I think I’ve mentioned this before: I find it interesting that coming back to London after a trip feels so much like coming home.
It’s true that my house and my work are in London, but I have only lived here for 8 years. I was born in Russia; I lived in Panama and grew up in the north of Portugal; I lived in the south of Portugal for 8 years; I lived in Belfast for 18 months.
All this moving makes it hard to answer the question of where I’m from. I’m not Russian; if I say I’m from Portugal that leaves out my Panamanian side — and I don’t live there anyway —; but I’m not from London. Or am I?
I’m writing this as I sit on a plane from Bucharest, where I was working for the past week. Knowing that soon I will be landing in London fills me with a sense of joy that I don’t remember feeling of any other place. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten it.