Know What I Wish
“It’s almost your birthday,” Amanda said to me during one of our Skype chats. My birthday was 40 days away. I’ve trained my friends well. (See appendix for Anna-to-English dictionary of birthday terminology.)
A few days earlier, and partly because my birthday was coming up, I’d updated my Amazon “wish list.” I tossed in a bunch of yoga books, deleted the Cuisipro Donvier Electronic Yogurt Maker (because, really, who has time to make yogurt?) and moved a couple of must-haves to my shopping cart. And then it struck me: where to mail these must-haves? My default address was an apartment in California I’d vacated half a year earlier.
I looked at the other addresses in my Amazon account. There was the LA address of a company I no longer work for and the Brooklyn address of the pad I shared with Amanda and Sash. There were three Jersey addresses: the house I fixed up with Jason, the tiny apartment I lived in before that, and the hotel where my ex-employer put me up when I moved to the Garden State.
I’ve lived in more than a dozen cities. The addresses span three continents, eight U.S. states and Washington DC. It’s why I draw a blank every time someone asks, “Where are you from?”
I’ll never get tired of seeing the world. I think I’ll always travel. But these days, the first item on my wish list is a permanent address, a place to put the baubles I bring back.
A little while ago I found myself at Chennai’s Home Store, a giant furniture and housewares retailer à la Crate and Barrel. I didn’t need anything. I wandered through every department, caressing throw pillows, comparing kitchen gadgets, sniffing scented candles. Most of my belongings are stacked in a shed, stuffed in a car trunk or sitting in friends’ homes. I’m a home accents junkie without a home.
In the end, I changed my default address to my mom’s place in Pittsburgh. It’s the closest thing to home. It’s where I’ll head when I return to the States at the end of March. And, ahem, it’s where all birthday gifts should be sent.
“It’s almost my birthday.” . . . . . It’s 4-6 weeks away.
“What’d you get me?” . . . . . It’s 2-4 weeks away.
“It’s my birthday!” . . . . . It’s up to 2 weeks away.
A few days earlier, and partly because my birthday was coming up, I’d updated my Amazon “wish list.” I tossed in a bunch of yoga books, deleted the Cuisipro Donvier Electronic Yogurt Maker (because, really, who has time to make yogurt?) and moved a couple of must-haves to my shopping cart. And then it struck me: where to mail these must-haves? My default address was an apartment in California I’d vacated half a year earlier.
I looked at the other addresses in my Amazon account. There was the LA address of a company I no longer work for and the Brooklyn address of the pad I shared with Amanda and Sash. There were three Jersey addresses: the house I fixed up with Jason, the tiny apartment I lived in before that, and the hotel where my ex-employer put me up when I moved to the Garden State.
I’ve lived in more than a dozen cities. The addresses span three continents, eight U.S. states and Washington DC. It’s why I draw a blank every time someone asks, “Where are you from?”
I’ll never get tired of seeing the world. I think I’ll always travel. But these days, the first item on my wish list is a permanent address, a place to put the baubles I bring back.
A little while ago I found myself at Chennai’s Home Store, a giant furniture and housewares retailer à la Crate and Barrel. I didn’t need anything. I wandered through every department, caressing throw pillows, comparing kitchen gadgets, sniffing scented candles. Most of my belongings are stacked in a shed, stuffed in a car trunk or sitting in friends’ homes. I’m a home accents junkie without a home.
In the end, I changed my default address to my mom’s place in Pittsburgh. It’s the closest thing to home. It’s where I’ll head when I return to the States at the end of March. And, ahem, it’s where all birthday gifts should be sent.
Appendix
“My birthday is coming up.” . . . . . It’s 6-8 weeks away.“It’s almost my birthday.” . . . . . It’s 4-6 weeks away.
“What’d you get me?” . . . . . It’s 2-4 weeks away.
“It’s my birthday!” . . . . . It’s up to 2 weeks away.