Month Two. Reserve. #MSP.

Home has become a fluid concept.

I have always been on the move. When I was growing up, my mom would take my sisters and I on cross-country train rides and plane trips. I loved these adventures and was always packed up and ready to go with my little flowered suitcase when the time came.

In college, I hopped around between majors, dorms, apartments and life philosophies. By senior year, I was hopping around countries. My life consisted of a few random boxes, a good pair of sneakers and my traveling backpack, which I lived out of.

After college, I never stayed anywhere too long. The green house was a utopia of "quarter life crisis" inhabitants, eager to delay adulthood and prolong adolescence with late nights and beer. We opened an art gallery, shared life and love and eventually all moved out when we found what we had been looking for. It was home. For a while.

There have been other homes. A crowded railroad building in Brooklyn, for a while. Seattle, again, in a tiny old studio on Broadway. A shared apartment in Queen Anne Hill. Airports. Hotels. And more hotels.

And my suitcase, of course, another sort of home. Always packed up and ready to go.

But something in me wants to find a real home. Something that is distinctly mine. Not a shared room, or a hotel or crashpad. Not something temporary. Something for keeps.

Last week, I moved out of my apartment in Seattle with the intention of moving into a subletted room on the other side of town. At the same time, I gave notice at my shared bunk bed dorm-style room in Minneapolis. Packing up my life into boxes for the second time in a year, I realized something.

I need to unpack.

It's time to find a real home. Is this an impossible wish for a flight attendant?

My little flowered suitcase, all packed up and ready to go.


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