A few snowy nights ago, Galen and I were driving through the outskirts of the West Chicago suburbs. The roads were icy and not well lit (even if both our headlights had been working), flanked by woods and old cemeteries. The windshield was smeared with frost, melting snow, and dirt. And even though we’d been driving for over an hour, the heater was still not strong enough to conquer the February cold.
For a California girl, terrain doesn’t get more unfamiliar than that.
At an intersection, I noticed that the crossroad’s name was Kimball. I said, “There’s a Kimball in Ventura,” and immediately remembered how I used to drive down that Ventura road at night with my windows down so I could smell the lemon groves. That Kimball is at the base of the foothills, leading drivers on a winding road from downtown to the orchards and canyons further inland. I remembered how my old school, favorite Starbucks, and dance instructor’s house were all along that road at various points. It’s a long road; I couldn’t remember where it starts or ends.
And I remembered, too, that I’ve seen a Kimball Road or Kimball Street in several other towns; much like how every city has a Main Street, or an A or C Street. And then I had a wonderful thought: suppose that all those Kimballs and all those Mains and all those A’s and C’s actually aren’t different roads? That the Kimball in Ventura continues inland and winds its way across Nevada and Colorado and all the others and somehow ends up crossing through the unlikely city of West Chicago? That every Main Street of a city is still just the same old Main Street from the city next-door?
Now of course it isn’t, and a quick glance at any map could tell us that. But isn’t it nice to imagine? Doesn’t it make the world feel smaller? Like I could just hop in a car and stay in the left lane all the way to my hometown. Sure, I know where that is. It’s just down Kimball.
I think about The Fox’s words from Till We Have Faces a lot: “No man can be an exile if he remembers that all the world is one city.” I’m very aware of my tendency to constantly be comparing new places to the place I come from. I think it’s hereditary; even though my grandmother has lived in California for over 50 years, Cincinnati will always be “home.” We’re a deeply rooted people, and roads are meant for trips and adventures, not for moves. But The Fox’s words have rung in my ears through the past year, particularly when I find myself feeling lonesome for the old familiarity of my home-roads. I’m not in exile. My grandmother is not in exile. We just drove a little further down the road than we thought we would.
Vagabond Homebody 