“Finally.” I sighed, zipping my suitcase shut.
The streetlights of St Michael’s Hall cast long shadows through the window. My boxes were packed, and in less than 20 hours, this room would no longer be mine.
I lay on my bed, exhausted, thumbing through my camera roll, my favourite form of brain rot. The comforting sensation of lying on something soft overcame me, causing me to momentarily forget that I was leaving soon. Somehow, a series of photo albums popped up before my half-closed eyes: New Orleans, Sevilla, Athens, Vietnam. And now, Oxford, another city I love, another home that I cannot stay in.
Reflecting, my 18-year-old self would shout at me, “LIAR!”, if I ever time-travelled and told her I had at least five homes scattered around the world. That girl barely left Vietnam. But I did.
My first journey among cities began when I left Vietnam to attend university in the United States. My degree in Linguistics and Philosophy has opened up numerous opportunities in various countries worldwide, such as Spain, Greece, and England. I embraced them all and spent my semesters and summers in each new location, one after the next.
Halfway through my degree, after dozens of flights and long nights spent in airports, I have mastered the art of packing. I’ve learned to pack quickly. Not just clothes, but versions of myself.
Some people have a home. I’m lucky to have several, even if none have been mine for a long time.
I still remember the first Mardi Gras I experienced in New Orleans. My roommate lent me her shirt, and we used beads to decorate my dull suits. The night was filled with eating, dancing, and enjoying the parades, which exploded with wonderful jazz music and the festive cheers of visitors worldwide. That’s home.
On my last night in Sevilla, my host mum hugged me as if I’d lived with her my whole life. Her daughter, with whom I barely exchanged words, struggled to hand me my luggage, as if it were laden with memories. That’s home.
Athens, after dark. My friends and I climbed a hill, carrying cheap wine and snacks. The Acropolis lit the sky, and we exchanged visions about a future filled with possibilities, promises, and dreams. That’s home.
And, of course, Vietnam. My first home. The city where I know the stories of nearly every neighbour. The noisy motorbikes, the condensed milk in the coffee, and the cramped yet warm house filled with my beloved extended family. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s the only place that hasn’t changed, or if I’ve changed too much to enjoy what was once all I knew.
Soon, after the next term, Oxford will become another home that I’ll forever carry with me, but never return to. It always begins the same way: awkward hellos, missed buses, and wrong turns. Then there were the wrong groceries, the constant use of Google Translate, and the late-night calls crying to friends back home, trying to seek the comfort that I would not have from the faraway. Then, almost unnoticed, everything changes. One random morning, the café barista remembers my name and my favourite choice of medium matcha latte with whipped cream. I stop using Google Maps. Silence in a language ceases to feel like isolation and begins to feel like a form of peace. Slowly, a city transitions from being somewhere I visited to being somewhere I live. And then I leave.
I’ve stared out the aeroplane window on flights and wondered: Will it ever stop? Will I ever claim one place as my permanent home? And what about the homes I’ve made along the way?
Who am I?
The grinning dancer twirling barefoot at Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
The study-abroad student speaking just enough Spanish to order Sangria at Las Setas in Sevilla.
The struggling filmmaker spending days climbing Mount Olympus for a beautiful shot.
The quiet girl crying on the last night in Oxford, walking Cornmarket Street with friends and takeaway chips.
I gazed at my reflection on the phone, the screen black from inactivity. Who am I?
I chase the answers to those questions every night spent on a plane, every time I pack and repack my luggage. Now, I lie in bed in Oxford, still wondering. And maybe I don’t need an answer. I could be every girl, every version of my life, in every city I love; I could dispose of consistency, predictability. Every home of mine contributes to the significant, genuine, undivided me.
I’ve grown to love who I am now. I embrace all the journeys I’ve experienced in my late teens and early twenties because, without each of them, without their mistakes, confusions, and unique stories, I could never be me, the one I love the most.
I got up from bed, slipping my phone into my pocket as my friends knocked. We were heading out for one final bar crawl, from Flambs to Wetherspoons, for one last night in a city that had, in just a few short months, become our home.
As I applied my lipstick, I studied my reflection in the mirror. I embraced the Oxford girl staring back at me before leaving her behind, adding her to the jar of selves I’ve gathered along the way. She was young, stubborn, and brave. I loved her.
For those of us between borders, home is not fixed; it’s cumulative.
Each home lives within me, tucked between photos, phrases, and the selves I have packed along the way, reminding me who I genuinely am.
I’ve never said goodbye to the cities I have loved.
I leave pieces of myself behind, and take pieces of the cities with me.
I love them all.
