New York, Originally — MAGGIE DANIELLI PECORINO

The more homecomings I have, the happier I am to be back.

One might assume the opposite of a perpetual traveler. But if you speak to people like myself, you’ll find that for most, a sense of home is not something to be avoided, but something to be sought.

Still, nothing can replace the original.

New York — let’s boogie.

Would you look at that? I’m happy to be home!

Not because I want to stay.

But because the more I do it — this coming home after four, five months away thing — the more I know its importance, its place. Not geographically. (I have no idea why I feel the need to specify that, but I am.)

The first time I came home after five months, I was nervous as hell. Will I still have friends? Am I going to be perceived as annoying? Who even am I in this context? Am I going to die?

The second time I came home, I was bummed for the trip to wrap up, but for various reasons, I knew it was the right time.

The third time I came home, it was fully against my will. But I had things to deal with. Such is life.

The fourth time is now, and I am no longer merely coping — I am very, very glad.

The funny thing about those first three instances is that despite the less-than-lovely feelings that floated about my intestines prior to deplaning in New York, I was never beside myself. And why?

Because something in me knew it wasn’t the end.

Now, as things have progressed, I know for damn certain it’s not the end. Now, I view coming home as a continuation of my travels, and my life.

—

“Is it still home if it’s not a place you actually live?”, the voice in my head asks.

The answer is of course. Of course.

But something strange started happening recently.

On the road, I get asked about ten times a day where I’m from.

And these past few months, instead of simply “New York”…

I repeatedly caught myself saying “New York, originally.”

?????????????

Hello? Maggie? What the hell does that mean? You’ll always be from New York.

And I will be. But the fact is I don’t identify as strongly with this place as I once did. And that makes a lot of sense if you look at my last two years: I’ve been in New York for about five months of the last twenty four.

That’s what I think the added “originally” indicates.

Distance.

—

On the flip lies a truth: home never leaves you no matter how far you go.

One thing I’ve observed in myself over these last two years is that I’ve slowed down. Blame it on the extended stints of beach life or simply the result of moving out of Manhattan. Either way, it’s true that physically, I am more relaxed. (I.e. I have to consciously speed up while walking in the city. Not a joke.)

Mentally, too — I’ve chilled out. And yet…

The other week I ordered an americano in a café to accompany me on a leisurely stroll down the boardwalk in San Diego. I had nowhere to be. Nothing urgent to do. The day sprawled out in front of me. All the time in the world.

And I swear… if that americano didn’t take fifteen fucking minutes to make.

There was one person in front of me. It was not at all busy. It was an americano for the love of God! I could feel the tension in my body forming fast.

Then I laughed. Because I know myself.

Maggie, the New Yorker: addicted to urgency. The pace, and yes, my impatience make for a kicking combo. And I don’t think these things will ever fully leave me.

The longer I travel, the more it makes me smile to recognize disjointed bits of my self like that. New York, while not a place I choose to reside full-time any longer, is the city that created the core of me — “originally”.

Alright. Maximum cheese level achieved means I’m out of here. Nothing more to say about the essence of “home”.

Only that it changes.

Home, currently: the place where I can reset and rebalance before the inevitable twists and turns of… well, everywhere else.