Paris, February 2010
Moving. Again. The sight of suitcases all over the place always makes me feel excited, yet a bit melancholic. I'm not scared of new places, strangers, foreign languages, I've kind of become immune to all of it by now. Leaving friends and family behind - even that doesn't bring me down anymore. It's happened before, and not only to me, and I know it will happen again.
The word "moving" itself doesn't even freak me out anymore. I moved places so many times that another exhausting journey to a new country, loaded with suitcases and boxes, cursing every traffic jam, staircase or broken elevator, seems to be completely normal, and rather entertaining.
I remember a couple of months ago I was staying at my friend's place in Paris. She moved places as much as I did, if not more. We were listening to Radiohead, I was reading Astrid Lindgren (yes, I adore her), she was making some hot wine for us to have before going out for our usual midnight walk around the city. Then I can't really recall what came first, but suddenly I decided to ask her if she's got home. Because I personally consider not having any home at all - I never stayed enough time in any place to become too attached to it. But she said yes. She said something I will remember forever, no matter how simple it seems to be : "My home is wherever I end up. Currently this tiny apartment in Paris is my home. Afterwards, who knows ?". Thus, I assumed my home was Dijon... She said no.
"You're at my place right now, you sleep here, you live here. Yes, for a few days. Nevertheless, right now - you belong to Paris".
