I live the life of a nomad. My life is a constant shuffle between houses, environments and parents. Tokyo to New York, public school to private, Mom to Dad-- these changes are my daily life. I’m not opposed to change; in fact, I welcome it. However, I believe in the idea of some sort of roots, the ability to call somewhere “home” where I belong, a place that never changes. That place is my grandparents’ house. I call it home because of how it looks, smells, and even feels. It is not perfect, but it is a sanctuary where I belong because of the people and the warmth of the culture.
Tucked away in a small town near Antwerp, Belgium, the house is completely undisturbed. There are no loud parties or obnoxious teens roaming the neighborhood. In fact, I would even say it’s rare to see a person walking down the street. Moreover, it is surrounded by forests and a castle nearby for peaceful walks. When I enter the trails of my childhood, a black cat statue stands by the entrance. It sits relaxed, knowing that I am no foe. For the longest time, the cat used to loom over me, intimidating me with his height. The sky above is always gray, and the weather is constantly damp, but it is never suffocating. It is essential to bring raincoats or umbrellas once you step outside, as downpours are frequent and almost daily.
The side door of the house opens directly to the laundry room where I am usually met with the aroma of foreign laundry detergent. The cold stone floors force me to wear my thickest socks indoors. My grandmother likes being in the kitchen to prepare her famous French fries and chicken. I can almost taste the gravy that will later be soaked in my fries. She’s adamant about the fact that Belgians created French fries. While it sounds unrealistic, I believe her. Both of my grandparents are very proud of their country and have a giant flag on a flagpole outside their house to prove it.
Upstairs is the bed I sleep in every winter break. The ladybug infested room reminds me of close times with my sister with trump cards and Nutella sandwiches. Our jet lag fuels nights with high energy and squealing. Next door is my grandpa’s office, which is full of memories from soccer games and quirky Belgian videos. The odor of aftershave and Belgian soap from his bathroom can be smelt from his office. I love this place.
I was last there in March for my mother’s fiftieth birthday. My grandfather’s knees were too weak for a walk. His silver Honda CRV sat in the gravel driveway that crunched beneath my feet. My grandpa was in the living room beginning to prepare for dinner. He slid all the leftover crumbs onto a plate, preparing dinner for birds instead of us. Outside, the birds sat on nearby trees awaiting their meal. They instantly flocked to the birdhouse as soon as my grandfather began to walk away. Several minutes later a squirrel invited himself over. My grandpa threatened to shoot it with his pellet gun and smacked the glass of the window with his hand. I could not resist letting out a chuckle.
It’s when no one is looking that my grandfather gets really mischievous. I remember vividly the time my grandfather burst into the room at six in the morning with his pellet gun. “Hands up,” he cried. Also, ever since I was just ten years old, my grandfather would pull out his motorcycle and let me go for a spin in the backyard. He got it on sale a hundred years ago and was unable to let go of it. Compared to today’s motorcycles, it was a junk bike that weighed more than an elephant. He would start the engine and rev it a few times. I used to feel so cool with the oversized helmet wobbling at every turn of my head. When the scent of diesel began to fill my nose, the bike was finally ready for use. And every time I would release the brake and zoom past the pool of many summer memories and the stump where once a large tree stood. I would pass the tool shed where my grandparents claimed an alligator lived. I would round the bush where years ago I found a bird's nest, and I would make my way to the bocce ball field where I “miraculously” beat my grandparents every time. And every time my trip came to an end.
That week in March was the last week I spent at my grandparents’ house. About a month ago they sold it and moved into an apartment. It was the only place I have ever called home. The last remaining roots. It appears impossible for me to avoid change, and once again I am forced to adjust and carry on.