Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

There is a sombre atmosphere pervading my home this week, almost as thick as the humidity that hovers over these thick summer days, windless but for the fans blowing relentlessly. A deep seated longing for those orange South African sunsets and warm almost-sisterly embraces have embedded themselves into our hearts, and there is no escaping the desire to return.

I love this French city. As I left work one afternoon last week, having returned from a most magnificent vacation in my homeland, I sighed with contentment: a warm evening, it’s still summer and the streets are devoid of the bustle, the old man who sits at the bakery greets me with a smile are all signs that I am home. But the truth is that I have 2 homes. The beauty of this city, steeped in history and privilege, and basic human rights and almost unbiased equality most of the time allows me to feel safe and almost completely free from judgement and having my actions questioned. I look forward to stepping onto Place de la Cathedrale and gazing up at the Rose window, listening to the bells that summon the hour. I seek out the river at opportune times to reflect in. I walk, I run, I cycle: I feel the freedom that comes with it.

My other home is a space of conflict. It is magnificent in so many ways: you’ve seen the images and photos that I have shared of breath-taking sunsets and sunrises, soaring mountains, waves crashing onto brilliant sandy beaches, farm life, wildlife, city life, fresh fruit and vegetables which grow locally, meat (yes, I must make mention of it, sorry to my vegan conscious friends) that simply TASTES, citizens that are determined to overcome hardship and truly the most inspiring creativity I have seen in many years. Yet it is also a space that is ugly: I didn’t show you the litter that decorates the trees, the overgrazed muddy dirt-poor parts of the country that neither government nor poverty cares for, the absence of abiding to simple rules of respect for one another, nor have I shown you the statistics of how many people get to take a university education, or perhaps even get to take a job that they’re deeply passionate about.

And thus, I adapt. I can shed a layer of my self as I step out of my door, and I can take in an energy that allows me to feel content here, even after saying goodbye to a place that is intrinsically- but not essentially, my absolute core. I know how to take from my day to day, the best of everything.

Unfortunately, this is not a skill that befalls the younger souls in my home. My darling Beth, most passionate out of all of us, person most likely to break barriers when the time comes, loves deeply, and for every moment: Beth, who just wants to return to the farm. Beth, who has fallen in love with a life I once had, but can no longer give her. There is nothing I can say in love or in anger that will move her sadness into a different space: to one of acceptance.

Her dreams are filled with her cousins flitting through ochre sunsets, late night chats and deep rooted laughter of joy and delight and mischief that comes from having a blood connection: a connection she thinks is her right, and is so beautifully naïve that it is indeed a privilege to be able to hold onto those blood connections.

It’s on these days that I question if the road we’re travelling on is the right one. Honestly- we’ll never know for sure. We’ll never know if giving her the freedom of this multinational society in Europe is better or worse than one inextricably tied with one of a life we once lived, a rat race where some people live in fear and many more in abject poverty.

What I do know from experience, is that the longing and homesickness will eventually cease. Maybe this time, it will just take a little longer.