Gertrude
As we change course—meaning we decided to put our travel across the USA on pause and fly to Europe—I can't seem to stop thinking about the Gertrude Stein quote, “America is my country, and Paris is my hometown.” And you know what the funny thing is? I was born in neither. I made them mine.
I was born in the 1980s in Romania, under the communist regime, and until my 11th birthday I never really thought about other countries, let alone travel. There was no reason to. Our reality was what was fed to us via the television set, when it didn't suddenly go blank. Or a million gray dots, I should say. The world outside our borders was a rumor. You didn't plan for it; you didn't dream about it. It simply wasn't part of the conversation.
After the move to Normandy, everything changed. I thought, “You mean there are other ways to live, other ways to do things?” I know it sounds silly, but that was my truth. I was 11 years old, discovering that life could look completely different just one border away. And so, France became my country, and for so many years I thought that was going to be it. My family and I made it home, and Romania seemed so archaic and unevolved, even with all the changes that followed the ’89 revolution.
But plot twist: I discovered that America exists. America turned 250 years old ten days ago, right around the time I planned to write this journal entry, which feels fitting. We can have different opinions about where this country is going, where it's not, and where it falls short. BUT, and this is a big one, it welcomed me in a way that even France did not. It made me think about how I could build something for myself and grow in ways no country had before. It calls you to take action outside the box. The 9-to-5 box.
Going back and forth between these two countries for over 25 years is exactly what made the quote resonate with me. Here is the thing about Stein's line: she wasn't born in Paris either. She picked it. A birthplace is handed to you. A country you claim is different. You earn that one, year by year, mistake by mistake, until it answers when you call it yours. I have done it twice now. Maybe that's why leaving stopped scaring me a long time ago.
And the next chapter is already writing itself. My son asked me this morning if we could move back to France. Mind you, we landed yesterday. One day in, and he's already claiming it back. Then again, he did the same thing with New York last month. Apparently, it runs in the family…
