I thought that going back home rarely would help. That I’d get used to my life here so much that it would feel like a well-deserved holiday.
I haven’t been home in almost two years (1 year and 9 months to be exact), and I was content with my life. I’ve been living in London for a little over 6 months – it takes me less than half an hour to get to the city centre, I can see Big Ben and the Shard from my kitchen window, I live in one of the best cities in the world. Before that, Birmingham was my home for three years.
Until last week. I realised when I visited my hometown, that I still see that as my home. My family was there and greeted me with open arms, my friends were there and they were loving and excited to see me, the city was inviting and fun. But I’ve made a life for myself in London, so why can’t I let go? Why am I still drawn to home?
The thing that baffles me is that I hate everything about Bucharest and Romania. The bureaucracy is endless – they never inform you of the right papers you need for something, so you end up going back and forth for months on end. Corruption is still strong. People that are pro-life are marching as we speak! What is this, the communism era? LGBT people need to hide in the closet, as they’re not accepted and even frowned upon (some even deny their existence!). The public transport is horrendous – always full, always smelly, never on time. Health and safety in the events industry does not even exist!
So why does it still feel like home?