Personal landscapes

Issue n.2

“I woke up in a world that is also mine,” 2017

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This past summer, we were on holiday in Puglia, Italy, a place not too far from my hometown. It felt both familiar and foreign simultaneously.

Lately, this region has gained quite a momentum as hordes of tourists arrive during the summer months and beyond, all looking for Instagram-worthy photos of cobblestone alleys and whitewashed farmhouses surrounded by olive trees and a crystal clear sea.

As I walked through the streets, I couldn't help but notice all the imperfections that didn't quite fit into this idealized image.

I was determined to show my friends from Portugal this beautiful place, but I was afraid of all its flaws, rawness, and vulnerability. I was hellbent on finding and pointing out all the things that could potentially ruin our expectations.

While walking the streets, I sanctimoniously analyzed what didn’t work: hordes of people on the beach, garbage thrown on some street corner, parking columns out of order, and the olive trees disfigured by a deadly bacteria called xylella.

I congratulated myself for choosing to leave abroad all those years ago.

“Nothing works here! Of course, I left this godforsaken place…”

We stayed at an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by olive trees and burned wheat fields. It was a charming place, home to a nest of wasps and many geckos peeking from its crumbling walls.

For the first three days, I complained and complained. It was hot, and the place was not what I expected.

But then, one afternoon, as I stood in the massive courtyard at sunset, a cool breeze swept over me, breaking the unbearable heat. I caught a whiff of something distinctly familiar. It was a scent that immediately brought me back to my childhood: wildflowers and cut grass, perhaps? Something that I can’t describe accurately but that I recognized as mine, as part of myself, intimately connected to my identity.

At that moment, I made peace with the place. It was like I got the access key to all forms of beauty around me, abundant, layered, complex, awe-inspiring. Suddenly, this place felt like mine again, no longer defined or bound by other people's perceptions or expectations but living and breathing through my eyes.

It was as if I circled back to my roots and made peace with them.

Something I feel I hadn’t done yet when I wrote this post three years ago when I was about to embark on yet another adventure abroad.

As wonderful as it is, living abroad can sometimes shake those foundations and make us question who we are at the core.

Reconnecting to our landscapes means understanding that this is the only thing that cannot be taken away from us. Good or bad, it is part of who we are, our story, our upbringing, our roots. And there is a strange feeling of confidence and defiance coming from it.

We talk so much about showing up as our authentic selves. Yet, it never occurred to me that in accepting myself and my flaws, I also needed to make peace with where I come from and look at it with different, more forgiving eyes.

So much of my childhood was defined by the place I grew up in and, simultaneously, by my longing for places I had yet to know and wanted to explore. This past summer, I felt a call to go back, if only metaphorically, to where everything had started, and in this sense, that trip became symbolic.

I recently went to NYC with my family for mid-term break. As soon as I set foot outside the airport, I told my husband," I am home!”

NYC is not my home; I have never lived there yet recognize something in the city's energy as mine.

It’s more than the cultural references, the movies, the iconic spots; I somehow feel an affinity to something unmistakable in New York’s identity.

I reflected on this while walking on the streets, soaking in its eclectic and multifaceted energy. New York is fun, exciting, creative, and edgy, but it can also be dirty, abrasive, chaotic, and tiring. It reminds me of Hong Kong, where I have lived and always felt at home for the same reasons.

NYC’s energy mirrors my energy, which is made of contrasts and tension. It is far from perfect, but it is always raw and honest. I was never made for picture-perfect, pretty places, clean and orderly. I can appreciate them, but I don’t recognize myself in them. Instead, I find that the gritty landscape of New York, with all its quirks, holds a mirror to myself just as much as my place of origin in all its contrasts.

Our landscapes are like broken mirrors, fragmented pieces reflecting different parts of ourselves wherever we go. They can be found in the streetlights of a city far away from where we were born, physically and metaphorically, as much as in the sun-drenched hills and ancient stone buildings that formed the backdrop of my earliest memories.

Sometimes, we stay firmly rooted where we’ve grown, sometimes we circle back to where we are from, and sometimes, we need to be replanted somewhere new to be able to see and appreciate how far we’ve come and the starting point of our journey.