My Far-Away Home

As Americans, we tend to distance ourselves from other cultures and ways of life. We seem to forget that maybe we aren’t the epicenter of the world. Perhaps we should immerse ourselves more within the real practices and traditions of people in different countries. Frequently, I think of my grandparents and how I yearn for a comfortable life like theirs. Even though I idealize the speed and thrill of a bustling city, I also crave the scent of fresh air and the raw character of unpaved roads and concrete-built homes. My grandparents’ home in Mexico is beautiful beyond words. Two years ago, I visited it for the first time in a long time. Seeing its royal white doors, I was hit with a pang of nostalgia. It’s cold tiled flooring contrasted with the wafts of warm air. I spent three weeks there and felt like a typical tourist, but I was filled with a sense of gratitude. The garden right by the kitchen, with its vibrant lime trees, reminded me of summers past. At some point, you look around and realize that maybe you should be more appreciative of simple pleasures. My favorite space is the balcony, where my cousins and I would sit at night and listen to the buzzing of motorcycles driving by. When people fall in love with buildings, they notice their architecture, the outward appearance of them. But this house is an oasis. This house that my grandfather built is a symbol of serenity. Regardless of these fond memories, every time I go I reflect on the fact that I never truly relish it. I spend my time on the crisp and silent plane ride back home wishing I did more, had more time. Mega malls, fast food joints, towering skyscrapers: they don’t hold a candle to the summers I’ve spent in that house.