So I am back home in New Orleans and finding myself surprisingly sad. The only thing to do, of course, is ride the bicycle. So I hopped on Rhoda and we went down to a bar where we could play darts with N. and A. This is the kind of riding I do here, the task ride, the bike as transportation, ridden with express getting-from-here-to-there purpose; the bike is not just for exploring or mapping. I know this town well enough at this point that the maps I make are purely for the joy and pleasure in riding, and mapping. In New York, I found myself riding to trace out the neighborhoods and boroughs, to see what I’m ordinarily riding below in the subway. Here I’m riding to get somewhere. And this is a different kind of singular pleasure, one less reliant on the thrill of the new and more reliant on the satisfaction of being home. I miss NYC, but I’m happy to be here, and hoping that the feeling of being at home, here, will settle in someday soon. Because the fleeting sense of it makes me want much more home from this place.
Man, can I relate to the “where, exactly, is home?” question!
It’s either where your heart is, where you hang your hat, or where you are for xmas.
When you find it, send me a map.
Once I asked my therapist if she was going home for Thanksgiving and she said “I am home”. For some reason I found this to be very wise.
Home is where the heart is and sometimes that is just where you are with people you love.