The Small Pleasures That Decide Whether a Place Feels Like Home

The daily pleasure is how your body feels when you step outside.

By Neil Solomon · 3 min read

Picture a couple named Rosa and Martin. They have spent two weeks in a new country and they have seen the famous places. On the fifteenth morning Rosa sits on a low stool, drinks something hot, and watches a neighbor sweep the step. She says, "I think I could do this every day."

That sentence is the one I listen for. When I read what retirees from abroad write about their first years, the grand views come up less often than I expected. What comes up is a stool, a stall, a walk, a cool evening, a particular kind of bread. The pleasures are small. They are also the ones you meet 365 times a year.

How it differs by place

Here is how I read the accounts from four places. These are impressions from what people describe, not facts about the places.

Taiwan. One person in their fifties wrote about not wanting to feel stuck. I find that a useful phrase. A daily life that is easy to move around in, where you can go out without planning, seems to matter more to some people than a beautiful setting. The pleasure here is freedom of movement.

Vietnam. Two very different voices stand out to me. One woman visited a coastal town for only two days and came away feeling she had found a home and her people. The pleasure was company, found fast. Another writer described a self-built house that began to leak four years in. The pleasure of building your own place was real, and so was the upkeep. I read these two together. Joy and chores arrive in the same house.

Malaysia. One writer mentioned a bathroom that surprised them. It sounds trivial. I think it is the opposite. A bathroom is where the day starts and ends. If the small physical setup of your home does not suit you, the pleasure of the neighborhood has less room to work. Look at the humble rooms first.

Sri Lanka. A couple in their seventies chose cooler hills over the heat of the coast. Another person described land beside a lake in the south. Both choices are about air and water, which you feel before you think about them. The daily pleasure is how your body feels when you step outside.

A small conversation

Rosa and Martin are at the stall again on day sixteen.

"Do you want to see the temple today?" Martin asks.

"Maybe tomorrow," says Rosa. "I'd like to sit here a little longer."

What I make of it

I think there are two kinds of pleasure. The first kind is the one you notice on arrival and that fades by month three. The second kind grows. The sweeping neighbor, the shop that knows your order, the shade at four o'clock. These tend to be free or close to it, and they do not appear in a brochure because nobody can photograph them well.

I also notice that each pleasure came with a small cost. The hills are cool, and they are also farther from things. The new house is yours, and it also leaks. I do not read that as a warning. I read it as a fair trade that people make with their eyes open, or sometimes only half open.

So one useful question to ask before you commit to a place is plain. What would an ordinary Tuesday feel like? If the answer makes you smile, that tells you more than a long list of attractions.