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California Girl
California Girl

If I am ever in the car, and the songs Hotel California or California Girls come on the radio, I do not leave the car until the song is over. It doesn’t matter if I am at work and a meeting starts in ten minutes. It does not matter how rushed I might be later on. I need to hear that haunting, eerie guitar solo in Hotel California. I need to hear the Beach Boys reminding me with their buoyant and bubbly 1960s optimism that they wish we were all California girls, and I sit there, filled with a nostalgic, glowing, hazy pride.

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HomeJulia Nusbaumwomen writer, feministComment
Bond Street
Bond Street

For most people home is a house, at least in literal terms. It’s brick and mortar, floorboards, paint, and curtains. Maybe it’s where you’re born, where you raise your own family, or where you live with two of your best friends and a stray cat. It’s four walls and a roof that shelters you from the rain. It’s not that simple though, is it? Maybe home is a town or a city. Streets you can navigate on autopilot, familiar fish and chip shops, trees you used to climb and your footprints concreted into the sidewalk.

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HomeGuest Userhome, family, Mother daughter, fatherComment
Under the Stairs
Under the Stairs

Specks of dirt and dust are nestled in the ridges of the soft carpet pressed against my cheek. The velvety surface wraps me in a layer of safety as I melt into it like a blotch of watercolor paint expanding gradually on paper. My little cousin, Pipe, lies next to me behind his father’s bass drum, one of the many musical instruments and loose items surrounding us. Past the instruments and piles of sheet music is an opening where light streams in from the Andean sky and into a plant-filled, pebbled courtyard.

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HomeGuest Userhome, family, grandmotherComment