Jump into my weekly journal, where I explore my relationship with an ever changing world! I’d like to turn writing into a career; if you want to help me conquer that dream, please subscribe.
My girlfriend and I are on holiday in a small seaside town called Mossel Bay, somewhere in the middle of South Africa’s Garden Route. I really prefer to use the town’s Afrikaans name, Mosselbaai. I’m not sure why, perhaps because most of the locals and holiday makers seem to be Afrikaans (if they aren’t Germans or Brits). Perhaps because the friend who has kindly let us stay in her apartment is Afrikaans. She is a relatively new friend of mine, but has known my parents since they were younger than I am now; she has very generously allowed us to stay in her family’s holiday home for a week, rent free. My girlfriend and I gawked at the view when we first saw it; massive sliding doors lead out onto a balcony with an extensive ocean and beachfront view. It’s almost sickening, how spoilt we are. The minuscule, labyrinthine parking garage that threatens to dent my car with every turn isn’t even enough to discourage my enthusiasm. As we carried our rucksacks and cooler box up the stairs and into the apartment and began unpacking the milk and the coffee pot, a strange sense dawned on me. I have stayed in the homes of people I know and love. I have stayed in the homes of strangers. I have stayed in apartments and hostels that are home only to weary, backpack laden travellers. This place isn’t quite a home. As we opened doors to uncover bathrooms or cabinets to find mugs and saucepans, I got the sense that this flat is loved, but often empty. In the cupboard that I found my pillow in, there was a big Christmas wreath decorated with silver and gold baubles and big red ribbons stashed, askew, in the top shelf. From where I sit writing, I see a tall silver candlestick and a wooden Christmas ornament, but they sit in a dark corner on top of an empty, unplugged mini-fridge. When we arrived, some things had been put away: towels, bedding. Some things were left just so; there was still soap in the shower, awaiting the return of family or maybe of friends like us. The space feels like it yearns for the messiness of life: for sand strewn from the feet of care free children; for the sweet, sticky scent of sunscreen; for threadbare, sun bleached furniture. But half burnt candles and old, unsettlingly well kept furniture echo a half used home.
My family hasn’t got a holiday home, when we go on vacation it usually involves tents and fold out chairs. Our garage is overfilled with camping paraphernalia. I love and value my camping experiences now (I can start a fire with a box of matches and a good attitude, a great party trick in the right company), but I often resented my family camping trips when I was younger. I wished that I, too, would be in the middle of the beach town buzz, annually reunited with seasonal friends. When I sometimes did get the chance to visit a friend or acquaintance’s holiday home, I wondered how I would make use of the space, were it mine. My imagination hissed and sparked into life. Perhaps I would’ve known the neighbours. We’d have gone on midnight hikes and sunrise swims. I would have learnt to surf. Or skate. Probably both… Though I like to believe I’ve let go of much of my boyhood jealousy, I realise that I looked at this flat through the same envious eyes. How would I prefer to use this room? What makes sense? What doesn’t? My scrutiny suggests that this home is something to be improved upon. Side note: I believe that it’s possible to comment on a space and whether it connects with you without undermining the value it has to those who own or love it, but that wasn’t my attitude when I arrived. I’m afraid my first response was not that of grace and gratitude. A skill I’ll have to practise. I analysed this apartment and judged why it doesn’t fit my definition of a home, I didn’t choose to discover how this might be a perfectly crafted home in the eyes of another.
In one of the apartment’s kitchen cupboards I found eleven different boxes of tea; that is so wonderfully reminiscent of my family and our wide and varying tastes. I picture a poor old dad stuck in the kitchen for ages, making two cups of chai, one rooibos, one camomile and three english breakfast. That scene screams home. There’s a big kettle, lots of mugs. There’s an enormous pink one with white polka dots that I love. Maybe that was ouma’s Christmas present one year, maybe mom saw it on sale. The coffee table is expansive and made of welcoming dark wood. There is a set of wooden coasters on the console and I can practically hear each and every time mom or dad had to repeat themselves, instructing their children to use a coaster. The leather couches match the table nicely, but not so well that I feel unsure whether I can actually use them. I sometimes shy away from spaces that feel too well designed, the homes that I find the warmest are a little cluttered and dissonant. The same is true here: the throw pillows don’t quite match the rest of the lounge, one side table looks like it was inherited. Pictures of family adorn the walls. The sheer volume of seating and cutlery tell me that when this place isn’t empty, it’s full. This little beachside flat proudly bears the mosaic of trinkets and artwork that a person allows into their lives (or in my case, or my father’s or anyone else who finds themselves similarly afflicted: the trinkets you simply cannot bear to let go of). I can find a lot of life, a lot to connect with, if I choose to see this as a beloved home rather than an empty flat.
I sometimes wonder what my life must look like from the outside. Just as I eagerly underlined what I saw as flaws in this apartment, I am aware that my world contains many details that may raise the eyebrows of onlookers. I sort my books by the colour of their spines, for example. As much as my organisational methodology pains my dad, maybe you are similarly begrudged, I like it and I don’t plan on changing it. But bookshelves are low stakes. What about the parts of my life that are more closely tied to my identity? I know an uncle who has an opinion on what I should have studied. I know an aunt who thought I’d be in a different stage of life by now. I know a grandparent who must negotiate between their worries about me and belief in me. I’m sure they each have an opinion on how I should arrange the furniture of my decisions, what I ought to think and believe and do. I try to listen to the wisdom of those that know me and disregard the criticism of those that don’t. When it comes to books and coffee tables, perhaps we should all be free to do what we like. I hope that when my loved ones look at my life, they might have the grace to choose to see what works rather than what doesn’t.
Seriously, the parking is scary. My girlfriend stood outside of the car waving me left and right for ten minutes just to leave the building! If you enjoyed this journal, please send it to someone you love.