I am sitting on my bed in the Journeyman Hotel (a Kimpton Hotel) in The Third Ward of Milwaukee. Bill is on his computer and Pippin is between us. It’s pretty much like any other morning except that we are in Milwaukee. Again.
We’re here for Milwaukee Irish Fest, the world’s largest Irish Music Festival. We are staying at a brand new hotel that is blocks from the festival grounds, so that we can walk to and from, take Pippin for walks as needed, eat non-festival food at one of the many decent restaurants in the area, and not have to worry about logistics. The hotel is a little pricey, but it’s dog-friendly, so I didn’t have to worry about boarding Pippin or getting a housesitter, so it balances out.
Last night we sat in the rooftop bar and had drinks with anyone who wanted to come by. I had created an event and invited people. There were about 10 people there, one former neighbor, one fellow teacher, one fellow singer and 4 people from HS. No other musical colleagues. No students.
I think this is my last trip to Milwaukee. I don’t feel anything when I come here. There are so many places I haven’t seen – the Pacific Northwest, New England, South Carolina – and I’d like to go back to Ireland. I think it’s time to cut all my ties with this city.
I have a lesson scheduled with Connie today, and I’m singing at the Unity Church on Sunday. I’m supposed to have another lesson with her on Saturday and rehearse with the band on Saturday afternoon. Not sure if I will do the Saturday lesson. I don’t think I’m going to do any more singing in this city after this point.
It’s time. I may have been born here, but this is not, and has never been, home.
Home should be where the heart is.
Never were words so true.
My heart’s far – far away.
Home is too.
Here’s an interesting article a fellow expat wrote upon his exit from MKE.