It’s a free day from the family. I wonder what I should go do. Take a short drive over to Pikes Place? Make my way over to Kalama and visit my cousin and his fiancé? Maybe just explore? After reminiscing over the various family vacations a few days earlier, I decide to take a trip to the town I was born in. Portland, Oregon. I wake up early to get on the road at a decent hour. I fill the passenger seat with different CD from Nirvana to Jimmy Hendrix. I hop onto the freeway and prepare myself for the long drive. When I get there I see the hospital I was born in, the first house I lived in and think over how it would have been to have fully grown up there. I think back on Walter Benjamin’s critical article “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” I remember a quote from the article “It’s presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.”I’m glad my life didn’t stay here in Portland. It will always be my first home, but my unique existence was not meant to take place there. As I begin my trip back to Seattle I think about how blessed my life turned out to be. How growing up in Seattle gave me so many opportunities and how I would never change where I consider home.