At Home-ish

Dear Z. 

Yet again I had to leave. I got on a plane and flew all those hundreds and thousands of miles away. And yet again I cried. And so did you. Because your little heart doesn't understand why I had to go. And to be honest, mine doesn't either. You know?

I see you grow so fast. Or better said, I realise you've grown whenever I see you, every now and then when I go back home. In summer you could count to ten. And now you count to ten... in English. You solve puzzles with the speed of light. You listen and observe and learn so carefully.

You use words even I don't. You make jokes that are actually funny. You come sit next to me and spend long moments telling me stories nobody could think of but you. 

You spread so much joy and so much love. You never fail to surprise. With a new dance move you had learnt at ballet class. Or a new expression you use randomly. Or a detail I had no memory of but you spotted months ago.

You're my favourite little human. You won't read it now or perhaps never, but you're the smartest, most gentle and loving wee thing on this planet. On my planet for sure. 

We'll see each other again and again and then again. I'll always be there. A phone call, a three-hour-long flight or a memory away. I'll be back. I'll never stop coming back. 

And for now I'll just hold on to these little moments when you rest your little head on my lap to comfortably watch your favourite cartoon. And the hugs you randomly give me during the day. I'll hold on to all those moments when time and place come into agreement. 

I promise you one day I'll finally explain why I'm not there with you all the time. I hope it'll make much more sense then. 

To all of you who...

...who invite me into your lives. Who serve me food and share stories behind every meal. Who show me around new places. Who make fun of me when I mispronounce things. Who correct me when my grammar goes into really dark places. Who teach me about what's the acceptable time to make calls, what's the best form of referring to someone or what's definitely not cool when small talking in the office kitchen.

To all of you who listen about my exciting new adventures, however small they are. You, who cheer me up with a fun conversation or a drink when homesickness hits a little bit too hard. You, who offer your kindness and patience. You, who show interest in my grandmother's recipe for pierogies and who try having a chat with my niece despite the language barrier. You, who make sure I'm okay when there's bad news coming from across the continent. You, who celebrate my new flats, my little victories and my everyday joys. You, who help me move furniture in the middle of the night and who get breakfast at 5AM after a whole night of chatting.

To all of you who send me voice messages on my birthday, even though we're thousands of miles and a few time zones apart. You, who make me feel welcome. Who do not care about where I'm from, how I speak but who I am. Who keep me company in difficult moments and who help me solve the silliest of issues. Who tell me how to deal with local taxes, where to get a bank account and what's the best pizza in town.

To all of you, who make an unknown land feel like home.

You're my home.

I’ve lived abroad for some years now. A quarter of my life to be precise. To me it seems like quite a big deal. I’m not exposed to my language on a daily basis, I cannot buy my favourite snacks whenever I want and, of course, I’m away from my people. So every single time I arrive back in my country, it feels like I’m learning it all over again. 

Two days ago I finally arrived at Warsaw, after the longest break from going back home ever. I got off the plane and headed towards the exit. My Uber ride was a few minutes away. I didn’t know where the pickup point was exactly, so I asked a member of staff at the airport to help me out. They pointed me into the right direction and just out of pure habit I said “muchas gracias” which translates to “many thanks” in… Spanish. The guy looked at me weird and it took me a second to realise I spoke in a wrong language.

It always takes a few hours of getting used to hearing and using my mother tongue. I make mistakes, I mix idioms and all of that makes me terribly uncomfortable and embarassed. But it’s normal. It happens every single time. And then it passes. 

As I was wandering about the city centre of Warsaw I couldn’t stop being amazed by everything I saw. The architecture, the neon signs at all sorts of establishments and how full of life every single place was. I kept taking pictures of the rectangular blocks. Just like many others, I used to hate them and now I can’t stop looking at them. I love brutalism. I love how raw and simple they are. They make me feel nostalgic… and at the same time, they turn me into a proper tourist. In my own country. 

At some point I ordered a beer at a bar and when the waiter brought it to the table I couldn’t believe its size. It seemed so large! Not because it was excessively big, but because I’m used to the measure of a caña which is approximately 200ml. I then kept being surprised by the prices of everything. It all seemed quite expensive when in reality it’s just that I don’t tend to calculate anything in the local currency. I only really use it when I’m here. 

All these little things make me super uncomfortable at the beginning. I mean, it’s my home. I should know it like the back of my hand. But the reality is that just as my life progresses, so does everything in here. When I go back it’s not like I’ll jump straight to where I left it. It would’ve changed a million times.

So… I am very much looking forward to the end of that awkward phase. In the meantime, I’ll just keep talking like a 5-year-old and complaining about how big my drinks are.

I've always hated goodbyes. It started when I was very little and my mum was taking me to the nursery. Not one day would pass without me making a scene when she was leaving the building. Then, a few years later, my parents would visit me at all sorts of school trips and camps. The moment they got into their car to head back home, I'd break into tears. Not a second earlier though, didn't want to look weak. Lol. Fast forward a decade and I'd go on language courses where I'd spend a month surrounded by people from all over the globe. The farewells were always very bitter and genuinely felt like funerals. It sounds dramatic, but the sensation of never seeing someone again was kind of similar. I mean, what are the chances to meet up with a pal from Brazil again? Actually, not that small, but I certainly didn't know that in the age of seventeen. I'll get to this later.

Then I moved out of Poland. At first just for a few months and then for... Well, I'm still not back. And this is where things get super complicated. Let me elaborate a little bit. See, it's no news on this blog when I say I've always wanted to live abroad. It was exciting, I had dreamt about it my entire life and until this day I have not regretted the choice of packing my bags and essentially saying goodbye to my country. But... And there's a big "but". Poland, as a place, would be one thing. My family, my friends (and my cat!) are a completely different story. See, whenever I go back there for Christmas or summer holidays, I end up extremely sad when leaving it again. At the beginning I thought it was going to get better with time but, oh boy, was I mistaken. It gets worse and worse and sometimes it feels like I should just stay.

The worst part is that I never see the bitterness of those goodbyes coming. It lingers somewhere, hidden, quiet, pretty much invisible. And then, when you least expect it - SURPRISE! No warning, no signs, nothing. Suddenly my eyes fill up with years, my throat ties in a knot and there I am crying in front of my nervous family trying not to look like an idiot. Because, you know, they might feel like my life outside of Poland is no good. They might think I really don't want to go back. Spoiler alert - they're wrong in both cases. I adore my life, I'm just sad it placed my happiness so far away from all of them. I feel the injustice of it and it gets me proper frustrated and upset. That's the essence of this whole "I hate goodbyes" thing. I've been leaving people around the planet for years now. I've been through some really hard farewells and yet I keep repeating them.

I have family in one place and then friends all over the globe. My very good friends. People who I love dearly. People who I want to share my daily life with. But it can't be done. I can't just call them to meet up for a coffee or a city break in some cozy rural place our of town. With every goodbye I give up on part of those relationships. It's heartbreaking.

For years I've been ignoring the thought about leaving people behind. And how sad it would make me every single time. It's easier this way, it's better not to complicate it. But last year, when I was moving countries again, it stung a little too much. And I haven't been able to shake this feeling off for months now. I keep asking myself, why do I do this to myself? Why can't I stay put and just enjoy life with the people I love? I'm still to find the answer to that.

This is not one of those slightly comical or emotive texts I tend to write. This is just a few paragraphs which reflect on my anger, my disappointment and most importantly incredible sadness that stems from current situation in the Polish politics.

Poland is always going to be my home. It’s where my family and friends are. It’s where I made countless, wonderful memories. I adore Polish food, traditions and I invite every single foreign friend of mine to discover it all by themselves. But there is one thing about Poland that has always made me sad and recently it simply got too much. Let’s talk about LGBTQ+ for a second, shall we? My mum would always tell me how hospitable we, Poles, are. And I want to believe that's true. We treat our guests right, we offer them all the best of ourselves and our households. Poland is also a varied country providing visitors with plenty of stunning places to explore. I know for a fact that people coming from abroad enjoy it. And I'd like to think they feel welcome. But for years now many have not felt welcome there. Despite the hospitality and despite the attractive tourist offer. Recent events made me so heartbroken I cannot stay silent about it any longer. Because to see how politics, fuelled with hatred, discrimination and ignorance, turn Polish people against a group of innocent citizens without ANY reason but a sick need for power, that infuriates me. LGBTQ+ are people who grew up there, who pay their taxes, who are just like anybody else. They're all that and much more yet they don't have equal rights. That's something we're all aware of. It's not at all okay, but realistically with current trends in politics we did not expect that much would change anytime soon. But to dehumanise LGBTQ+ and call them an ideology, instead of accepting that they're PEOPLE and a part of the society just like anybody else, that's cruel.

See, the president of Poland is trying to get re-elected at the end of June. He needs votes. So he decides to attack a group of people. Yes, you read it right. To win a presidential run he intentionally marginalises part of the society in the most bitter way. How, you may ask.

To begin with, he signs a “Family Charter” which mentions preventing gay couples from marrying or adopting children or banning teaching about LGBT issues in schools. He also defends an MP of Law and Justice party (ultraconservative) who claimed LGBTQ+ are not people but an ideology. He not only defends that MP but goes on to say it's indeed an ideology. Just like communism, but even worse and more distractive to people. That’s coming from a person who is to represent everybody in his country. 

Let’s have a look at other politicians who recently expressed similar views. One MP says, for example, "these people (LGBTQ+) are not equal to normal people" and another writes on his social media that "Poland is the most beautiful without LGBT".

Can someone explain it to me, please? Can someone explain who in their right mind attacks innocent citizens because they love who they love? How are people, who essentially picture LGBTQ+ as lesser humans, in power? How?

I’ve always had it clear I would live abroad. At least for a little while. When moving to Scotland six years ago, it felt like a big deal because I’d give up on life as I knew it, but at least I was certain about one thing - if I needed to be back, I’d just hop on a plane and in a few hours I’d be in my hometown.

As I moved about it’s always been the case. I’d know that my family, my friends were just a few-hour-long flight away. This accessibility gave me peace. Despite the distance, I got to touch base with my people in Poland whenever I wanted to. I’d go for a few days to recharge batteries, let everyone spoil me with delicious food and unlimited love, and be back no problem. 

But recently something has changed. The world has moved into a new chapter of history, a global pandemic with COVID-19 playing the main part. Suddenly, like thousands of others, I couldn’t just get on a plane. My plans to spend Easter with the fam never turned into reality. And although there is some loosening up when it comes to lockdowns around Europe, I can’t just go for a weekend and be back as if nothing happened. I’d have to spend 14 days in a full on quarantine straight after crossing the Polish border. So that’s a no go. And frankly, even if the borders were open, even if airlines were operating as per usual and it was technically possible to travel, I’d probably still not go because of precaution.

So? Will I be able to fly there this summer? Will the quarantine requirement still apply? Not sure. I don’t know it now and I probably won’t know for a while. I keep telling my niece (and myself) we will see each other soon but I can’t really promise anything. Now, of course, it’s not the end of the world. My family and friends are fine and so am I. We’re safe and healthy. Many are in a far more difficult situation, I absolutely acknowledge that. I guess I’m just writing this because the peace I lived with for the past six years is somewhat off balance right now. Almost as if I was stripped of the right to spend time with my loved ones. It surprised me, caught me off guard. And it’s a weird medley of feelings that came with it. Disappointment, a little bit of fear and, finally, longing for home. See, when I’m busy with the usual daily routines I don’t even think about it. I don’t often get homesick. And when I do, I make a few phone calls and it’s all good again. But nowadays it’s a persistent sensation which won’t go away. Times are uncertain (I said it, yes, apologies), I have no answers, and therefore can’t just put that feeling away on a shelf. This quarantine is an emotional rollercoaster for all of us. And despite the days sort of blending in, despite not really seeing any difference between one and another, we do have better and worse monents. I hope you’ve managed to find balance and make the most of this crazy period. But most importantly, I hope you’re safe and sound at home with the people you love.

I bet I’m not the only one facing feelings like those mentioned above. Do you know what I mean? Does any of it make sense? Anybody?

Have a lovely week,

Madrid. 

My dear Madrid.

I wasn’t born here. To be honest, a decade ago I wasn’t even interested in you that much. There were plenty of other places I wanted to visit and experience, you weren’t at the top of the list. But today, today you’re home.

After seven weeks of total quarantine, which felt like I wasn’t really here, I finally got to go out and witness your beauty again. An hour long walk, something so important in my daily routine, was finally gifted back to us.

It’s Saturday and on Saturdays I don’t wake up early. As a rule it’s the day when I don’t set any alarms, I lay in, I take it easy.

Not today.

Today I woke up at 6:45, just before sunrise. I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait to walk along those little streets, to cross those old - usually extremely busy - squares. And honestly, it was such an emotional hour. It sort of felt like discovering you all over again. And, oh boy, it felt like home. It felt right. A tad bizarre, a bit unknown, sort of scary but right. Madrid, you’re back. And bit by bit, day by day, we’ll get to enjoy more of you again.

We’ll feel how welcoming you are. We’ll experience the closeness between your people. We’ll live the happy life you so generously offer.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up early again. And I’ll walk again. And the day after that. And all the following days too.

And although I hate the words “special” or “unique”, you are just that.

And I’ll proudly call you home, for as long as you’ll have me.

Yours,

The day has come. You are on your way to the paradise of all things interior. Some would say it’s no paradise at all, but in this case please channel your inner first year student. Alternatively, the 27-year-old me but I’d suggest the former. Anyway, you’re on your way to IKEA. You’ve a list of things to buy which will triple in size the moment you step into the store. You also have a clear lunch plan in the form of 50 cent hot dogs and that sparkling cranberry juice nobody really likes. Yourself included. Right, there you are, yellow bag in hand you begin the journey of finding everything you need for your freshly rented flat.

You start with an obligatory tour around the showcase part. You like this, you hate that, you find a nice little thing and instead of writing it down on your phone you run for the tiny pencil and the shopping form. Uff, managed to remember the code and price. Well done. You carry on and finally get to the marketplace. Here’s where the happiness fades away and gives way to bitter but quiet disappointment… Well, in my case it does. Let me explain why.

I have just rented a flat. A new place, most likely in a new town. The apartment is nice but small and doesn’t quite feel mine yet. So I look around IKEA hoping to get some picture frames, plants, candles, maybe a lamp. For the past couple of years I’ve wanted to buy a sofa, so I spend a good amount of time in the living room section. In the meantime I remember that I only have a massive saucepan and a super tiny saucepan. I need something in between. So I check the kitchen department too. And so hours pass and I wonder about the store with my head full of visions on how the flat should look like. I get to the check out. A set of white basic plates, two glasses picked up in the outlet bit, 500 napkins, A plant with A pot, a small frying pan, toilet brush, shower curtain and 30 vanilla scented tea lights. I leave the yellow bag (keeping the pencil, of course) as my ten items slowly slide on the conveyor belt. I pay, I get my hot dog and cranberry drink, I go back home. Disappointed.

You might have noticed I didn’t get the picture frames. I didn’t get a nice lamp. And I most definitely didn’t purchase any sofas. I didn’t buy anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary (candles are). As I was walking around from one section to another, grabbing things ready to land them in the yellow bag, I kept realising: it’s a rented flat, I can’t hang anything on the walls anyway, why would I buy a sofa - the one that’s already there will do, oh I don’t really need that medium-sized saucepan (MISTAKE, IT’S HONESTLY THE ONLY PAN YOU ACTUALLY NEED). And generally, I just kept telling myself that it’s not even my flat, why invest in it. Why gather things, which will be such a pain during the next move.

Yes, that’s exactly what I think on the first day in my new apartment. I think about the next time I’ll be moving. And the story repeats itself every single time. I get the same stuff and occasionally a little thing if I feel like spoiling myself. But I never buy or decorate the space as planned. That’s where the disappointment sits. I restrict myself because of the logistics and because I am convinced I will be moving some place else relatively soon. I have it so clear. As if it was recorded in my genes. Some call it the itchy feet syndrome. I’ll write about it in another post. ; )

I always like to have a conclusion following all those paragraphs above. Today, except for YOU ONLY REALLY NEED A MEDIUM SAUCEPAN (seriously, write it down), the conclusion is rather just a thought. After many years of moving about, changing flats and not buying sofas, I think I’m finally comfortable saying I’ll stick around where I am for a while. See how it goes…

Thank you for getting this far and if there’s anything this little story made you think or feel, I’d be happy to hear or read about it.

In the meantime, have a lovely day.

Coronavirus is dragging us through some delicate times right now. The situation is, let’s say, far from ideal. Tens of countries are currently paralysed and, who knows, it might as well shake things up some more. In Spain, where I am right now, it made people go into quarantine. And let me tell you, quarantine sucks. It’s so boring. Not like, “Oh I don’t know what to do now cuz my Netflix show is over” kind of boring. It’s genuinely SO boring. But it does gift you time. Time to contemplate e v e r y t h i n g. So here’s a few words about something I’ve been thinking about lots over the years and now more than ever. Home.

The main thing about quarantine is that you’re stuck at home. You’re in lockdown and have to remain inside pretty much at all times. But if you’re lucky, and I consider myself extremely lucky to have a safe space to wait this over at, at least you’re at home. H o m e.

Okay, let’s stop here and talk about that word for a second. I mean, we’ve got time, right?

Like many others around the world, I’ve been stuck at “home” for the past couple of weeks. Right now “home” means a (super) tiny flat in Madrid. An apartment I fall asleep in and wake up in everyday. An address printed in shit quality ink in my residency documents. A space. My space. But, is it home yet?

Now, you see, my worried mum called me the other day and said “I want to bring you home. I’ll buy you flights home.” What she meant was “I’ll put you on a plane from Spain to Poland, so as you spend the quarantine in the place you were brought up in. A building where your family lives.” But, is it still home?

Right now I’m here, in Spain. And I’m here because I chose to. I arrived a while back, like a little nomad, and hoped for the best.

It turned out not too bad. Madrid is where my life happens now and it does indeed feel like home. I know its smell, its little secrets and hidden gems. I know at what time rubbish lorry collects trash in my street. I know that my neighbours from 3rd and 1st floor hate each other. I know my floor makes lots of noise when you step on it and that one of the windows leaks when it rains too much. I know every little detail because it’s my place. I’d be comfortable calling it my home. But then again, not quite.

Because then, what about the house in Poland? What about all the memories made in it? What about my family who live there? What about my room which hasn’t changed since I left. Hold on a minute! Aren’t those just elements of a defence mechanism launched by nostalgia? Let’s focus on facts.

Last time I was “back home” an air refresher made me jump by releasing the product as I walked past it. After dinner I kept trying to place my plate on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, while it’s been years since they’re moved to the bottom one. Last but not least, I had to ask for the WiFi password because the network was not saved on my phone. I mean…

So, here’s what I think.

I think I’m too attached to the memory of my home, where I’d have coffee with my mum every afternoon and where my cat stays in my bed overnight. I think it’s hard for me to admit that I’m more of a guest in it now and I’ll probably never form part of that household again. But despite it all, I strongly believe I’ll never be able to not call it home.

You may ask yourself why on earth would I even contemplate it. Or maybe you’d want to recite one of the famous lines, so happily promoted in Poundland’s decor section, “Home is where your heart is,” “Home is where your bed is,” “Home is where…” I’ll stop you there, because although there is a little bit of truth in all of them, I’m afraid they simplify the issue just a tad too much.

You know, the key to this whole situation is that I like being a nomad. I like changing my address from time to time. I love packing my bags and moving to new places. But at the same time, I suddenly feel like it’s time to sit on my bum and find a place I could *really* call home. So I find myself in a limbo. And I’m hanging in there, somewhere between a mortgage and plans for the next big move.

I guess the best way to finish this little story is with yet another cliché. “Home is where I am”. Do you like it? Ha! Took me a minute to figure it out. But really, “home” is a feeling. You carry it within you. And if you feel like it refers to more than one place, then let it be. It’s fine, there are no rules.

Now that I have it sort of clear, I’ll just have to get used to it.

And what about you? What do you call home? Would love to hear your thoughts! In the meantime, make sure you’re taking good care of yourself and those around you. Have a lovely day.