Coming home
I stepped outside in the early morning. The tiles of the terrace cool under my bare feet. The grass was yet moist, the lake was sparkling in the sun, birds were singing and the insects were buzzing. The light was bright, but yellow, the sky was blue as it gets only in Denmark. The early morning light, the promising warmth in the air, a fresh breeze caressing my legs. Scent of the coffee my mum brought to wake me up, and of fresh bread. The little table already set with butter and cheese, bees already buzzing busily around the marmalade.
Coming home from Italy after spending 15 years there, still takes me by surprise.
Sometimes I feel like I'll never get used to it all, and that I will always be Italian inside. I still talk too loud when I get excited or passionate about something, and I still use my hands a lot while talking. I also expect people to understand my sign-language and often will try to explain what I am saying. Those are moments when I feel like a stranger in a foreign country. A curious visitor, that has made a conscious choice to be here, and who wants to be here. But a stranger nonetheless. And then there's the perfect little moments when it is just like I never left Denmark.
Stepping out into a perfect Danish summer morning is just like that.
Coming home from Italy after spending 15 years there, still takes me by surprise.
Sometimes I feel like I'll never get used to it all, and that I will always be Italian inside. I still talk too loud when I get excited or passionate about something, and I still use my hands a lot while talking. I also expect people to understand my sign-language and often will try to explain what I am saying. Those are moments when I feel like a stranger in a foreign country. A curious visitor, that has made a conscious choice to be here, and who wants to be here. But a stranger nonetheless. And then there's the perfect little moments when it is just like I never left Denmark.
Stepping out into a perfect Danish summer morning is just like that.
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