If there is a place that has a certain hold on everyone, it’s called hometown. Whether we love it or loathe it, and no matter how much we try to run away from it, it’s a place that we all keep coming back to – time and again.

Just before the acacia trees were about to fold their leaves for the night, I alighted from a bus on a late afternoon in the seaside town of Santa Cruz in southern Philippines. The invigorating breeze, briny with sea mist hit me instantly. They say that one can smell the scent of home even before one arrives. On some days, the tumaceous wet earth and freshly cut grass would hang low and linger, welcoming a prodigal child’s return.

How many times have I stepped-out of the same bus platform and waited for a ride home to my mother’s place? Hundreds of times? Maybe more. I can hardly remember except for the last time I came and visited my hometown.

In an ever changing world, nostalgia and amnesia become a part of everyone’s personal journeys.

Time and space along with the past would often find a way to catch up as I haunt the corridors of my hometown like a ghost. Yet inside me is a feeling of profound ease. I am after all, in a place filled with the reassuring comforts of home and familiarity.

Over the years, some of us might have left our hometowns where we spent our childhood and moved to a different locale, or changed states or regions and perhaps even uprooted ourselves to live abroad in pursuit of the next adventure. While others are just happy to stay behind and represent us on our behalf, both through memory and our absence.

Regardless of which side of the world or part of the neighborhood one may be in, the idea of returning and reconnecting with one’s hometown holds a special meaning and purpose.

A hometown is never just a hometown. Some of us may even have a different version of it entirely; or someplace else as opposed to where we grew up where we find connection and belongingness.

I have asked friends about their hometowns and their fondest Proustian memories. In their own words and artwork. Let’s all take a trip. What could be more evocative than returning to a place and revisiting some hometown mementos – theirs as well as our own.

Berlin is a moloch. A dirty, noisy and dreary metropolis. Streets clogged with traffic, filled with the noise and stench of countless cars. Construction site after construction site, constantly merging into each other in the shadow of giant cranes. Roads are blocked, trains are always late, and Berliners are inevitably unfriendly and snappish.

Berlin is a miracle. A vibrant, bustling, colorful place. Never boring, full of excitement and adventure. One moment you’re in the midst of glittering urbanity, bars, cinemas and museums, the next you’re strolling through vast parks or deep forests, stumbling upon mysterious little niches forgotten by time.

Berlin is a moloch, but how can you resist its allure?

Sketch (Baustelle Berlin) by Jens Notroff – More about the artist’s works can be found by visiting https://jensnotroff.com/ or by connecting via social media channels TwitterX and Instagram. (For art commissions, feel free to reach out to the artist)

Right where the Great Plains meet the Rocky Mountain Range, there was this field that I used to pass by all the time in my hometown of Littleton, Colorado. The lush vegetation was dotted with wild flowers in the summer. Come fall, a field of gold. Behind it were the solid geological towers of the Rockies.

I used to cycle around the area, and spend wonderful memories exploring, observing, and admiring the natural world in the field. It took me 15 minutes to reach it from our house on a bike. Next to it is a street called Mineral Avenue. What was once a preserved nature area is now replaced by cookie-cutter housing and real estate developments. I remember having taken a photo of it once on a rainy day and little did I know that was to be the last time. It’s an image and a memory now. A bittersweet one.

It reminds me of what used to be valued and replaced with issues of overpopulation, development, and money. It’s an area I grew up that was full of open space, nature, and wildlife. Robbing of animal habitat and great open places for people to recreate and relax. My childhood home is not the same home anymore.

Oil painting (Mineral Showers) by Jeremiah Tallent – More about the artist’s works can be found by visiting the artist’s Instagram page. (For art commissions, feel free to reach out to the artist)

Living in the ‘barrio’ does not always mean a boring life. We may not have had many gadgets or the internet during our childhood, but living in the barrio as a child in the 90’s was still awesome. I am fortunate and grateful to live and spend my childhood in Coronon, Santa Cruz in Davao’s southern part.

There was no need to enroll in summer classes as we could do a lot of things with my siblings, cousins, and other kids from the neighborhood. We would play outdoors almost every day. We would swim on a nearby beach or in the river while our parents were taking their afternoon siesta. This allowed us to swim without getting caught, although our tanned skins would reveal all. 

Summertime was not just about play, it was also an occasion where trees tended by mother nature bore fruit. When I was a kid, one of my favorite past-time activities was watching the mangoes from our window. And when harvest time came round, my siblings and I were excited to eat the mangoes together.

Nothing beats the smell. The sweet and sour taste of a green yet nearly ripe sliced Carabao mangoes soaked (not dipped) in vinegar and salt (sometimes with a dash of sugar or chili) in a supersize bowl that my siblings and myself lovingly prepared. It was the best summertime snack. Not everyone has had that privilege to eat so many free mangoes. For me, it’s my fondest childhood memory.

Illustration (Mangoes From The Window) by Mary Catherine Diaz – More about the artist’s works can be found by visiting https://barriotecture.blogspot.com/ or by connecting via Instagram. (For art commissions, feel free to reach out to the artist)

‘Morning Star’ will always shine bright in my memory as a place of freedom and happiness, the ultimate escape from school, two weeks that felt like six, filled with sea, sardine sandwiches, and open fires fuelled by driftwood collected from the pebbled beaches, a place where the Tizer and cherryade flowed freely and where penny sweets were consumed at an alarming rate!

I’m sure the sugar spikes and e-numbers served to enhance my total enjoyment of holidaying at Elmer Sands, but even without them, it would still have been a blast! I had the fortune of staying there twice a year, first with my maternal grandparents, mother, and siblings, then later in the year with my father, mother, and siblings – dogs always being present at both.

Both my mother and grandmother painted and spent many an hour in the bungalow’s garden creating, and I too, was well-stocked with paper, felt tip pens, and a tin of paint and was always encouraged (never forced) to join them. Looking back, I can appreciate just how much I learned from them and all they taught me with patience and skill. I can never claim to be ‘self-taught’ as an artist – as I was tutored by the best!

Tramping the beaches, both during the day and after dark with my Irish/Yorkshire grandad (honestly, he had the best sense of humour!), looking for fossils and driftwood and later on satellites and shooting stars, was a joy – so much laughter, sweets, and silly songs;

‘If you see a piece of wood, just bung it in the bag

If you see a piece of wood, just bung it in the bag

If you see a piece of wood, just bung it in the bag

And we’ll all have nice warm feet, feet, FEET!’

And the louder you could sing it (shout it!) the better – we always came home hoarse and ready for another Tizer!

The open fire in the living room at night was both a comfort and a menace to me – the flames warming and hypnotising, yet alive and mischievous, ready to leap from the grate and into the room.

The later holiday where we were joined by my father was in a way, a detox from the earlier zany sugar-filled jamboree. The days were mainly spent rambling across the beaches and through the countryside, picnicking on healthier fare. The seemingly long walk to Arundel along the river Arun was tiring but my reward was a visit to ‘The Venerable Bead’ (sadly no longer there!) – packed as a sweet shop, but instead of confectionary, hundreds of beautiful beads, all sizes, colours, and materials. My hard-earned pocket money was always well invested.

Returning home from ‘Elmer’, laden as ever, with bags of seashells and wellies and clothes still full of sand, my heart lingered on in ‘Morning Star’ – in truth, I’m not sure that it’s ever fully left.

Illustration (Morning Star) by Thalamus Plank – More about the artist’s works can be found by visiting https://www.thalamusplank.co.uk/ or by connecting via social media channels TwitterX and Instagram. (For art commissions, feel free to reach out to the artist)

“My hometown… was always there, at all times, unchanging. What I think… is not that we go back to our hometowns, but that someday our hometowns come back into each of our hearts.”

― Jirō Taniguchi, A Journal Of My Father

Our hometowns were our training grounds. They gave us a sense of place and nurtured our curiosities. By way of our hometowns, we became travelers, hungry to see distant frontiers; explorers eager to experience other realms.

Hometowns are the very first countries we explore and travel to – from one neighborhood to another, the corner streets where we shop, to the wide leafy avenues where we march for a parade, the places we dine, the secret spots somewhere in the woods, the hills and the shores, as well as the air and sand before discovering a wider world. The restless outside world is where we blithesomely want to go, yet ironically we find ourselves yearning for the familiar comforts of home 🏡

What is your hometown like? What do you love most about it? When was the last time you visited and what were the things that you missed about your hometown? If you like to tell us more about your hometown, share your stories and memories on the comment section below. Home sweet home! 😉

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