Last year, visiting the neighbourhood where I grew up brought back flashbacks of my childhood, playing in that park and running around along roads. It felt like re-reading a chapter at the beginning of a book that you can't remember well because you've lost yourself in the rest of the story since then. Today, I visited my dad's host family, 18 years after they saw me last.
Some kind of wonderful, to say the least.
I felt like I belonged to that family of almost strangers, something I've not felt since arriving here 2 months ago. The warmth, the kindness, the genuine caring. A relationship still going strong for almost 30 years, weathered by time and still as strong. They've seen me as a newborn, remember stories of ironical chats I had with my dad at age 3, and have followed my life across the miles, through letters and emails and jpeg attachments. Their kids have kids now, and I found myself making with friends with that generation.
I'm flooded right now, with this overwhelming feeling of joy and happiness and appreciation. Of how there's still nice people left in this world. Hope in humanity restored, in the space of a few hours. Holding Stina's little gloved hand and walking through the snow, with her grandma by my side, made up for all the hours of darkness that have come and gone. Hugging people I hardly know, and feeling like I've known them all my life.
Some kind of wonderful, to say the least.
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