The way back home
Piso 10, Apartamento 103
Last week, I had a vivid dream.
I was running late to the airport when I suddenly realised—I hadn’t brought my bags. In fact, I hadn’t even packed them. So now, I had to go back and get all my things before missing my flight. A friendly couple was driving me to the airport, and they came with me to pick up what I’d left behind. They must have been in their mid-60s. I knew exactly where I needed to go to get my bags—I was going home. Venezuela.
Somehow, I found my way there. First, I arrived at the local shopping centre, which now looked quite modern. My friend Camila was there with someone else, browsing through beautiful things. I felt gutted because everything was so nice, but I didn’t have time to stop and shop. I thought I knew the way out of the shopping center, but somehow, I got a little lost. When I finally found the exit, a strong smell of pee hit me—the same smell that used to linger at the shopping centre’s exit in real life. The colours around me felt familiar—green and concrete, just like I remembered.
I stepped outside, and suddenly, the scene became a photograph in my mind. I walked toward my building, but the entrance seemed to be in a different position. Still, I managed to find it.
In the lobby, I noticed several modern machines, all meant for calling up to the apartments. A guy stood there—he looked like the concierge. I told him I needed to call my parents' apartment. He asked for the number, and I said, “10-C.” (That’s actually my aunt’s apartment number from their holiday place.) Then I looked at him again and realised—he looked just like my friend Lucho.
“Ruben, look! He looks like Lucho!” I said.
And then, I woke up.
In most of my dreams, my house is never my current house—or any place I’ve lived in since leaving Venezuela. No matter the context, the only home I ever see in my dreams is my childhood home. An apartment on the 10th floor in Caracas. Piso 10, Apartamento 103.
Most of my dreams take me back there.
This leaves me with this question: Are we always finding our way back home?
Bear with me—I don’t mean this in a literal sense. Not as a physical journey. Not as time travel.
I mean this as a mental state. A feeling.
In my dreams, I feel deeply connected to objects. They almost feel like talismans—priceless and sacred. The books from the library shelves. My grandma’s jewellery and heels. The terrible way her kitchen used to smell. Her voice. The way the tips of her fingers were so rough, yet somehow soft to the touch.
These core memories are my forever refuge.
And that’s what home means to me. To go back home is to go back to myself.
The obvious conclusion would be: I need to go back. I need to physically travel to Venezuela.
And I know this. But that’s a conversation for another time.
For now, I’m already going back.
I watch my old family videos—the ones my dad used to film with the camera he carried everywhere. (For this, I’m forever grateful.) And in them, I see the resemblance. The home I’ve built. The relationships I’ve created. It’s clear—not just the influence, but my choice to live through that.
I know you understand the feeling. It’s universal.
If I asked you to close your eyes and remember your mom caressing your face, your grandpa holding your hand, the texture of your childhood pet’s fur—you’d feel it in an instant.
We all speak the same language.
We are always home in one way or another.
If you’re feeling nostalgic
In Cinema Paradiso, Salvatore, a film director, returns to his hometown in Italy for the funeral of an old friend, Alfredo. I watched this movie for the first time back in 2009. It requires a lot of patience if you plan to watch it in these fast-paced, ADHD-like days, but once you get past that, you can see the magic in it.
I would love to hear your stories about going back home. It doesn’t matter how - by plane, by bus, in your dreams, through your life experiences, through objects, through your senses … every way is valid.
Te quiero mucho!
Sina