A Home in the Unknown

by Charity Orwoll (Spain)

I didn't expect to find Portugal

I stared out into the bay dotted with colorful fishing boats. We had arrived. It was Laura's first time in the Algarve, and I intended to share a memory with her. She sat cross-legged on the wooden dock, eyes closed, face illuminated with a familiar sort of glow. Taking off my sandals, I let my feet touch the water, slowly sinking them deeper into the cool waters of the Atlantic. Leaning my head onto my by now worn-out backpack, I looked into the turquoise evening sky. The first time I had sat here was with my younger sister. We had arrived in Portugal, leaving everything behind us in our hometown in Germany on our quest into the unknown. Well, Germany had never really been our home, but I'll get to that. Landing in Faro, we took the bus to the harbor and went straight to the water. This was the beginning of three months backpacking through Portugal and Spain, creating a memory that changed everything. Returning to the present, I took in Pink Floyd playing on my phone. Laura was still sitting in that same position. ''It kinda feels like coming home'', she said, staring out into the water. I smiled. ''It does'', I answered, closing my eyes once more. If a place were a home, I had many, spending the first 16 years of my life in different countries due to my parents' occupation. Having a dual nationality, I spoke English and German, a bit of French, Italian and Greek. Most of which had faded into memories of different countries, different homes. I never really considered my nationality much, or felt a sense of home connected to either. Many people ask me how it was growing up in different countries, not having somewhere to call 'home'. And for a long time, the question lingered in my mind. Who I was and where I belonged in this world. Pink Floyd continued, 'Wish you where Here'. I looked at Laura, returning to some of her own memories I imagined. She was the perfect traveling companion for my introverted soul. Starting this trip in Andalusia at the guesthouse we volunteered at, where we bonded over photography and our love for the unknown. The empty bus passing through Malaga and Seville, beautiful cities with so much to discover and enjoy. But we were on the way to something else this time. A little less busy, a little more like coming home after a long, adventurous journey. Full of excitement but ready to be consumed by peace. And now we had arrived, and it was all that I remembered it to be. The strange yet familiar feeling that followed me throughout our journey across the Algarve and up to the olive farm in central Portugal. Through the rainy days in Porto, where a fellow traveler told me of Andalusia. All while filling my Sony Alpha58 with memories of home in different places. It was then that I came to understand that home is not a composition of stones and concrete, made up of an old swing in the back yard and our drawings on the refrigerator. It is in a sense of belonging, no matter where on this earth you find yourself. When someone asks me that question now, I smile and say ''you're right, I didn't have a home. I had many.'' In all the moments I stepped into the water and let my feet sink into different parts of the world, breathing in the salty air so deep I could feel it in my shoulders. You wouldn't know what I mean unless you felt it too. To be consumed by that sweet sensation of existing, of being alive. The endless passion for life and all it has to offer filling your soul with gratitude. Being somewhere so new and yet so strangely familiar. Of searching for something to call home and finding it in a moment. In an understanding that no matter where you find yourself, you are where you belong. That, to me, is the essence of home. Call it a place, or a feeling. I hope you know it too. And if not, come on out. It's waiting for you.