Where is home?

A secondhand Ulysses on a friend's shelf, and a mind that wandered from place to place.

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This week I sat in our second sublet of the summer. I say 'sublet' but this one was actually a friend's place. They'd kindly let us stay there while they traveled. Eighteen months ago we had packed and were saying goodbye to New York. In doing so, we knew we'd be downsizing and so we offered some of our things to friends, family, neighbors, charity. Now that I'm sitting at the dining table in my friend's apartment, it's strange to recognize items on the shelves here that were once on the shelves of our place.

Quick disclaimer: I have not been diagnosed with ADHD which, I suspect, is mainly because I haven't been tested for ADHD. However, my mind tends to flit back and forth between topics. Sometimes, while talking, it happens mid-sentence. It's quite annoying because at times I feel self-conscious about not being concise or articulate enough. However, at times, I feel blessed that my mind so freely wanders. I can think of one thing and it leads me somewhere completely unexpected.

Seated at the dining table, my eye ran along the lines of the bookshelves. Books I've read could have been ones I gifted or could be ones we have in common. That's certainly not unusual.

My eye pauses on a book I know was once mine. A version of James Joyce's Ulysses that I purchased in Dublin. There are so many copies of this book with limited edition covers, centenary editions, publisher one-offs etc. This wasn't one of them. This was a bargain bin version that looked like a school textbook.

Looking at the spine of the book reminded me of a quote I think about often:

"The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring".

In a book that spans 700-800 pages, that line is 18 words long.

There is another quote that I noted while reading which goes like this:

"The man who lifts his hand to a woman save in the way of kindness, deserves to be branded as the lowest of the low."

I recently discovered that a version of that line turns up in a play from 1805 called 'The Honey Moon' by John Tobin.

"The man that lays his hand upon a woman, Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward".

I’m not saying Joyce lifted it, or knew about it, but the resemblance is uncanny.

It's quite funny to think that, at a table in NYC, in 2026, I was thinking about a quote from a book 100 years old, and that an older version of that line was in a play from 200 years ago.

And then, I thought of the time when reading Ulysses. It was in Miami. Miami. The place that I told myself then that I'd hated being, but now, in this moment, I was pining for. Pining. For. Miami. I'm confused.

People asked me while I was living there and afterwards,

"Do/did you like living in Miami?" and always the answer was "not really. Not for me."

For the last 6 months of my time there I felt that was a lie. I had found things to like while being there. I'd found things to love. Lightning, beach moments, lizards, tropical trees, mangoes (Oh, the mangoes!). There are things that are certainly not for me, but isn't that the same for wherever you live?

And now, back in New York, the place I pined for while I was in Miami, I'm now thinking about Miami. So, here we are. I'd started at a thought about recognizing old items we'd owned, to Ulysses, to a quote, to a quote of a quote, to Miami, to missing NY while in Miami and now to missing Miami while in New York.

Suddenly, as my brain is wont to do, I'm in a slight mental crisis. Why am I pining for the place that I've claimed to hate? Well, where I landed was just to the left of my friend's bookshelf, to a pile of bags. Blue Ikea-style bags, two suitcases, two boxes and a series of tote bags. Aside from what's in storage in Miami, this is what we came to NY with in June. And we have been living out of these bags since.

It's a conscious decision to wait until October/November to find a longer-term home as prices tend to drop. You don't want to rent in NY in the summer. It's peak season and you'll then be renewing in peak season in the years afterwards. So sublets and friend's kindness is what will get us through until then. But as anyone can attest to, when living out of suitcases and bags for a longer period of time, you start to think about not having a place of your own. Cupboards to store the bags away, your own bed, drawers and wardrobes for your clothes, bookshelves for your remembered, forgotten, and yet-to-discover quotes.

It's not Miami I'm pining for and in Miami, perhaps it wasn't New York I was pining for. It's home.

Since I left Ireland, 25 (Twenty-five!) years ago, I have moved 13 times. An approximate average of once every 2 years. In fact, only twice in that 25 years did I live in a place for 3 years. Your stuff is barely out of the boxes before you are thinking about your next move.

My crisis thinking brain then asks the question: "Where is home?" or "What is home?". A Place? A person? A routine? A feeling? Perhaps, to quote the philosopher, Paul Young, it's "wherever I lay my hat"? Or was it Marvinus Gaius?

And yet, Ulysses holds the answer. My home is Ireland. It's where it's always been. Dublin. The Liffey. Joyce. George's Street Arcade. Stephen's Green. The perfect pint in Harry Byrne's. The coast from Malahide to Portmarnock Beach. The Poolbeg towers.

I ran away from Ireland 25 years ago. And it was running away. But the longing for that place is stronger now than it's ever been. The reality of living in a place is different, of course. So maybe home is a feeling. I'm going back there on Thursday, before I find my next physical home, I'm going, as it turns out, where the heart is.

Thanks for reading.

Paul

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