Posted on March 4, 2010 by Colin

Home Is Where the Porn Is

 

I’m sitting here in Melbourne – on the floor – in the corner of my hostel room.

My roommates seem to think I’m missing a few screws, and I’m not sure they’re wrong.

I just went through a bag of Doritos and I’m on my second Sugar Free Red Bull.

I’ve been on this computer all day, changing locations so as not to seem like ‘that guy who’s on his computer all day.’ I figure each room is a different group, and each group is a completely separate ecosystem. If I can change location every few hours, each group will think they saw the isolated few hours I spend on the computer each day, and it’s unlikely that they’ll all get together and compare notes.

This establishes plausible deniability. Niiiiice.

Despite the friendly Aussie and Irish dudes bunked up near the door and the sassy Venezuelan model camped out above me, I’m feeling incredibly antisocial, putting in enough work not to be unfriendly – even going so far as sharing some wine and conversation with the model last night – but honestly all I want to do is go back downstairs to the far, dark side of the hostel’s bar where a wayward WiFi signal can usually be picked up or across the street to McDonald’s (the source of that signal).

I’ve been buying a lot of McDonald’s bottled water. God, I can’t stand their food.

This isn’t me and I know it, but I know the why I feel this way.

I’m homesick.

It’s not a traditional kind of homesick, however. My family is great, but I’m not homesick for their house in Missouri. Nor am I missing the townhouse I shared with my ex in Los Angeles before scrapping my lifestyle and starting over.

No, honestly I just miss the idea of home. A place I where I can unpack my clothing and store them in a closet. A place where I can leave my computer out all day. Where my devices are always charged. A place with a fridge I can put food in without having to write my name on it.

A place with an iron.

I want to be able to get up whenever and go to sleep whenever, without worrying about accidentally waking someone else in the room. I want to workout any time I please without feeling like I owe someone else an explanation. I want a place where I can walk around naked all day long without being arrested.

I’m talking naked yoga, people. Home is naked yoga.

This is what I miss. The last time I had it was in Buenos Aires, early in January. At that point I was living in a nice studio apartment in Recoleta, having fun and fancy-free. I’ve had a lot of adventures in the meantime, and I wouldn’t take them back for the world, but I need to recharge.

And it’s not enough to just stay with someone in a nice place. I’ve stayed at a lot of nice places since then, but it’s not the same. When it’s someone else’s home you’re always worried about moving anything or making a mess or getting too comfortable. You don’t usually unpack your stuff. Your stuff is still packed and you think you’re at home? Don’t kid yourself, buckaroo.

So that’s where I’m at in my head, leaning against the wall, listening to music on my headphones while my roommate chats away with his girlfriend and wonders what I’m doing on my computer. Porn, probably. He thinks I’m looking at porn.

Not here, roomie. This isn’t home. Just one more thing to miss about having a place to settle, even if briefly.

Home is where the porn is.