Do you have a dream home? Oh, I don’t mean a house as such, though that would be a part of it, I mean a place. When you travel are you, even unconsciously, looking for your dream home, that special place which ticks all the boxes in your heart and soul? Everywhere I’ve ever been I believe I’ve asked myself, “Could I live here?” The answer invariably is, “No,” but sometimes there’s a “Yes.” To date, however, the yeses have been too expensive, forbidden (no longterm visa) or too far away from aging family.
Generally for me it’s that middle thing, the not being allowed to live in my chosen spots. Deciding what to do a few days back, I made a list of what it would take to make my dream place. It is, of course, by the ocean, but with mountains within easy reach; it is multi-cultural, drawing color and passion from folk from many different backgrounds and nationalities; there is good wi-fi; a variety of cuisines at reasonable prices available; it’s lively and has sports facilities; easy access to art is high on the list (bookshops, cinemas, theater, museums, concerts); it’s sophisticated (in the real sense of the word) in a laid back way. The climate is important, but if everything fell into place, and the seasons were as seasons ought to be (i.e. not 12 months of rain and cloud) then that might be less important. In fact, I guess, if enough boxes are ticked, then the ones which aren’t become less significant.
And so I come to El Médano; by the ocean; a half hour from the mountains; a half hour from theaters and concerts in Santa Cruz; twenty minutes from the cinema; reasonably multi-cultural; good choice of eateries (sushi, great pizza, crepes, Chinese, fish, original-enough snackeries, bakeries, terrific farmers’ market); decent wi-fi and availability in bars and cafés; laid back lifestyle; not overly expensive; fantastic climate; excellent sports facilities.
El Médano sure ticks a lot of my boxes, but, and this is a huge but for me, my ideal place would have English as its first language. I love the English language. I love playing with words. I love to hear it spoken in all its many guises, whether it’s William Shakespeare or Aaron Sorkin, spoken by Patrick Stewart or Denzel Washington. The music of my soul is sung in the English language, Blues and Rock ‘n’ Roll and even some Country. I miss the closeness of this. I miss sharing it.
And yet, as I sit here, street sounds drifting up, kids playing soccer on the street below, the clatter of someone stacking dishes coming from an open window somewhere above me, people laughing as they stroll home from the concert I know has taken place in the town square this evening, this feels strangely like home. Perhaps it is the familiarity – the fact that this is the 5th time I’ve gravitated back to this small town – that makes it feel this way. Perhaps it is that I simply accept that sufficient boxes are ticked at this moment, and that sooner or later the urge to get away will overcome me again. Perhaps if we stay too long in one place we see too much of the negative. Perhaps that’s why the urge to keep moving or seeking.
What I know for now is this. I need a base, somewhere which feels welcoming to return to, and for the rest, for now, there is the internet.