Wednesday, August 26, 2009
It's a bit odd to meet people here as predictably they ask where I live and then it follows that I point to the hill or refer to my street or neighborhood. Invariably they say, "Oh, I know someone who lives up there" to which I ask, "Did you know the Vito's?" And the answer is yes and then I tell them, "Well, then you know where I live AND my phone number." Makes things easier, I guess. But it's still a bit odd.
On one hand, it is easier. People know my house and my number. I don't have to bother writing it down. They probably know it better than I do.
But on the other hand, it feels strange. Almost as if my house isn't really all my house still. It has a life and a history that hasn't had time to fade before my history begins. In Germany my house was my house. Very few people knew the previous tenant and even fewer had actually been to the house. I marked it. I made it mine. It was (and still is to many friends), the Stahlbaum's house. Now I'm in a home with stories still fresh in people's minds from a family who just left a couple weeks ago and I have to fill it, live in it, and try to mark it making it mine now - our place for our stories.
It needs flowers. Art on the walls. Some smashing patio furniture. And... a party. Yep, one big wonderful party where everyone is invited to see our place again, but for the first time.
I think I just need one really big party. Either that or I litter the lawn with a few dozen pink flamingos. That would definitely make it unique.
On one hand, it is easier. People know my house and my number. I don't have to bother writing it down. They probably know it better than I do.
But on the other hand, it feels strange. Almost as if my house isn't really all my house still. It has a life and a history that hasn't had time to fade before my history begins. In Germany my house was my house. Very few people knew the previous tenant and even fewer had actually been to the house. I marked it. I made it mine. It was (and still is to many friends), the Stahlbaum's house. Now I'm in a home with stories still fresh in people's minds from a family who just left a couple weeks ago and I have to fill it, live in it, and try to mark it making it mine now - our place for our stories.
It needs flowers. Art on the walls. Some smashing patio furniture. And... a party. Yep, one big wonderful party where everyone is invited to see our place again, but for the first time.
I think I just need one really big party. Either that or I litter the lawn with a few dozen pink flamingos. That would definitely make it unique.
Labels:
Life in Spain
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
I LOVE MOO! Creative.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
3 comments:
It's like when you buy a piece of furniture from a garage sale or used furniture store. The furniture has had its own life and many people see it one way and think they know all about it. However, you will re paint it put it is a room it has never occupied doing a job it wasn't originally made for. Now it is adapted to your tastes and although it is the same it is also very different.
I have always wanted to live in a house that has a history and is know in a community. Maybe that is the hidden history buff in me.
I agree. It's just that the stories in this house are too recent - feels still a bit like "the Vito's house" and not yet mine.
I do love antiques and old homes for those stories that they hold. You would have loved my German house. It was only 100 years old when we moved in, but still had so many stories - many of which we learned from our neighbor who had lived there. It had been a butcher shop/meat market and even had meat hooks and a smokeroom in the basement.
OH MY! I would have loved that. That is so neat! I always thought it would be cool to live in an old firehouse like they have in San Fran. When I went to Boston in high school all teh old houses and buildings were amazing. I took so may pictures of just those!