So during all this whining about
people coming and going and most of all, leaving me, I forgot that if
it wasn't for all those people coming and going, I wouldn't have to
give a 5 minute long answer to my nephew's „where are you
sleeping?” question, explaining that I'll stay at Gramma (his
Gramma, my Mom), but then will spend the weekend at Raluca, go see
Zsuzsi, then stay Chez Pisti for another weekend, and then at the
Hotel Heikkila before coming back to Gramma and then going to Goma
again.
Point is (apart from him probably
telling at the creche that Auntie Kati always has a suitcase with her
because she sleeps around a lot), it took me till stopover number 3
to realize that I'm being given a room, a bed, a key somewhere else
every 3 days, and that it only feels natural.
And yes, sometimes there is a lump
in my throat when I drop the spare key in the mailbox (because I
always sneak out like almost lovers, during the day, when my host is
at work), but that's just part of the deal. Nothing ever comes for
free, and maybe the price for having people who get grapefruit juice
and pesto for your breakfast is that you only get to see them twice a
year. Not everybody can accept your „I can't make decisions right
now” drama queen BS when the question simply was whether to take a
tram or walk – and the ones who can may have been trained on your
sporadic, irregular and not very coherent whatsapp messages, because
they live a few continents away. Spending a mindless „field”
weekend with somebody who says what you think or thinks what you say (and gets up early to get fresh croissants for breakfast) feels all
the more special because you don't get to do that every other
weekend.
On the other hand, we have it
easier. People who are the eternal gypsy like I am (and yes, I am
going to use the term „gypsy” from now on – I know it's
probably not very PC; please interpret it as the literal translation
of the French expression „gens de voyage” - ie the people who
keep moving around. Regardless of skin colour or
country/continent/territory of origin.) have a much easier way of
knowing or recognizing real friends. Those who stay in touch really
mean it – tadaaa! I imagine one could stay in the city they grew up
and keep more or less the same circle of friends because that's the
way it's always been, without having to think twice. Now I don't have
a way it's always been. But I have friends who give me keys and rooms
and their Dad's pálinka etc, see above. The ones who schedule their
lives for a week to accommodate my arrival and pick up conversations
where they weren't even left off – all hail to technology, for it
makes it possible to aks the girls which dress I should wear for a
party, and it makes no difference if we are on different continents.
I'm not sure if there is a moral
to this story – my stories usually don't have one. If there is one,
it should read: Dear friends, please keep going away so I know which
one of you is for real. And also, so I can have my suitcases explode
in your living room. Love, K.
(Stay tuned! The next chapter will
cover the „why did I sign for another year” topic, and other
deeply existential questions.)
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése