Homesick

I didn’t think I’d be homesick for Madison so quickly. There is so much to love about our new life in Mexico, one month in–I am reminded of that as a neighbor practices his accordion outside my window in the electric air of Guadalajara’s rainy season, as a poblano chile casserole keeps me from needing yet another snack for this tadpole, as the palm tree rustles in my backyard, and as my family serenely goes about our evening life. But still, I am daily reminded of the snippets of home that I miss. Our friends and family, of course, go without saying. What surprises me are the pieces of Madison that leave me longing.

Sigh. I knew that leaving Madison was going to be hard. But it’s only when immersed in this amazing new world of Guadalajara that I realize how hard. Because if I can long for a city (pssht! an overgrown small town) while in the midst of a Grand Adventure, you know it has to be good. Plus, I am, and always will be, a Chicago girl at heart. It is the place that leaves an ache in my gut, the home I long for when I am most missing any home, the comfortable world I nestle into no matter how long I’m gone. Madison for these past six years has felt like a detour, a little back-road deviation from my Chicago life. But I realize now, after leaving, that Madison has become home. And I’m homesick.

Public libraries. When I get home from school, I want nothing more than to bring my girl–who is now so intrigued by books as toys and word extravaganzas–to the library, where she can pick out new books (and toys!), and maybe even attend a story hour or two. I miss the cool A/C air of a summer library, and the warm burst in the winter when you walk through those doors. And the books, oh, the books…

The neighborhood. Our daily ritual, from the very first day we were home with Anna, was a walk around the neighborhood. And what a neighborhood! We would stop at the lake to quack at duckies, we’d run into friends on nearly every block (or we’d make new ones!), we’d swing in Orton Park until someone else needed a turn, and we’d walk our loop that took us past dream homes, the canopy of the Yahara River, friendly pooches, school, and eventually a stop at the Co-op for a sweet pre-dinner treat. Our neighborhood was this perfect blend of urban conveniences and the serenity of easy, Wisconsin living.

The Farwell. My sidewalk garden of tomatoes and cilantro and greens and other edible bounty. Our neighbors–in the driveway, the hallway, the yard. Someone always willing to share a beer or a meal or make Anna squeal with giggles. The tell-tale put-put of Tio Gregg’s arrival in his kit car and Ross hanging out the window to welcome him home. The two-minute driveway greetings with neighbors that turn into long evening conversations. The community BBQs where food, friends, and drink were shared generously.

Parks. Parks with soft, lush, green grass, where Anna can find dandelions to munch on and twigs to eat. Parks with baby swings. Parks with friends.

The Farmer’s Market. It had been a while since we were regular patrons of the Saturday market on the Square, but for the first few years we lived in Wisconsin, it was our Saturday morning ritual. And then Anna came along, and we discovered the Tuesday market in the parking lot next to our house. We have tianguis here, which are their own wonderful spectacle, but I miss the friendly faces, the banjo-playing, the free lemonade, the sausages and granola and maple syrup, and the friendly faces of our Wil-Mar community.

Festivals. This weekend is the Orton Park Festival, one block down from our Spaight Street home. It is the festival that gleefully welcomed us to Madison back in that rainy August of 2006, when Ross and I were elbow-deep in unpacking and all of a sudden rocked upright by the sounds of a surprise Buckwheat Zydeco concert. We bolted down the street, danced our fannies off, tried Lao food for the first time, and marveled at one another, “This place is all right.” And in the six years since, within just a few blocks of our house (and lately, with Anna in tow), we’ve bounced and danced and sung along to some of our favorite musicians–the Carolina Chocolate Drops, Trombone Shorty, Aurelio Martinez, Chicago Afrobeat Project, Robbie Fulks, and innumerable Zydeco and cajun bands. It’s festival season still in Madison, and I am missing it.

Fall. I’ve been yearning for years to leave the weather of the Midwest behind. And the weather here is dazzling (even the rains). So imagine my surprise when I saw a few pictures from Madison last week where people where wearing sweatshirts and hats and I felt…sad. Fall. It’s probably in the air now. Those first crisp notes of the weather change. The first eager unpacking of long-neglected fleeces and sweaters and pants. The anticipation of   rainbow leaves and apple cider and bonfires and the down comforter. The cycle of another year announcing itself–first with pleasant cool breezes, then with winds that delightfully chap your cheeks, and eventually with cold that drives you indoors to enjoy red wine and baked goods. And then spring and summer and fall over again. Sigh. I love the seasons.

Mail. We don’t get it here. It just isn’t possible. I miss my magazines, and the surprise packages for Anna, and cards and announcements. (I don’t miss the junk mail. Or the political ads.)

The Madison birthing and parenting community. We’ve hit the half-way point of this little Tadpole’s stay in my belly. The aches are creeping into my back, the questions and planning for birth and after are preoccupying me, and I keep finding myself reaching out for the resources and friends that made my pregnancy with Anna so wonderful…except, they’re not here. Now, there is so much that is BETTER about being pregnant in Guadalajara (Don’t even get me started on the amazing ultrasounds! Or the fact that my inevitably late baby will likely not be induced…or the fact that when our Tadpole arrives, we will have full-time, sanity-saving, help with Anna and the house), but I am longing for prenatal yoga with Amie, my Big Bellied swim classes at Meriter, massages and long talks with Kate (and the reassurance of knowing Kate would probably attend the birth), the comfort in knowing Adria would be there at the other end to get my child to nurse (and that, in another worst-case scenario, there would always be Dr. Mallory), the oodles of money I would spend at Happy Bambino on classes and goods we truly don’t need…really, just the known of having another child in Madison. A Badger Baby. But I also miss the community of mamas and tots we were starting to cultivate–friends for Anna and me, a community to share the trials and tribulations of early parenthood. And playdates.

Gluten-free food. I am so lucky: Mexican cuisine is naturally, deliciously, and mostly gluten-free. But what I wouldn’t give for a cupcake. Or a pizza. Or Chex. Or even a box of GF Bisquick that didn’t cost $12.

The university. I complained a lot in my years at UW (the grass is always greener…) about the monastacism of it  all, the social awkwardness of so many academics, the drudgery of revising and resubmitting again…and again…and again. But now I’m back at work–real work–you know, the kind where you have to be at your job at a specific time, and your job is hard, and your students are lovable-but-somewhat-annoying rascals, and you report to superiors? Yeah, I was spoiled at the university. And if all goes according to plan, I will one day be spoiled again when I am a professor. And spoiled, too, because I am lucky enough that my work can be, if I want it, to dwell in that unique place where ideas and practice meet, where I can make a concrete difference in the world but still keep that cerebral part of me occupied and working hard.

My dissertation. Such little time to spend on it. An hour a day. And so separated from the community that graciously welcomed me. I miss being fully immersed in that project and in that community of extraordinary families and educators. I’ll take the piecemeal work that I can get, but still. I miss it.

Coffeeshops other than Starbucks. For the coffee. For the work space. Just blocks from my house.

Cicadas. Because I’d so much rather hear those monsters buzzing than see a giant cucaracha fly at my face.

Dogs. You know, real dogs, like retrievers and spaniels and big, lovable mutts. Not the pinche perros that bark–no, yap–all. night. long.

Morning sunshine. The sun rises late here, around 7:30. It’s like winter, but without winter. The upside is that we’re not going to have to survive 3:30pm sunsets. But I miss waking up to the sunbeams of summer and early fall warming my face.

Quiet. Mexico is loud. You know, police-siren-yapping-dog-6am-firecrackers-screaming-high-school-student loud. And I used to be immune to noise, back when I was a Chicago girl. But Madison made me all soft. Aside from house-rocking thunder and the nightly blasts of the train, it’s a quiet little town. And sometimes, I just want quiet.

The view. The magnificence of the Capitol. The amazement every year when I spot the loons diving. The lapping waves of Lake Monona (but I DON’T miss that algae-funkarific smell). ​

NPR. Streaming at odd hours of the day is not the same as my constant car companions. Melissa, Robert, Michele, Steve, Renee, Bob–old pals. One day we’ll meet again.

Our friends. You are wonderful. What more can I say? We wish you were here with us. Come visit, won’t you?

But maybe this is like a meditation–where by writing down each of these finite pieces of my life in Madison, I can release them and free up the heart space to fully love my new home (which is pretty dang cool). Because I have no doubt that when it is time to leave Guadalajara–whether that is in two years or twenty years–I’ll be aching for all that is special about this place.