They say you can never go home again. Well， you can. Only you might find yourself staying at a Trave Lodge， driving a rented Ford Contour and staking out your childhood home like some noir private eye just trying to catch a glimpse of the Johnny-come-latelys that are now living in YOUR HOUSE. It's a familiar story. Kids grow up， parents sell the family home and move to some sunnier climate， some condo somewhere， some smaller abode. We grown up kids box up all the junk from our childhoods―dusty ballet shoes， high school text books， rolled up posters of Adam Ant―and wonder where home went. I'm not a sentimental person， I told myself. I don't need to see old 3922 26th Street before we sell the place. I even skipped the part where I return home to salvage my mementos from the garage. I let my parents box up the stuff which arrived from San Francisco like the little package you get when released from jail. You know， here's your watch， the outfit you wore in here， some cash. Here's the person you once were. After a year， San Francisco called me home again. I missed it. High rents had driven all my friends out of the city to the suburbs so I made myself a reservation at a motel and drove there in a rented car. The next day， I cruised over to my old neighborhood. There was the little corner store my mom used to send me to for milk， the familiar fire station， the Laundromat. I cried like the sap I never thought I'd be. I sat in the car， staring at my old house， tears welling up. It had a fresh paint job， the gang graffiti erased from the garage door. New curtains hung in the window. I walked up and touched the doorknob like it was the cheek of a lover just home from war. I noticed the darker paint where our old mezuzah used to be. I sat on our scratchy brick stoop， dangling my legs off the edge， feeling as rootless as I've ever felt. You can't go home in a lot of ways， I discovered that night， when I met up with an ex-boyfriend.“Great to see you，” he said， giving me a tense hug. “The thing is， I only have an hour.”What am I， the LensCrafters of social engagements？

　　As it happens， his new girlfriend wasn't too keen on my homecoming. We had a quick drink and he dropped me back off at my motel where I scrounged up my change to buy some Whoppers from the vending machine for dinner. I settled in for the evening to watch “Three to Tango” on HBO.“You had to watch a movie with a Friends' cast member，” said my brother， nodding empathetically. “That's sad.”My brother and I met up at our old house， like homing pigeons. We walked down the street for some coffee and I 19）filled him in on my trip. He convinced me to stay my last night at his new place in San Bruno， just outside the city. I'll gladly pay $98 a night just for the privilege of not inconveniencing anyone， but he actually seemed to want me.“I love having guests，” he insisted. So I went. It's surprising how late in life you still get that “I can't believe I'm a grown-up feeling，” like when your big brother， the guy who used to force you to watch “Gomer Pyle” reruns， owns his own place. It was small and sparse and he had just moved in but it was his. The refrigerator had nothing but mustard， a few cheese slices and fourteen cans of Diet 7-Up. We picked up some Taco Bell， rented a movie， popped some popcorn and I fell asleep on his couch. Insomniacs rarely fall asleep on people's couches， I assure you. I don't know why I slept so well after agonizing all weekend over the question of home， if I had one anymore， where it was. I only know that curled up under an old sleeping bag， the sound of some second-rate guy movie playing in the background， my brother in a chair next to me， I felt safe and comfortable and maybe that's part of what home is. But it's not the whole story. As much as I'd like to buy the cliches about home being where the heart is， or as Robert Frost put it， “The place where when you have to go there， they have to take you in，” a part of me thinks the truth is somewhere between the loftiness of all those platitudes and the concreteness of that wooden door on 26th street. I'll probably be casing that joint from time to time for the rest of my life. I'll sit outside， like a child watching someone take away a favorite toy， and silently scream， “MINE！”

　　人們都說你是再也回不了你的家了。

　　其實你是可以的。這樣的話，你會發現自己將會住進寒酸的汽車旅館里面，開著租來的廉價福特康拓車，在你童年的家門口久久地徘徊，就像黑色電影里的私家偵探一樣，你總想窺探那些占了你“巢穴”的到底是些什么樣的人。

　　這樣的故事讓你覺得似曾相識――孩子長大了，父母們便要把老家賣掉，搬到氣候更宜人的地方去，住公寓或更小的房子。而我們這些已經長大成人的孩子，將所有童年時期的破爛玩意兒打包收拾好，包括已經塵封了的芭蕾舞鞋、高中時期的課本和已經卷好的歌手亞當-恩特的海報，可當我們收拾好之后，才驚奇地發現家不見了！

　　我對自己說，我并不是個多愁善感的人。我們老家，26街3922號賣掉之前我并沒有要去多看一眼的沖動，甚至沒有親自回老家打撈車庫里的那些紀念品，而是讓父母幫我打包后從舊金山寄了過來。收到那包裹的時候感覺就像出獄一樣――這是你的手表，這是你在這穿過的，這里還有些現金……你可以從這包東西看到自己的過去。

　　搬家一年后，出于對家鄉的想念，我回了趟舊金山。當時因為房租太高，朋友們都搬到市郊去住了。我無處可投，便向當地一家汽車旅館訂了個房，租了輛車開了去。

　　第二天我便到處去走訪那些老街坊。我舊地重游了街道拐角的那家迷你便利店，當年媽媽經常打發我到去那里買牛奶，還有那熟悉的消防局和洗衣店……

　　我坐在車里，直直的盯著老家看。此時的我，哭得像個傻瓜一樣，我從來沒有想過自己會哭得那么兇。此刻的老屋，里里外外都被重新粉刷了一遍，車庫門上的涂鴉作品也被抹去，窗上還掛起了新窗簾。

　　我走到門前，輕輕地觸摸了門把手，就像輕撫從戰場歸來的愛人的臉一樣。門上那塊顏色黯淡的漆，正是我們以前貼平安符的地方呀！我在磚面粗糙的門廊上坐下，雙腳懸蕩著，一種前所未有的無根感涌上心頭。

　　是啊！有很多時候你是回不了家的。那天晚上我和前男友的碰面，使我終于明白了這一點。

　　“見到你真是太好了，”他見面就說，然后緊緊的擁抱了我，“可我有事，我只有一個小時的時間。”他接著說。

　　他把我當什么了？聽起來像是一小時快速配眼鏡一樣！

　　可想而知的是，他的新女友并不怎么歡迎我的突如其來。我們隨便喝了點東西，然后他就把我送回了旅館。我湊了點零錢，找個自動販賣機買了些漢堡包，晚餐就這么打發了。晚上將就著在旅館里看了電影臺播放的《三人探戈》。

　　“你應該看一部由《老友記》那幫演員演的一部片子，”電話那邊哥哥同情地勸我說，“你現在看的那部太悲了。”

　　我和哥哥在老屋門口見了面，就像兩只歸家的鴿子。我們沿著街道找了家咖啡店，我把這幾天發生的事情告訴了他。哥哥說最后一天就到他新家去住吧，就在市郊的圣布魯諾城。其實我很樂意付98美金一晚住旅館，只要能不麻煩別人，但哥哥似乎真的很想我過去住。

　　“我喜歡家里有客人來住！”哥哥堅持說。于是我就跟著去了。

　　很奇怪為什么人們總是不愿意承認自己已經長大了。看看我哥，我還記得他以前一遍一遍地強迫我看那部老掉牙的電影《傻子格麥派》，而現在他居然有了他自己的房子。哥哥剛搬來不久，地方不大，擺設也少，但卻是他自己的家。冰箱里面的東西很少，有幾根芥菜、幾片芝士切片，還有十四罐健怡七喜。

　　我們在一家墨西哥速食店買了些食物，再去租了部電影，啃了點爆米花。后來我就在哥哥的沙發椅上睡著了。

　　我敢保證，常失眠的人是很難在別人家的沙發上睡著的。可是不知道為什么這次我卻睡得很好，盡管我整個周末都在苦苦思考一個問題――如果我有家的話，那么我的家到底在哪里？我只知道，當我蜷縮在破破的睡袋里頭，哥哥坐在椅子上看著蹩腳演員主演的電影，就在我的身旁，我會覺得既安全又舒適――或許家的一部分就應該是這樣的。

　　但這些并不是全部。我可以相信諸如“家就在心中”這樣的老話，也欣賞詩人羅伯特-萊特所說的：“家就是當你想去，人家就得讓你進去的地方。”但同時我也堅信，真正的家既可以如陳詞濫調所形容的那般飄渺，也可以跟26街那扇木門一樣的堅實。

　　在以后的日子里，我可能還會不止一次地回到老屋門前徘徊。我會坐在屋子外面，像個小孩看到有人拿走了他心愛的玩具那樣，默默地在心底大喊：“那是我的！”

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