Right Where I Am

There has been a topic that has been simmering for a while both in my head and in my blog’s drafts folder. I have been feeling the need to express something about home-ness and my tussles with such a concept.

When I was in Toronto last November, I had the chance to drive out with my dad to go and see the new hindu temple out in Etobicoke. The city had had a good snowfall so the vision I was met with was truly unique.

The BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, as it is called, was a strange oasis in the middle of an industrial wasteland encircled by concrete arms of highways on overpasses, its Indian spires rising out of the snow like something out of Valhalla. It truly did take my breath away; I never thought to catch a glimpse of anything like this outside of Asia.

Nothing short of the sort of temples one would find in India itself, the mandir was a formidable temple complex with main prayer halls, smaller shrines and peaceful courtyards. Not to mention, fully staffed with priests or swamis. This architectural feat was built using no metal (not even nails), only imported marble, limestone and wood. The carvings were commissioned from India and shipped over to be assembled on site.

The inside consisted of cool, calming marble, and the main hall upstairs was a great place to meditate surrounded by beautiful carvings of nearly every god, demi-god, incarnation and revered saint known to hinduism. I say “nearly” because you can never account for every single representation of the Divine hindus have come up with.

It was such a contrast to be back on King Street (picture taken over this past Christmas), the central hub of financial success. Toronto is an odd place (I am writing from there now, over the Easter holidays), it is a great concrete sprawl that doesn’t discriminate easily. Culture, art, style and wondrous gastronomy exist as easily as dredge, drudge, unculture, and crap. Money talks in this town, from the poorest to the richest. Eavesdrop on any given conversation anywhere, and money and status will find their expression. A strange place, as I say, both rich in culture and utterly devoid of it.

It’s funny what “home” has come to mean to me. I grew up just south-east of Montreal, in the last suburb bordering on farmland. We lived in one house for 14 years and then in another for many more. When I turned twenty-one I moved to the Big City of Montreal where I have now been living for over ten years.

I keep meaning to get myself to move somewhere else, just for the experience of living elsewhere, but as much as I try, I have never been able to. Twice I had a job lined up, one in New Zealand and one in Madrid, but both fell through, strangely and somewhat harmoniously. A conspiracy to keep me here? Heh. I have traveled a great deal, but I have never wanted to stay anywhere longer than planned nor have I ever used the phrase “Oh, I just didn’t want to come back!” Every time my car or the train speeds by the “Bienvenue au Québec” sign, or when the aircraft touches down at Dorval, my heart races, tears spring to my eyes and I brim with excitement. My Montreal, my Québec. No other place simply smells as right.

Again, last November, I was performing in Toronto at a show. I was backstage getting ready to dance and I met another dancer from Hull/Ottawa who had been studying Odissi and was also taking part in the show. We started conversing, and I took note of her light francophone accent. The moment we each knew the other was from Québec, our eyes sparkled and we both breathlessly latched onto our quebec-ness, even switching to French. A mere six hundred kilometres from home, and we still missed it, terribly.

I visited Vancouver a few weeks back, again for a dance show. The food is fantastic, most notably the seafood and pan-asian cuisines. The greenery is nice too, with its huge ancient trees and such. Still, I missed home something fierce. It is a city so new, extremely casual and laidback, with a lack of discernible seasons, the last of which I found to be uncomfortable. I love the seasonal contrasts of the East coast, in a sense, how can one measure life without them?

I shouldn’t compare everything to my home town, but I suppose I go through this every time I am away when I for some reason try to force myself to consider other places to live. The friend I stayed with in Vancouver offered me a simple answer: “Maybe you just already know where home is.” Well, maybe I do. Maybe I shouldn’t try to force myself to leave it. Until my nose leads me elsewhere, why not just be fully at home where I am? My Montreal, my Québec, and as I said before, no other place smells quite as right to me.