Refuge in Other People’s Homes

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On a street in the neighborhood the other day, a car appeared without wheels, without engine, without windows, without seats. A mere car carcass. Someone had bothered to cart it there but its utility – beyond wishful thinking – was hard to see. You had to be really desperate or really imaginative to find beauty or usefulness in that heap of metal. It could not be scavenged for parts as it didn’t have any. Nor was it some rare model worthy of restoration: it was just a Renault 12 – or what was left of it – fallen on ever harder times. But whatever its past or its future, it was now my rusty neighbor.

The next day – in a surprising act of municipal efficiency – bright orange stickers appeared on all sides of the carcass declaring that if the owners did not move it, the city would. I guessed a vigilant neighbor had raised all hell with the police.

The response seemed a bit harsh to me. While I didn’t relish that car decaying on the street, the message, its threat and the speed with which it was delivered felt as if they were hitting someone when they were down. I would have liked to have heard the other side of the story. Whoever had towed the wreck there had been touched by some tragedy or was nurturing some impossible dream. Either way, it seemed they deserved compassion rather than bullying. But there’s probably no bright-orange city sticker that offers condolences.

The next day the stilted conversation continued. A hand-written sign appeared pasted over the official orange one stating that the car did indeed have owners (it gave their name and address on that block). Any questions should be directed to them. The car, it seemed, had someone to vouch for it, someone with an address.

Which meant they wouldn’t be living in it. Oftentimes abandoned cars in Buenos Aires become homes. Around the corner there’s a car whose windows are blocked by cardboard. I know there are people inside because I hear rustling as I walk by at night. Other times a faint light creeps out around the edges.

Having spent some time myself living on the streets and in cars, I am attuned to such improvised dwellings. Most people, I think, would never notice. Honoring an unspoken pact, when I discover something like this, I keep the information to myself.

As a child I loved forts. My friend and I had three located in the gardens and woods around our house. If the adults discovered one, we knew we’d always have a place to fall back to, to rendezvous and re-group.

I feel that I’ve been on the run my entire life.

There are times when one needs to take refuge. Sometimes it is to flee. Sometimes it is to hear oneself think. Sometimes it is that kind place where they will look after you while you mend. Sometimes you just need asylum for your heart, for your solitude, from the thoughts that perturb you.

These days the world is big on robust slogans. We’re all supposed to be super heroes who can vanquish any challenge. No fear, they say. But often enough running away is the best option we have. It may not be pretty but it works.

Eventually though you will tire of all the running and feinting and faking and you will make your home right where you stand.

And you will refuse to move from that place ever again.

And you will call it home.