Where is your home? What is the home?
I can't answer that question yet because the place like this doesn't exist - any more and yet.
The home was ages ago when I was lying on the couch with my family, watching movies, bursting because of the amount of cheesecake we've put into ourselves, accidentally watching "Love Actually" or different kind of nice, warm movie.
The home was when I was helping my mum to bake crazy amount of cakes and Christmas dishes and the entire house smelled with cheese, flour, chocolate, carp and different types of meat.
The home was also when I was calling my parents from my rented house and they put me on the speaker so they both could talk to me at once.
That was the first home that finished when my parents split up.
There was the second home for some time. It smelled of Russian dumplings, corriander and chicken soup and fascinated me with its quietness and peace. The time when the TV was on for the news was celebrated, and it happened only once a day. Rarely, sometimes on a Sunday, the radio was on. That was the place where I started to write because it stimulated my creativity to the limits.
I remember the sound of the intercom, so much different than all the others I've heard - it still brings a smile to my face whenever I hear it.
I was always approaching this home with the feelings of excitement and shyness. The smell of delicious food used to hit me on the staircase. I knew that the doors will be open before I knock and that I will see my granny in the same spot as always, with freshly curled and dyed hair and pink cheeks. I loved the net of her wrinkles covering her face and her firm hug, much stronger than mine. I was always afraid to hurt her because she was so tiny - but she only looked fragile, her body was hiding an extraordinary strenght.
The home was when I got the empty drawer to put my things, when I left my backpack in the corner of the room and went straight to the table where I had chicken soup, some gently spiced veal and mashed potatoes.
The home was when I was calling half an hour before coming so she knew that the potatoes would be ready exactly when I come in.
After all the routine had been done, we were relaxing. We used to sit with tea and a cake and talk.
Usually, after a while, we moved to the kitchen where she was washing, and I was drying dishes and then there was the clou - the Russian dumplings were ready to be done. Whenever she didn't manage to make them, she was sorry, and apologised to me. The home was where she was. Now she's gone, so is the home.
Luckily, there are places like my friend's home. I love her homes because she's there - no matter if that's her parent's home or flatshare. Sometimes I visit her with a last minute note, we don't have to talk to feel great with each other. Recently, she was working and we stayed at her house. We've made a soup and a chocolate for her. When she came back, we've asked:
- Do you want soup? - Do you want chocolate? - Yes, of course - she answered laughing - welcome to my home. I'm happy that places like this exist but I miss having my home. The one that I could decorate my way. The one that we could go back to from our voyages.
That's the reason why we started our trip.