Whenever I travel somewhere, I go through reliable stages.
First, I notice details. The sky, the buildings, the ground. Colors, shapes. How people look and dress and talk.
I try to understand how to get where I want to go. To remember how to get back and what back looks like. To figure out how the shower works and how to calibrate sink water temperature and where to store my things. To decide how to prepare which foods. To come up with at least a vague schedule.
Soon, I adjust. I get used to waking up in this current place and going to sleep there.
And I begin to imagine: What would it be like to stay? What if I don’t drive back? What if I don’t board that flight, that bus, that train?
Could I imagine living here? What would it take?
And also, sometimes: Is this my life now? Is there really another home to return to?
Then, the trip ends. It’s time to check in for a flight, to pack and check itineraries, to return a car or catch a train, to make my way back. And when I arrive, all my essentials, like toothpaste and the clothes I prefer to wear, are packed up, so they need to be unpacked. Washed. Put away. And life goes back to normal.
(Did I really leave? I sometimes wonder after the fact. The photos sure look convincing, but, you may know by now: I’m a skeptic.)
Because of how I grew up (moving, visiting, moving, visiting), and also because I love to travel, I’m usually the visitor. The one who goes to others, stays with them in a room they can spare for a few days or a week, invades their lives, laughs at their jokes, tries not to take up too much space, and then disappears—till next time.
We live in a popular conference destination. If people visit the area, they’re usually staying at a hotel. We’re not usually overnight hosts.
But recently, we were.
Being visited is similar to visiting others in some key ways.
You pack things up and move them around to make space for incoming guests. Maybe you move to another room, empty some drawers for the visitors, keep out only the things you need on the daily, like toothpaste and contacts and towels.
When guests arrive, you take time to adjust to each other’s rhythms and spaces, volumes and topics of conversation, food needs and activity levels.
And then you’ve adjusted and so have they. You’re sharing space and time and hopefully also laughter and hugs.
And you think: What if they stayed?
If they stayed at your place, you’d have to buy food more often than usual, and perhaps figure out a schedule for sharing some key work spaces, but everything else is pretty much set. (How many families went through this with COVID?)
IIf they stayed in town but found another place to live, you’d have to coordinate less and you’d have their company.
But that imagining doesn’t change their plans.
The visit ends.
The room that’s normally yours but became theirs, chaotic and colorful and full of them, in all their loveliness, is empty.
The floors that echoed with their footsteps and voices are quiet.
And unlike when you travel, you’re in your own home. Your toothbrush is still available. Your clothes are folded up and accessible. You don’t need to return to how things were to function.
But, in a few days, you put everything back anyway. So it feels whole and full again, not like a space someone else left behind.
This Glass Has Water 