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Chronicles of a Wanderer
Stories from a different time and place
Can I go home with you? May I visit? Can I have a sleepover?
I was four years old, and I wanted to get away. My strategy was to ask every neighbor we met on the way to and from the store whether I could go home with them.
My fascination with other people’s lives started early. I was curious about their houses; the kitchen smells — what did they eat? What was in the pots? There was usually a couch in the living room — what were the fabrics like? Were they velvet? Velvet fabric was a secret obsession of mine. Or was it a faux leather sofa?
The highlight was the bedroom, where I could find hidden treasures if they let me go there. There were big beds, massive furniture chests, and the musty scent of heavy curtains, which were often closed. Whenever I was allowed in there, I looked for the decorative pillows and shams and a doll or teddy bear in the center of the bed. This used to be a thing with my grandma’s friends. They were flattered when I wanted to visit.
Did they have perfume in their bathrooms? Toiletries? A lipstick? Jewelry? I wanted to touch things, feel the fabric, paint my lips, and eat a sandwich with different toppings than we had at home. Thank you, ma’am.
