I don’t remember the last time I felt at home or if I ever even felt like that at some point. Moving around from one place to another has made me think a bit more about which one of these places can I call mine, and so far have reached no conclusion. What makes us call a place “home”? The easy answer would be the place where you were born, where you grew up or where your family and friends are. So what if you feel you have nothing in common with that place but memories?…
When I get homesick, I usually associate the word “home” with just moments that I enjoy remembering…but that’s not a good enough definition of “home”, because I have beautiful memories from every place I’ve ever seen. And I’m right back where I started. How does one figure out where they belong?
I love Romania. It’s my country and even though I don’t feel connected to it, I can at least call it “my”. That’s where my family and friends are and that fact alone makes it special, but it will never be my home. I can’t call “home” a country in which I have to watch my back (literally) when I get out of my own house so I won’t get bitten by the dozens of stray dogs. I can’t call “home” a country in which 99 out of 100 people you see on the street put on a sad face when they woke up and never took it off. I can’t call “home” a country in which corruption will never cease to exist because of the mentality of the people; a mentality that I shamefully admit sharing at certain times, even though I try very hard not to. Last time I visited, I felt like an alien – don’t know if that was because I’ve changed or because the country changed, or both. I had an eerie feeling nevertheless, and even ignoring that, I don’t dream of ever calling it my home again.
I love England, too. I never thought I’d have the opportunity to go to a university in another country, let alone a British one, let alone one that is so good and that certainly can’t be compared to the ones I would have had access to in Romania. I feel I know how things work and that everything is easy to figure out. People are friendly and I do like hearing “love” at every corner, even if it’s just an empty word. No one is in rush, no one is ever rude to you and, let’s face it, their accent is adorable. But no matter how much I love it, it’s not where I would like to settle, not in a country where every time I wake up the sky is grey and the national sport is getting wasted.
I love Germany. These 2 months I’ve spent here have been wonderful and full of events, full of interesting people and interesting journeys. Bearing in mind that my time here will be a short one, I’ve really tried to enjoy it, maybe not at its fullest, but certainly more than I did in England. However, it will never be my home.
I believe many people don’t ever find their home because they are simply too afraid to take risks and just follow their moment of clarity, how alcoholics would put it. You have to be brave enough not to ignore your instincts and completely change your path… because of a feeling, a wish, a person, a dream, a song or a memory. But what if in the end you still don’t end up home? Then maybe your home can be you… Maybe one does not need to settle down in only one place, maybe we can carry a small piece of all the places we’ve visited, all the people we’ve met, all the lovers we had, all the things we’ve experienced..and just build a home, like a puzzle, in our mind.
“We grab a Pan Am Clipper to Caracas, scoot on over to Rio for some fun in the sun,
slide off the map. We could go dancing, and have a lot of laughs, any time we want.