Neither Here Nor There

SOMEWHERE ALONG I-95—My dad used to tell me about his “weekend commuter” colleagues, the ones that worked with him in downtown Manhattan, but lived way out in Rochester and western Connecticut. They kept apartments in the city and took long trips home each weekend, seeming to spend just enough time there to eat a meal or two with their families and friends, and maybe get in a round of golf, before heading back for another week at the office.

Though his stories made me pity those poor souls who had to make such rigorous weekly trips and work in a place so far removed from the rest of their lives, I have now somehow become one of them.

I’ve got to report to work in Cambridge every weekday, but my family and many of my friends are miles away in Manhattan. And so now, in my predicament, the four-hour bus ride nearly every weekend is worth it.

I’ve gotten the schedule down to a science. Get on a Chinatown bus early on Friday afternoon—exhausted after the few hours I’ve spent working at the offices of Harvard Magazine (on top of an endless production night preparing The Crimson for its morning publication). Arrive in the city in time to catch a show, dinner or (if I’m lucky) swing-dancing at Lincoln Center. After a weekend of friends, family and fun, hop on another bus on Sunday afternoon.And for less than the cost of a long cab ride, I’m back in Cambridge just in time to do some laundry and collapse in bed before getting to work the next morning.

And while I’m refining my schedule and perfecting my commute, the Boston weekdays, New York weekends lifestyle has raised the cliched term-time debate to another level: which place, exactly, is home?

During the past school year, the answer was cut and dried. Harvard was the place where I took classes, got stressed out and became excited about returning to Manhattan for vacation. Even though my bed was in Canaday, home was always New York. But now I’m not doing homework. Instead, I’m working two jobs, and even though some Harvard institution is doling out both paychecks, I’m on my own and liking it that way.

Weirder still, I’m living in Dunster House—the housing locale for the fine students working at The Crimson over the summer—which is also my assigned house for the next three years. So while most people will be trekking back to campus after summers spent in Ithaca, Illinois or Italy, I’ll be picking up, moving three entryways over and settling down again.

And these past two months of summer haven’t felt so much like living in a dorm—it’s more like having an apartment. Shabby, sparse and in need of decoration though it may be, my room doesn’t have a dorm feel to it. I went through a frenzied decorating phase over the first couple of weeks and now there are more of my personal touches and trappings in Dunster G-43 than there are in my old bedroom on Chambers Street.

So which street, which city, which place, then, is home—where my parents are? Where I sleep most nights out of a week?

A skeptic, unable to shake the unsettled feeling of constantly being on the move, might say that neither is truly home. It’s strange sometimes to realize that no matter which bed I’m sleeping in at the end of the day, I’ll be in another city soon.

But in the end, this way of conducting my summer—admittedly hectic—is suiting me quite well. I’m enjoying my work at Harvard Magazine and The Crimson more than I expected, and my Big Apple weekends are always packed full of excitement and entertainment. Both cities are populated with friends and splashed with opportunities for good times. New York is always a breath of the fundamentally familiar, though I’m finally learning which way Central Square is and where to buy milk in Cambridge.

I like spending summer straddling two places. Maybe there’ll be more of an answer to the perennial question of “home” come September, when there are textbooks and pencils, rather than groceries and planners, in my Dunster room.

But in the meantime, I’m happy to know that whatever direction I’m moving along I-95, I am no doubt returning home.

Laura L. Krug ’06, a Crimson editor, is an English concentrator in Dunster House. She’ll spend much of her summer on the road between Cambridge and New York, wishing Fung Wah would adopt a frequent miles program—with upgrades to a much-needed first-class section.