A lot of us move to D.C. never expecting to call it home. It’s the city people come to for metropolitan opportunities and cosmopolitan experiences. Or just to escape. For all of those reasons, I was one of those people. Then Belize happened, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Six years ago, I left the rolling hills in the Shenandoah Valley to attend law school in the D.C. area. After four years imbibing some of America’s brightest legal minds and spending sticky summer nights in Georgetown and Clarendon, D.C. still didn’t feel like home. It felt like where I went to school. Then I took a job at one of the hundreds of law firms in town, and embraced my role as an associate. Somewhere between drafting briefs and arguing motions, there was dining in Penn’s Quarter, cheering on the Nats over hotdogs, trolling for books at Olson’s, buying a lifetime’s worth of cheese at Eastern Market, listening to concerts at D.A.R. Hall and the 9:30 club and visiting Thomas Jefferson’s solitary memorial for advice. I joined other runners to trot out local favorite races amidst warm crowds and clanking cowbells at 
the George Washington Ten Miler, Cherry Blossom Ten Miler and the Marine Corps Marathon. The good residents of Washington even generously came out to support my book tour when my first book, Growing Up Moffett, was released last spring. Still, D.C. was, well, here. Home was somewhere else. Even if I wasn’t sure where that was after six years.
This changed a few months ago when insanity took hold. Also known as spontaneous adventure vacation planning from the comfort of one’s own office. (The internet in daylight hours is a dangerous place.) Suffocating under the lingering grayness of winter, I jumped on the chance to snorkel and sea kayak my way around Lighthouse Reef, the largest reef in the Western Hemisphere, fifty-five miles off raw and beautiful Belize. Two months later, I was waist deep in translucent turquoise water embracing a world without a blackberry. It was bliss. But that was before the sunburn. And the broken toe. And the sea sickness. And the sunstroke. And the rats that ate through my bag for a forgotten Snicker’s bar. Shockingly, I suddenly missed home.
But what was home? This question arose with sharp clarity after the second night of being soaked by a Caribbean thunderstorm while trying to sleep in my “luxury tent.” My thoughts drifted to a soft place filled with favorite authors, ice cold drinks, Gene Weingarten’s sarcasm, good friends’ laughter, and personalized politicians. In my hallucinations, this imaginary heaven was situated a handful of blocks from Eastern Market’s Blue Bucks, Sonoma’s cheese plate, Schneider’s wine selection, and the Supreme Court’s steps. It was D.C.
I sat up.
The cliché phrase “home is where the heart is” popped into my head. Part of me wanted to laugh. The application of such a country stenciled mantra to D.C.’s suited perfectionism would normally have been ridiculous. This time though, it somehow fit. I fit. All these years of enjoying the city, I was not just a residential tourist. It was establishing a home. A home erected on historically rich foundations, structured by diverse experiences, and filled with innumerable friends of all walks and sizes. A home much like my city. And at that particular moment, most importantly, a home that did not involve leaking canvas in any shape or form.
I lay back down and closed my eyes, warm with the thought of home and drifted off to the words of Thornton Wilder. “When you’re safe at home you wish you were having an adventure; when you’re having an adventure you wish you were safe at home.” So it was and so it will be. At least now, I know where home is.
