women.|