[Originally posted on March 6th, 2011]
I found quite ironical how things have changed in the last 6 years. I am now living the life the friend I mentioned in the post was living. That life I had said  wasn’t for me.

I am an emigrant. Now it’s official, it’s written in this thing that has 50 pages and costs almost $100. But, like age doesn’t need of an ID to be proven, so being an emigrant doesn’t need a pass(air?)port to be a real condition.
I first noticed this condition when I came back home, from Milan. Home. What a strange concept “home” is. Is Home the place in which you have lived the longest or is Home where you are most comfortable? Is it the place where your parents live or is that place where you are most comfortable sleeping and pooping? Because I don’t know anymore which “home” is my Home, those criterias if applied strictly are inadequate to figure it out.

I am happy every time I come back home, obviously. Even the old folk from Como who I met on the bus was euphoric to the idea of living in Sicily, even for only few days. And here, in this Italian heaven, I grew up and lived for almost 20 years. But is Home a beautiful place? Or is it maybe a bright and roomy place? Because after the inevitable initial happiness, I started to miss some comforts that only my 244, my dorm room in Milan, gives me. Here at my house everything is different. But how can something be different if you are already at home? Different from what? Which one is my home, you tell me, I don’t know it. My mom and brother are not home, otherwise they would simply be my home. And that point it would be very easy to relocate, buying 3 tickets would be the only it would take. But home is a place, made of cement or even wood. It’s a place that can’t be misplaced, it’s that place that you will always struggle to accept but will slowly impress a footprint in your memories. And every time you will leave it even for few days, “she” will hold it against you, “she” will remember it and you will long “her” absence. But when you come back, Home is there, open for you like if you never went away. Home could be a faithful girlfriend, a little jealous and capricious , but faithful.
And I, I can’t be poliga(hom-)ous. One can only have one home at the time.

Today I called Uncle Joe, “Hello Joe, I am Gio…ele, Joe?” Joe, the uncle Sam. In a little bit I will change home again. And that shitty Milan, that Milan where at times rains and is cold, that Milan will be missed a bit. Even my dormitory, even the home I had for the last 3 years will be missed a bit. How strange, it’s 3 years that I say that all these places are shit.
I have an old friend who is happy not to have a home, who travels the world like a top. I think about her. How can one choose not to dream of a Home? To travel is great, to explore the world and to know worlds full of new ideas. But I need to think that somewhere in my future there will be a house well anchored to the ground and that, that will always be my home. I can’t dream of making travelling my “home”. When I travel I am astoundingly strange. Seeing places that you may never see again gives me melancholy, which is just pleasant sadness. Who knows if, when I will have to come back to Italy, I will be sad of leaving my new home, who knows where my well anchored house will be.

Maybe I was born to leave and move away. I don’t know if it’s because I am a southerner, because I am Italian or simply because I am Gioele. But if before university when I was sad I would leave my house, now it’s a continuous departing, an incessant planning of departures. And in all this, I was about to say, I forgot where my real home is. To cross the ocean without anchors is dangerous.
And that’s why I am looking for a home.