I thought my life would be better when my parents moved back
to California. I’d spent my childhood there. We lived five years in
Florida. I thought things would go back
to the way they were. They didn’t. Family members I’d known as nurturing
accused me of being a spoiled traitor for enjoying travels to Poland, Russia and other
foreign countries. During those past five years Walnut, CA had become a promised
land. It didn’t measure up. I felt betrayed.
After that I never stopped traveling. My first home abroad
was a dorm room in Beijing’s no.4 High School. I only had a roommate for a few
days. He dropped out of our program. I was able to experience life abroad. The
cafeteria’s bad food set me on a hunger strike after a couple of weeks. For the
first time, I had my own friends; my own space.
Come to think of it, I’ve never had a roommate for an
extended period of time. I shared an
apartment with family and acquaintances in Maldives. I took the multiple balconies
and maid service for granted at the time. The interpersonal drama drove me up
the walls. It also motivated me to journalistic success.
I lived by myself in Bucharest
too. The apartment had an ionic view of
the Palace of Parliament. I often reveled in it while cooking meals of my
creation, or enjoying Moldovan wine. I dutifully cleaned the floors, and
sprayed for cockroaches at midnight. It
took a visit from my mother to remind me that the place was a shit hole. No hot
water. The balcony filled with standing water. Broken window panes. Still, it was mine.
During the latter half of that summer I lived in another
dorm. The impossible happened. My
roommates were my best friends on the program. We had some minor disagreements. But, our
Polish courses finished after 6 weeks. As one of them put it: “it’s after two
months that the drama starts to happen.” I’ve had the experience. I’m done with
it.
At USC, I was forced to share an apartment for a year and a
half. I had my own room. Yet, the situation was insufferable. Returning South
Hills became a boon. My high school friends grew closer. I eventually moved back.
College became a necessary evil.
I’ve lived in other locales since then. There is something new
you learn to appreciate in each city. Some more desirable than others. In Budapest, I reveled in my flat’s grand
piano, chandlers and short walk to the opera. In Bangkok, I lived on my
balcony. I was forced to cook pizza with a hot plate.
Right now, I’m living in Poland. In a one bedroom
apartment for what couldn’t buy a studio in the West. I’ve never seen a roach. Everything works according
to its Ikea design. I don’t need my mother to tell me that it’s not a shit
hole. I dutifully vacuum my own floors. I keep from my balcony for fear of unwanted solicitors.
Next year I’ll study in Vienna. The best I can hope for is one room with no
balcony. But, I know I'll live alone. Pursuing an uncompromising future. The rent will be more than for
my Polish flat. The standard of accommodation will be less. I’ll learn to live with it. Yet, I now realize
what I’m embarking on.
I recently saw Verdi’s La Traviata. In it, the protagonist’s father attempts to
remind him of the pleasures his family’s home offers.
Our house is near
Walnut. We call it The Village. I miss its multiple verandas. The effluent privacy;. its effortless cleanliness. Its manicured yards. I hope its balconies shall always exist. That the
friends I’ve made since Florida will be eternal. I can’t help but long for the respite my
summer return will bring. But what awaits beyond its premises?
Once I leave my family’s home, my future can only be global.
I must move ahead. Despite the difficulty. To improve my accommodations
. To create The Village again in a new land. On my own terms.
Even if it’s impossible.
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