Christmas break is sadly over, I’ve been back in the UK for more than a week now and I had the chance to think about the word “home”. I simply realized that I use this word indiscriminately to designate both my houses: the lovely Milanese flat overlooking some lonely palm trees (not joking, you can check my IG below to verify!) and the overcrowded conglomerate of bedrooms in the Dalston ghetto (which has been documented on IG as well)
The concept of “home” goes beyond those four walls: home is where your mom lives and where she stores chocolates to hide in your bag, just so you find a little surprise when you’ll be back in the UK and unpacking; home is where 5 other people sleep, cook their meals and are always willing to pop to the shop and buy you orange juice when you’re sick. At home the fridge is overflowing with prosciutto and salame that you will eat with no regrets; at home you wake up hung over on Saturday morning and catch up with your flatmates, exchanging drunk stories in a language that is not your native one.
So for the tenth time (I actually counted them!) I boarded a flight, unsuccessfully hiding my panic attacks (because yeah, I am a neurotic coward and I’m scared of flying) and I left my home in Italy to get back to my home in England. Ten days earlier I had returned to my Italian home. From whichever perspective you look at it, there is no real “leaving” for me, it’s always a return: I return to Milan, where I left a big chunk of my life, and I return to London so I can build a new one.
With this highly emotional post I wish you a 2015 full of people that will make you feel at home. Happy New Year!