I am aware that the latest #kiss topic is meant to be introspective; it’s about stripping the layers of your soul rather than giving away real tinsel. Still, I dare to tap into the material(istic) part of minimalism too, while eventually touching the intangible bits. The two are intertwined anyway. Like Gemini. I mean the original pair, Castor and Pollux. Castor, the mortal one, seems heavy, a burden to his immortal twin, forever alive. Yet Pollux cannot leave him behind, and when Castor eventually dies, Pollux pleads with their father, Zeus, to let them stay together. So much for the myth.
This year, I’m planning on leaving my beloved hometown, Prague, and even my homeland, for another country. Not sure which one yet. That, naturally, comes with a lot of stripping. Not really the tinsel; it would likely resemble shedding layers. There are many layers that have to stay where they are. Castor’s stuff. I’ve already shared how I gave away all my books after experiencing a series of moves. Yet it was just relocating within the same city, which is incomparable to the move that’s ahead of me.
Even though I am quite a minimalist by default, I’ve hoarded stuff. Things I thought would come in handy on an almost daily basis, like a steamer pot or a large grill I have on the terrace. These are doomed to stay behind; it’s cheaper and easier to buy new ones somewhere like Italy than shipping them or hauling them onto a plane. Not sure about my juggling props, or clothes I haven’t worn in ages… A spoiled Westerner: I have things I apparently don’t really need.
Then there’s the emotional bond, Pollux. The immortal twin, on the other hand, is unlikely to suffer if you voluntarily decide to live abroad. It’s not like emigrating from a country on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain anymore; I could come back to Prague anytime. And I’m quite likely to do so a few times a year. Thanks, Ryan and Wizz! Besides, you don’t lose your folks despite the distance.
We discussed it recently, my love and I. And I accidentally touched on it in the sister community of this one a week ago. How would I feel about leaving my flat behind? And all the memories? Surprisingly, the café I blogged about means more to me than the flat I’ve been living in for a few years now in a way. I can easily inhabit a new place, imprinting myself on it. Making it mine. Mine, personal, although bare and barren, overly minimalist, at first glance.
I do love my current home, its vast terraces, the neighborhood, that commuting to my office takes only 25 minutes when I need to get there, while getting to the airport takes just as long. And I fly often. Yet I liked the places I had lived before, and I am going to feel the same about my new places. It’s the public places I bond with. The ones I have no control over. My current place will become someone’s place. I’ll never see it again, but that’s how these things happen. Someone else sleeps in my childhood home now. A total stranger. I tend to sneak a peek inside through a gap in the curtains whenever I walk by to please my Pollux. More curiosity than pure nostalgia, though.
Leaving my current home—and even, in a way, my life—behind doesn’t feel crushing or terrifying. As long as Prague remains Prague and my places, the special ones, survive. To greet me whenever I come to visit. Or until I open a similar café wherever the wind takes me. A fragment of my childhood Prague I cherish in my heart. Because you don’t need to carry around much. Neither Castor’s luggage nor Pollux’s. Just a backpack should suffice. A carry-on bag and a personal item. Isn't that the best way to make your way through both life and airport security anyway?
