East Mountain Drive.

Calle San Jorge.

Seminary Road.

Avenue A.

And on and on and on.

For most of my life -- and certainly all my adult life -- whenever anyone has asked me where I'm from, I never know what to say.  Do they mean most recently?  Where I was born?  Where I've spent most of my time?  This is usually the first or second question people ask you after first meeting, so usually you have about three seconds to decide how in depth of an answer to give and whether they really want to know or if they were just making light conversation and didn't really care about the details in the first place. 

At any rate, it's an odd feeling not to know the answer, and it's an odd feeling to want to go home and not be sure where that is.  While it may be becoming increasingly rare, it's hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that some people are born, live, and die all within a circle on the map with maybe a two hour radius.  There are times I've been jealous of that.  They know where they're from.  They have friends they've had their entire lives that are still in their lives.  I am used to people cycling in and out of mine.  The average is about 4 or 5 years before I eventually lose touch with them completely (although social media has changed that somewhat), and sometimes that's not a bad thing, to be honest.   

Google maps does make it easy to revisit your old homes.  I got a bit emotional "driving" (via Gmaps) around my old neighborhood in Mexico and seeing all the changes, remembering being a kid there, knowing that some of the friends I had there are dead now, and I don't know where the rest are.

I guess home is where you know you can return at any time and be loved, be yourself, be at peace.  I think I'm still looking for it, but I've gotten a whole lot closer in the past month or two.  

These pictures are all from around my new "home."