Finding Home

Arrival in Monaco

I stumbled upstream through the airport, weaving and crashing through arms and bags in a grown-up game of red rover, past the glass cage of smokers, marveling at the weirdness that is humans in airports. All the different ages and cultures and manners, all deprived of sleep and personal space, all trying to get from here to there and back again.

That evening, in Monaco, I stood on the rocky beach and looked out at the horizon. The sky was storm blue, the water slate grey, a coordinated palate of hard and dark and thunder. I dove in and drifted suspended in the salt, the world around me reduced to a static of pebbles clicking and rolling across the sea bed. The next night I would swim here again, while on the horizon a deep water storm flashed and raged silently in the distance, bolts lighting the clouds red.

In that moment of arrival I felt peaceful, happy to have that view and experience to myself after the day of travel and shared spaces. I hadn’t missed Monaco the city- the thirty euro pasta, the clothes, the cars, the nonsense- but the piece of earth that is Monaco- the cliffs that thrust sharp and proud out of the water, the deep midnight sky, the land; I saw it clearly then as the place it was before it became a destination.

A Sense of Place

While I enjoyed Monaco- the show was fun, the cast great, the beach relaxing, cryotherapy a hoot- I never felt at home there. Now that I’m back in Chicago, a decidedly humbler city, it’s gotten me thinking about different places and how we identify with them. Do you know home when you see it? Is it the cobblestones, the people, the mountains, the nightlife or the driven local crowd? Or is home something that grows on you? For me home is a place you feel you belong, a place that you know and that knows you back. Home is people that appreciate your strengths and accept your deficiencies. Home is a community that values the same things you do.

Where Monaco felt ostentatious, the places I call home feel more modest, less pretentious. In Vermont clothing is measured by weight to warmth ratios, money is spent on trucks that can get up the hill, or a new pair of skis. In Chicago and Montreal there is more biking, less Lamborghini-ing.

I also believe home reflects what you put into it. When I first get to a city I can’t tell one building from the next. Faceless, noisy, rushed; but also exciting- a wealth of possibilities to explore and discover. The restaurant where the owner sits down at the table to chat with you, or the used bookstore with a quote unfolding out of an old typewriter, these interactions and discoveries are like candles scattered around the city, each one lit and nurtured by a spirit of curiosity. The more time you spend in a place the less dark and scary it feels – a city of gently glowing windows welcoming you in.

Finding Home on the Road

How do you find home when traveling for a living? When I’ve had my fill of new and different and need a dose of familiar I tend to seek out places I’m comfortable such as climbing gyms, cafés, and bookstores. They tend to be only moderately different, all motivated by similar values regardless of the country, and that lets me recharge. The journey to seek them out also lends itself to the sort of organic exploring I like to do in new cities- picking a destination and letting the route surprise me.

The circus community is similar in that circus folk, while all different, are on the whole reliably kind: quick to welcome newcomers with warmth and generosity, an attitude that recognizes kindred spirits seeking elements of home amidst the uncertainties of travel. I’ve slept in strangers’ beds in Japan, on a friends of friends’ couch in Iceland, ate homemade bagna cauda in Italy. Home is where the community is.

Home Reminds You It’s Home

I recently visited my father at my childhood home in Vermont and had to leave early in the morning. As I rode down the dirt road, the crisp morning air smelling like pine, the sun bathing everything in a soft golden light, I happened to look over at the adjoining field. Partly shrouded in the morning fog stood a small herd of deer, quietly observing my progress down the hill. Shortly thereafter the rest of the valley came into view- the red cow barns, the Mad River winding its way through the corn fields, the blue-green mountains, the splendor. Needless to say, I was enraptured.

When I later recounted this sight to my father, he nodded knowingly. Yea dude, he said, a little like I was just showing up to the party.

The people that live and have made their homes in the valley, that haul wood and shovel out their cars year after year, it’s not an accident that they’re there. What I got from that Yea dude was that for those in the know, home is a place that 30 years later you still don’t take for granted.

I’m lucky to frequently find a sense of home in the circus community no matter where I am. Below, a selection of familiar sights, this time backstage in Monaco.