I Moved Back to My Childhood Home
and hated every second of it
Ali Hall recently published a wonderful article on romanticizing our childhood home.
My parents come from a sea-town named Trieste, right on the border between Italy and Slovenia. They were, and still are, spontaneous, kind-hearted romantics. They met on Saint Patrick's Day and decided to have me about one week after that. Eight years later, they performed especially well at a concert, felt inspired, and conceived my sister — who they named after the protector of musicians. In my lifespan they have changed partners, homes, jobs, and opinions countless times.
I love them to bits, but sticking to a plan has never been their forte.
When I was three, we moved to a village of twenty people, nestled at the bottom of a mountain named Spinning Wheel — Mount Kolovrat. We lived there for eight years. Thanks to their spontaneity, I had an amazing childhood, which I will forever cherish. One day, they decided to move back to Trieste. They asked me if I wanted to go.
“Absolutely not,” I replied. We went anyway, of course. I was very happy where I was. I was looking forward to middle school. I was a happy child who didn’t feel the need to relocate.
