As if it were just like yesterday, I can remember touching down, while looking through sleep-filled eyes, and feeling as though I was home. Then, I understood a plethora of conversations- both spoken and through letters- with a really close college friend of mine. He was home in the shallow, gondola-filled waterways of Venice, Italy.

During my time at the University of Kentucky, which is where I met said friend, I heard how architecture students (soon to be future architects) should at some point in their lives, plan to go abroad. Italy- Ciao! France- Ooh la la! Spain- Salud! Greece- Chaire! London- Cheers! These were just a few of the places that I imagined I would visit when the opportunity arose.

When the time did come, where did I choose?

Reykjavik. In Iceland. My very first trip overseas was to the northernmost capital in all of Europe. What little I had seen of the city sounded great, though it was the few photos I could find of the landscape that intrigued me, and like the hardefisk hanging to dry in the open markets of the town, I was hooked, lined, and sinker-ed.

The black lava sand in sublime contrast to the layers of verdant moss fascinated me. Fog rising above the water to give the city its descriptive name. Deep, indescribably blue skies meeting the clearest ice that I’ve ever seen are something to behold.

2005 was the first time that I visited and there was not much to speak of by way of architecture. My search for a bit of history on this small island led me to the National Museum of Iceland where I heard (one of many) stories about the residential vernacular in Iceland. The turf covered wood structures with typical four-pane windows were something out of a Peter Jackson movie. They were completely beautiful and contextually apropos to me. And for a time, apparently, they were the usual proud abodes of Icelanders.

Until some Icelanders took a trip to mainland Europe.

The Museum guide related the tale of how the Icelanders were so impressed and seduced by the cosmopolitan architectural evident in the major cities that they felt ashamed of their grassy, mossy, earth-built ‘huts’. Upon returning to Iceland, they did (to me) the unthinkable- they began destroying their houses in an effort to be more European.

Upon hearing this story, I was struck by how… unnecessary it was. I wanted to protect these little houses, the home(s) that I have now adopted. It is fortunate for us that some these turf houses have been preserved.

Over the past 15 years, I have had the privilege and pleasure to teach Residential Design. One of the first assignments that I typically give is for the students to define home- in whatever form they can describe. Samuel Mockbee and the Rural Studio has been the foundation of the course through the years. Lecturing about the Rural Studio has led me to relive, and even revise my thoughts about home.

What I realize now is that home is not only a noun (and should not be seen only as that) but home is also a verb.

V is to KY as R is to OH