Moving (Aliyah)

In three days, I will be moving again. Good bye Belgium, farewell Flanders.

I was few months old when my parents moved out from our first home — a basement converted in an apartment, with small windows two meters from the floor. So, I do not have any memories of that place, if not through the few ones they shared with me. I will never know if those were happy times, but I love to think so.

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Via dei Panzera

The first home I have my own memories about, was also the house where I lived longer — in all my life. It was an apartment on the ground floor of a two stories building. My parents rented it from an old couple living on the first floor. Fifty square meters so impressed in my mind, that I can still draw the map in front of my eyes — without closing them. The television was projecting its images in black and white,  and the old, grey rotary-dial phone was shared with our landlords. The kitchen was so small that two people could not fit in it, and had no windows. My room, yes I had my own room, was on the back of the house: the large window facing a concrete wall, a meter away from it. The letters composing that address, still sound like a magic spell in my heart: Via dei Panzera undici-barra-uno.

I guess I stayed there some ten years, or so. It never happened again to live in the same house for more that three years. Never. Via dei Panzera was the first place I called “home”, eventually Via dei Panzera is the place where I learned that I was never going to feel at home again. In all my life. But this is another story.

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You already know, about my wardrobe

We then moved to some small village in the countryside: two years here, two years there. At fourteen I finally decided to separate my destiny from the one of my disrupted family — and I moved to the local catholic seminar. At age fourteen I stopped having a wardrobe — and still now-a-day, I rather keep my cloths in a luggage.

Keeping my belongings in a travel bag makes me to feel safe. I know that I am in control: I have the power to stay or to go. Or maybe is just the opposite: like the people of Israel, I live in a permanent state of Pesach.

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I never thought about that before

I never thought about that before, but maybe it is so. Maybe I feel so close to the destiny of Israel because my temple was destroyed, my land conquered, my life scattered in a diaspora. Moving back to Sweden it’s my Aliyah.

Our new apartment is really cute: after spending some years in this small village in the heart of Flanders, we finally rented a place right in the heart of the city! The most central location that you can possibly imagine. Five minutes walking from the main train station, a shopping mall in the same building, a stone’s throw from everything else. In twenty minutes, you can be downtown Copenhagen — just the time to cross the Øresund Bridge. I already love the place.

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Back home: Aliyah!

When I traveled to Scandinavia, the first time in (one of) my (previous)  life (lives), I promised to myself that here I was going to live — one day. But I would not have ever imagined how this was going to happen. I was 22, I had long hair, I was driving ambulances, I was together with that girl — and my highest ambition was to find a job at McDonalds on Hovedbanegård.

I guess, it was still diaspora. Today, 2014, I want it to be Aliyah. Back home.

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About these photos

Laundromat. Because my life changed when I met this cute girl doing her laundry. I just wonder, which one of these situations describe better our first meeting!?

2 responses to “Moving (Aliyah)

  1. I guess my house in Trieste should be similar as yours, even more cramped maybe and more crowded: books, books everywhere, those lining the walls almost all bound in green leather, others, paper-backed, piled carefully on the mantel, on a stand, and even on the floor; still others lying casually on the end of the desk and on two leather armchairs. The desk, of dark oak, long and monumental, virtually filled the rest of the room. It was completely covered with files and papers; the big desk lamp, send in the middle, was out. The single bulb was always turned. A single bulb turned on in the ceiling fixture…

    With all my affection to you (in my insecure English)

    • It is nice this connection we have, through via dei panzera! I was so surprise to read about it on your blog. I did not visit it since many years. Maybe I should go back there, one day!

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