Home

When does a place become home? How many memories must you collect, local shops must you haunt, people's faces must you recognise until a geographical location earns the right to be called home?

Because I've lived in many places, and my sense of home has constantly shifted over the years, my definition of what it means has changed, moved with me.

I'm in Winter Park, Florida at the moment, visiting my Grandmother. I took the afternoon down to Park Avenue, the main drag, at the top of which looms the entrance to my Alma Mater, Rollins College. While I was there, I never considered it home, Vermont was home. But today, as I walked down the familiar street and wandered under the big old trees hanging with Spanish moss, it struck me that I've been coming here since I was little. If there is one location that has remained constant in my life, it is Winter Park.

When we were young, we came here almost yearly. I went to summer camp at Rollins. That was when Mama Sonia and Papa Roger lived on Pennsylvania Avenue, before all of the new developments. Now Uncle Jerry and Tia Maria-Luisa live in that house, and the neighborhood has sprung up with nuevo-riche mushroom-mansions.

Park Avenue is a member of a dying tribe in our country, the small-town main street. Where most of the shops are locally owned, the restaurants are small and ritzy, and everyone seems to know each other. I went into the "designer consignment" shop and the woman recognized me from the last time I was there, in February! I went into the over-priced women's clothing boutique, and as usual, everything was beautiful, cheaply made, and stained with foundation. I got an iced espresso at my favorite coffee shop, Pomello's. I walked around the campus at Rollins and noticed the changes, and that they are remodeling the oldest building. I remembered standing in the President's rose garden when I got the award for making the presidents list my first year there. That was weird. I walked back down Park avenue, drenched in sweat, and almost panicking over my body temp. Then I walked into the wine shop on a whim.

Greeted by the token blast of AC, I asked if they had a Vino Verde. The gentleman that came to my aid led me around the store, giving me all sorts of samples, talking about the wines, and helped me to pick one that I really liked. He fetched a cold bottle from the back, wrapped it in tissue, placed it in a cute little wine bag, and bade me return soon, which I most certainly will.

Driving back to the Mayflower, I veered off at Alabama Drive. The Alabama is a historical building, I believe that it used to be a hotel. Now it has been segmented into Condominiums, and my great Aunt used to live there. A rambling old monster of a building, covered in ivy, echoing days of yore, when this town really was a retreat from the cold for wealthy New Englanders. Across the road is a beautiful little park, and then there's the lake. And hidden in the trees is a little amphitheatre that many years ago, I discovered is an Echo chamber. So if you stand in the right spot facing the columns, and make sound, it is amplified in your ears as if you were in a cathedral. It is a little tradition of mine to come here when I visit, and to sing a song. Today, I made one up as I went along, and I sang about home. And I meant here, Winter Park.

For me, my sense of home is connected to the people who live there. So that, for example, no matter where my parents live, their house will always be home. Home is created by chance. I never loved Winter Park before, never allowed myself to see that a giant part of my history resides in this town. It was always for me a coincidence that I came here so often, that my family chose to live here, that I ended up at school here. I didn't choose it, therefore it was not home. But now, I think, when have I ever really chosen to live somewhere deliberately based on the virtues of the location? Never. Those choices have always been motivated by chance and/or love of a person. And sometimes I stayed, and the place became a home. And sometimes I left, and the memories are of a time of transition, not stability.

Quite often, it takes me a long time to see what's right in front of my face, to know what I really feel. And I'm glad that I'm finally able to see past the cold familiarity that covered my love for Winter Park. I value this place for the people that I love who live here, the deep rooted knowledge of a place that comes from years of returning, and for the gifts that the town has given me. And I hope that I can begin to see these things sooner in the other places that I call home, perhaps I can begin to call a place home while I'm living there, instead of ten years later.