I’m at a rest stop somewhere in upstate New York, breaking for lunch. It’s a little early, but this particular service center has a Moe’s, which is a couple notches above the McDonald’s I usually settled for on road trips.
“So, where are you from?” the man assembling my veggie bowl asks me.
I pause for a moment, not really sure what to tell him. My guess is that he wants to know my ethnicity, as that’s what people usually mean when they ask me where I’m from. I tell him that I ‘m driving from Albany.
“Oh, so you’re from Albany?” he asks as he drizzles cheese atop my rice and bean mountain. The momentary look of surprise confirms that he indeed was expecting me to mention another country.
Just nod and say yes. You hate making small talk with strangers.
“Well, not really. I just moved there a few months ago. I’m from Missouri.”
“Ah, that’s a long drive from here!”
“Oh, I’m not driving there, I’m driving to D.C.”
The man looks at me with slight confusion and decides not to engage further. He rings me up and sends me on my way with extra tortilla chips and salsa.
The thing is, I’m quite used to these confusing conversations on my travels and day to day life, although it still stumps me that I have yet to figure out a concise response. I mean, really. How hard is it to convey that where I live is not necessarily where I’m from?
As I drive on, leaving New York behind me as I enter New Jersey (Really, Miss Marvel? This is what you’re skipping school to defend? Um, ok.), I wonder at what point I’ll start to feel like a New Yorker. In all likelihood, I won’t ever get there. I like it here, and don’t feel any immediate desire to leave, but I know it’s inevitable. I came here with a specific purpose, and when I’ve achieved that, I will be swept off to wherever the best job opportunity takes me.
I sometimes wonder how it feels to put down roots and just know that you’re not going anywhere. I don’t mean getting married and having kids necessarily, I just mean coming to a stop, and knowing you’ve come to a stop. Sometimes I long for it. Sometimes the mere idea of it feels like a death sentence. And sometimes – since moving to NY – I feel like I’m approaching it.
As I said, I doubt I’ll be here long-term. But since moving to Albany in August, I’ve actually felt somewhat…settled. I already know that I want to renew my lease for next year (even if I have stayed in the same city for more than a year, I cannot for the life of me remember ever renewing my lease.) I’m thinking of hitting Ikea while I’m visiting my sister in DC and buying an additional bookshelf, when my customary running-out-of-space tactic is to throw out/donate things and/or store things at my parents’ house. In short, I’m flying in the face of the Nomad’s rule book.
1. Thou shalt covet the short-term lease.
2. Thou shalt not put down roots with Swedish furniture. Or something.
But rules are more like guidelines, right? (#LinesThatDontWorkOnCops) And things change without warning. So they have here, and they’ll probably change again without warning. But for now, I’m happy, and that’s all any of us is looking for, isn’t it?