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half a home

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

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a countryside collection

of how i’ve spent my time in the valley my family call home


the brown hat

the only one i brought & the one you’ve seen everyday on instagram


flea market treasures

bringing these back to barcelona with me, all of which cost a mere 20 euros


my dad’s orange grove

you have no idea how delicious his oranges are fresh off the tree, my outfit is this and that from la redoute

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8 am sun over my mother’s home

sitting on a very old table we sometimes eat at in the summer,wearing the same hat all the farmers around here wear


biba and her countryside sister

watching these two bounce through the fields together has been hilariously good fun

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hiking boots everyday

it’s muddy and there are dogs everywhere, not so much a choice but a vital

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homes made of ancient stone

here i am sitting in the window of my childhood room


like owner, like dog

biba shares my love for flowers


the view from the kitchen window

the green fields that stretch to my dad’s house on the other side of this little valley

Whenever someone asks me where I’m from, I have no idea what to tell them. I feel half affiliated to a few places, but I am tied to these places not by roots but gossamer bits of string I strung up myself. Patriotism? I have none. My passport is just a little navy book I have to pack everytime I take a plane. There is no where I belong nor anywhere I feel displaced. My life as an expatriate started at 8 years of age, my childhood was a collection of locations and that hasn’t changed almost a decade later. Do I ever clutch at a place in hopes of calling it ‘mine’? A physical location I can glue my self identity to? The answer has always been no. I arrogantly believe the world to be mine, all of it, every last corner; even the dusty nooks I will never in my life visit. This is what happens when you have lived in many places, perhaps some of you feel the same way too. I have always viewed this as a blessing yet I’m sure some would certainly see it as a curse. I miss people all the time. I’ve scattered myself across places in a way that means a return, a homecoming of any sort is rather impossible. But hey, the world is huge and I plan to taste it in the same way one might sample the strange looking cheese from a plate at an aperitif. But there is one place I keep returning to, a little valley with 2 homes, to here I am tied by rope. It’s the tight knot of family; my brothers, parents and I are braided here. Nothing changes, everything stays the same. Returning is a balm for the soul, a carmex of sorts to cure the city life I usually lead. And with that anecdote, I thought I’d share some photos from here and there on this wedge of land that my family long ago claimed as our own. I love it here, the towns that surround, I am indifferent in fact, I don’t like them much. But right here, in these photos, this is the only thing I can even half call home.


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