Hometown Homer

“I got the tunes in my pocketin an old ass walkman
walking to the beach with a bottle of black and tan
keys in the Velcro where it always should be
times tickin' by but it doesn't concern me

I'm killin' time with nothin' to do
that's all I seem to think about or do
my soul is soundwhen I'm in my hometown
no place I'd rather be

My town, my street
gives me piece of mind
that can't be beat…”
- Buck-o-Nine “My Town”

I really enjoy going back to my hometown. The familiar comes rushing back to me whenever I get there and I can’t help but smile when I think about it. For me, distance does make the heart grow fonder. Even though I moved away, I always love the fact that I’m just a hop, skip, and a jump from where I came from. I can get there within a day by car or plane…a mere fraction of a day to get where I am comfortable.

My friends tell me I can be the biggest sap when it comes to my hometown. But I just can’t help it. I know where to get the best Filipino food (Conching’s Café), the best beach to walk around (Mission Beach and the Boardwalk), where to see the best sunset (Pt. Loma’s Sunset Cliffs), and where to shop if I want to act like the rich (downtown’s Horton Plaza).

I’m in love with my hometown of San Diego, California. For me growing up, it was truly America’s Finest City. The weather always seemed perfect whether it was raining or sunny. The people have always been friendly. And of course, the biggest allure for going home, it’s where my family is.

When I go home, I’m kind of OCD about what I do. My first (and usually last stop) when I get to town is my grandparent’s house. I spent the first six years of my life at this house and I enjoy the fact that not a lot of it has changed. Though the pea green carpet has been replaced with white tile, it still amazes me that our old oak bunk bed is still in one of the guest rooms. The simple garden that my Grandfather tends is still filled with the trinkets and toys he built to amuse me and my brother when we were growing up. My Grandmother always insists that I eat merienda (a small snack) when I get there. It would be suicide to refuse.

At my parent’s house, my youngest sister dutifully gives up her bed so that I can sleep in my old room. This was the room that my maternal Grandmother and I shared until I was about fourteen. We were crowded in a three bedroom house with eight people, so sharing a room was the only option. This is the room where I spent hours and pages journaling on my bed next to the window while my Grandmother silently prayed in the bed next to me. Even though she passed away in this room, I always find comfort in it. Stupid as it may sound, I know she’s still in there sharing the room with me.

I go home in spurts of 3-5 days. Family is always my priority, but I do make time to run around the city. I always make it a point to take my youngest siblings out for lunch or a movie. As an adult, I earn enough to indulge them like my parents tried to do for us. This usually involves a fieldtrip to a local attraction, like Seaport Village. And since we very rarely get to spend time together, my siblings are more than happy to tagalong wherever I want to drag them.

Tomorrow morning, I’m getting on a plane and winging it back to my hometown for a little rest and relaxation. And I’m very excited. I can’t wait descend from the clouds into the hustle and bustle of downtown San Diego. When I clear the jet way, a transformation will start to occur. I’ll pick up my pace a little faster and dodge my way around the terminal foot traffic. My goal is to hit the pavement of Terminal One at Lindbergh Field as quickly as possible. There, my Mom will be waiting to pick me up and I can start to sink back into the well worn comfort that is my hometown.

There are a lot of clichés about home. Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home. Home is where you hang your hat. North, East, South, or West…home is still best. We hear them all the time and we say them with ease. But isn’t it funny how they’re all true?

Think about your hometown and tell me I’m wrong.