My city is Szeged, on the banks of River Tisza, close to the southeastern border of Hungary. This is my hometown, because the city where I was actually born never was and never felt like home. It’s Szeged where I grew up, attended kindergarten, school and high school. It’s Szeged where I spent my teenage years, withdrawn in my room with a book, and it was the scene of my university years. It’s Szeged where I had my first kiss and first date, it’s where I met my husband. The first apartment we moved in together was in Szeged. I don’t return too often these days, but when I rarely visit Szeged, its streets feel only half existent in real life. The version I have in my memories seems to be more solid and more real to me.
My city is Vienna. That’s where Csaba and I first traveled together independently, by train, with two backpacks. It’s the gardens of Schönbrunn Palace where he proposed on a rainy summer day. Vienna is the city where we returned to romantic weekend getaways throughout our twenties. We visited it in every season, and it’s Vienna where we had our last getaway before Tomi was born. It’s also one of the first cities we visited with tiny, curious Tomi – me sunken into old and new memories, him with a clear mission of putting every pebble from the majestic walkways of Vienna’s parks into his mouth.
My city is San Francisco. That’s where I moved for a year with a scholarship after I graduated, that’s where I fell in love with the ocean, inevitably and unalterably. It’s San Francisco where I had my first full-time job, my first car and first road trip, and it’s San Francisco where Csaba and I learned to dream. Oh, I was so happy and so naive in San Francisco. That one year was our California dream, and we kept on dreaming it for several years even after we left California.
My city is Budapest. A city I haven’t fallen for at first sight, not even at the fiftieth. Yet the sight of the Buda Castle, the Fisherman’s Bastion, or the Parliament reflecting in the Danube on a calm morning are pictures burnt into my heart. It’s Budapest where I spent most of my adult life. I read books on the subway on my way to work, and after work I met with old friends, most of whom also ended up in the Hungarian capital. I gave birth to my son in Budapest, and I took him hiking for the first time to the Buda Hills, dressed in fall glory.
My city is Vancouver. That’s where I spent the most beautiful year of my motherhood, tucked between mountains and ocean, my beloved ocean. I took toddler Tomi to the rainforest, to rushing creeks and roaring waterfalls. We played on the beaches and swam in the warm lakes in the summer. We went out sliding after a fresh snowfall in the winter. I fell for camping and fell for the vast, wild, astonishing landscapes of Canada. It rained a lot, but when the sun shone out, it casted a spell over the landscape. And everything was still alright.
My city is Sydney. How I imagined fulfilling a dream moving here – and how I had to unlearn dreaming afterwards. I was busy and excited creating a new life, enjoying the sunshine and the endless beaches, marveling at how the sounds of cockatoos and the lush evergreen landscape mixes with Australia’s biggest city. All the while cancer was growing inside me, inevitably and unnoticed. I thought that our first year in Sydney would be among the best ones of my life, if not the very best. Little I knew about life.
It’s Sydney where we bought our first canoe, where we saw glow worms turning an old tunnel into an enchanted one, where we found sea caves and slot canyons, bumped into shy wallabies and were robbed off by laughing kookaburras. It’s Sydney where Tomi started preschool, and it’s Sydney where I spent seven months surviving. I’m alive, but not whole. I don’t dream, but I want to do things that bring me joy. And I try to accept that some days will only bring sadness, anger and bitterness.
My city is Sydney. Here I was happy. Here I was shattered to pieces. Here I was angry and desperate. Here I was determined. And here I stand, listening to the thunders of the waves, gazing at the endless, untameable, merciless ocean.
Where is home? I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a home. I called several cities home and got attached to them throughout the years. But I didn’t realize that once I leave them, there may not be a road that leads back anymore. That there’s no way back in life, no way to return to how things were, nor how I was. Maybe there’s no home.
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