An Immigrants Definition of Home!
What is "home" for digital nomads and those living abroad
As the Uber driver came to a stop, I paused for a moment, exhaling a prolonged sigh, retrieved my suitcase, and felt the September evening sea breeze drift across my face. A dear friend who had sublet my apartment for the summer stood with a welcoming smile in the tall, slim, carved doorway. I was home.
It had been 2 ½ months of carry-on only European travel. I pet sat in Switzerland, Belgium, and England, exploring six countries, deep diving into new cultures, and traveling for much less. I was ready to burn my armpit-stained t-shirts and retire a bra that gave up its support on a train in Germany. Bursting with new travel memories and discoveries that required mental organization, my brain felt like a pile of clean laundry needing sorting, folding, and hanging into my closet of life.
There were eye-popping views from church bell towers, and ancient castle ruins all summer. I was horrified at food prices (I’m talkin’ to you, Switzerland!), and I dove into luscious wines, frothy beers, and enough cuisine and cheese to back up my bowels for days. I lived in homes while caring for adorable kitties. I embraced Belgium's complex trash and recycling system and, as in the past, navigated logistics without a SIM card, relying solely on public Wi-Fi and that secret weapon: the female intuition.
For 2 ½ weeks in late September, I returned home to Portugal to catch my breath, repack, and head to the USA for 5 weeks of business, visiting family and friends and voting in a hair-raising election. There would be five flights, two train trips, one road trip, and 11 locations to rest my head at night. Oh, and a foodie list that included massive quantities of Mexican food, a real donut (or three), Pho, Ethiopian, and towering Reuben’s dripping with fresh Saurkraut and gooey cheese — worth every calorie. There was a list of items to purchase in the States: a new mouth guard (yummy), shoes that actually fit, and wool sweaters for those damp, cut-right-through-you Portugal winters.
Returning home in mid-November found me spent on every level. Over the next 2-weeks, I would navigate through stubborn jetlag; you know, walking into walls, confusion, ready to start my day (at 2 a.m.), and an achy body and joints. I looked, spoke, and stumbled around like a college freshman after a week-long bender. Needless to say, any significant life decisions were tabled for a later date.
And while it's good to travel and create new memories, it's great to come home.
Yet, I got to thinking: now that I’m an immigrant, what is home?
Since March 7, 2023, Portugal has been my new adopted home. Navigating immigration is not for the faint of heart. Immigrating solo to a country (sight unseen) is reserved for the insane — thank you very much. Still, I am a proud, card-carrying Portugal resident and know moving to Europe was one of the best decisions of my life. Living a more balanced life is extraordinary: I walk slower, live simply, and am grateful for authentic friendships that will last a lifetime. (Still working on dumping that 12 pounds of immigration on my caboose.)
For decades, I embraced the fantasy that home meant a generous-sized dwelling (preferably featuring a white picket fence) with an emerald lawn and DIY weekend warrior projects. In this house, there would be large gatherings around gross quantities of carbs, armchair football referees, and squealing grandchildren. I’m going out on a limb here, but I’ll wager that most families don’t live like this. We are a digital global society where many families splinter and come together out of a sense of duty versus desire. “But we always spend Thanksgiving with my family,” your husband chirps — as you feel a growing anxiety and break out in hives.
Immigrants (different from expats) deeply understand what the definition of home means. As a minority living in a foreign country, you must proactively create a sense of home. A place of comfort amongst unfamiliarity. A place where your absence leaves a gap in the lives of others. Upon returning to Tavira in November, my calendar bulged with coffee dates, 3-hour lunches with three glasses of the famous Portuguese Pour wine, and the timely church bells. In this small Algarve town, I have met extraordinary people I consider family worldwide. You know, the people on your emergency call list.
Building a home is about connection, regardless of location. Many of my neighbors don’t speak English, yet we converse. Arriving back from summer travels, my neighbor gave me a thumbs up and called, ”You gone long time. You back, you back!” Home is about recognizing faces on the street, like Sukhpreet, the tall, bearded man who wears an orange turban and stands outside his Indian restaurant, sweeping his hand, saying to passersby, “Most welcome. Best Tikka Masala.” It was food for my soul when a British volunteer at the local charity shop put aside two beautifully embroidered pillow slips with my name neatly written on a post-it note, as she knows I like “old things.” Always a hive of activity, this shop is where the classic rock-n-roll playlist keeps a steady beat, and the kettle is as hot as the local gossip.
So, what does home mean for this little traveler? Home is not a place (although a roof over your head is nice). Home is an open heart and mind. It’s about fostering connection and mutual companionship with people who may not be in your usual tribe but who you love, learn from, support, and together, blossom into expanded mindsets, flexibility, and a greater love for humanity. This type of home is community-by-choice and can exist anywhere.
In the future, I plan to continue exploring Portugal and our awe-inspiring world. Knowing I have close, loyal, authentic friendships across our tiny globe is comforting. Some are even relatives. In the States, there is a core group of “sisters” who are family. And despite an 8-hour time difference, we are there for each other and protective of our relationships.
As a solo female trotting down the path of an “aging adult” living in a foreign country, thoughts of future isolation and loneliness can rear their bastardly head at the sight of every new wrinkle. Many family relationships shift and grow apart, connected only by blood or a branch in the family tree. Home (and family) is not some pie-in-the-sky fantasy of picket fences; it’s about shared hope, community, and belonging. My father taught me that.
For now, my quaint 145-year-old Portuguese apartment is home. There’s always a musty smell, Pigeon crap on the patio, and don’t get me started on the lavender, faux-painted guest bedroom walls that look like a virulent skin rash. There’s Minnie Mouse art, grandma’s hand-me-down furniture, and a low ceiling in the shower that I continuously whack my head on. Still, I love its quirky charm.
Living in Portugal, I’ve experienced firsthand the common phrase, “Home is where the heart is.” How very true. Home is knowing (and feeling) valued, needed, heard, and contributing to the lives of others. Home is dear friends (and family) who invite you to be part of their lives and are excited to share yours. There’s an overflow of blessings that stem from being part of a community by choice, a life I look forward to cultivating wherever I call HOME!