I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the book The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver. This has been one of my favorite books since I first read it when I was 13. The novel follows protagonist Taylor, who, realizing that she needs to escape her small hometown in rural Kentucky, buys a VW Bug and vows to drive until it breaks down. She ends up in Tucson, Arizona, and through a strange series of events finds herself caring for a three-year-old girl who she calls Turtle. There are a lot of reasons this book could be on my mind lately – besides the Southwestern aesthetic that characterizes both Tucson and Austin (my home for the summer), it touches on perennial themes like immigration rights, environmental responsibility, and coming of age. But most of all, it is a book about building a new home in a foreign place.

Taylor draws together eccentric characters: anxiety-prone fellow single mom Lou Ann and her son Dwayne Ray, undocumented Guatemalan immigrants Estevan and Esperanza, used tire store/refugee sanctuary owner and activist Mattie, and grumbling neighbors Virgie and Edna, to name a few. Little by little, Taylor builds herself a home and a family in the “foreign” land that is the southwest, and eventually feels that she belongs there more than she ever did in Pittman County, Kentucky.

I don’t necessarily identify with Taylor’s need to escape her hometown. The opposite, actually: I am a homebody at heart. There is nowhere in the world I like more than the old red armchair in my living room at home, curled up with a book and a cup of coffee, listening to my family rustling through the house around me. But in the past few years I’ve found myself drawn farther and farther away from home, not pushed by a desire to leave but pulled towards the unknown. I’ve spent my recent months first studying in Spain, then traveling to Uganda with Water to Thrive and living in Austin as a CAPS fellow. By the time I move back in at Valpo for my senior year, I will have been home for a grand total of 8 days in the past 8 months. And though I miss my home, my family, my friends, and that red armchair, I’ve been learning to take a page out of Taylor’s book and build a new home through my community here.

Exploring Austin with Grace!

As happens when you move somewhere new, distant networks have become friends. In addition to Grace, my wonderful fellow CAPS intern, I’ve found strange connections that have slowly built this city into a home: like friends of friends who are visiting Austin for the weekend, old acquaintances I was vaguely friends with in high school who have since moved to Austin, or my CAPS assigned alumni mentor, who had me over to her house for dinner. I spent the evening talking with her and her husband, who met in the Peace Corps and encouraged me to pursue this dream, and, after playing outside with her three-year-old son, sent me home with raspberry bars and an open invitation to stay with them any time I find myself back in Austin.

Last weekend, I drove down to San Antonio to visit Elanore, a donor who was on my Water to Thrive trip to Uganda. She is a 65-year-old former Navy Commander. On paper, we have very little in common. But we quickly bonded in Uganda, sharing snacks and motion sickness medicine and stories on long, bumpy van rides, and so I spent the weekend staying with her and her husband. We spent one day shopping and going to museums and eating tacos on the San Antonio Riverwalk. People kept asking us if we were related, assuming she was my mother or grandmother, to which one of us would reply, “No – we’re friends.”

Visiting Elanore in San Antonio.

My community has turned this city into a home, made up of eccentric and unexpected characters. As my time here in Austin ends, I find myself reflecting on not just the exciting travel and meaningful work I have been lucky enough to be a part of, but also the community and home I’ve built in each new place I go.