The longer you live in a place, the more meaningful, experienced, personal the place becomes. Which, you know, duh, but think about it. I've lived here for eight and a half years now, and the map is getting fuller and fuller of things that have happened.
The sidewalk outside of Dom's? Big, big, embarassing, ridiculous fight with a person I hardly think about anymore. The lit-up steps of the church on State Street? The girls and I did a grand, high-kicking musical number. This parking lot on Columbia Avenue is where I waited, in my car, in my pajamas, in the snow, for the fire marshall to tell me I could go back inside my apartment building and check that my friend's kitten was safe. The sidealk on the west side of Davenport Hall? A friend said he was leaving, and all I knew was that I wasn't exactly sure how I felt about that but that it didn't feel very good, whatever it was. But the tree just on the other side of that very spot? The very best sunny, giggling, lounging afternoons.
Of course, this is what makes a place home (and what makes buildings worth saving, the historic preservation half of my brain reminds me) - and it is soooo worth it.
