It had been brewing for a long time, and every time I returned to Germany I felt less and less at home. But in the end, Germany was never my home. Morocco still isn’t, and despite all the love I have for the country, I don’t know if it ever will be, because so many things are ‘different’ there.
But the discovery of this trip is that Paris isn’t Paris any more. I can no longer instinctively find the best route, more and more signs are changing and the streetscape is becoming less and less familiar.
The weather was fine today, a little marvel of Indian summer. La Rotonde, Luxembourg, Pont Neuf, Abbesses. A quiet day, enjoying the streets where I’ve spent so much time, and then this sudden, disturbing realisation that I don’t feel any more at home here than I did in Germany.
For 20 years I’ve been dragging my suitcases around, moving from hotel to hotel every week. I always had a nest, a home, a place to come home to. Since I’ve had two houses, or maybe before, I’m not sure, that nest no longer exists. I no longer ‘go home’, I go out.
It’s liberating, enriching and impoverishing all at the same time. But in any case it’s disturbing…. I’ve always dreamt of being somewhere else. Now I’m always somewhere else…
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