I'm preparing to leave my home, again. I've sold my apartment in Prague to return home, in theory. Home, after all, is supposed to be where one is born, supplemented by family, friends, and perhaps a family house and garden that anchors one's nostalgia for childhood in place.
That hasn't been my experience, much as I envy those for whom it is so. The memories of the home I lived in for most of my childhood in Sydney are entangled with gloom, and episodic menace.
But Europe, of course, is awash with Ukrainian refugees fleeing bombardment and Russians now living in exile from homes menaced by the brutality of the state. Home and exile exist in a state of permanent tension for far more people than the 103 million living forced from their homes in 2022, and adjudged refugees by the United Nations refugee agency.
I've lived in dozens, or scores of places throughout my life thus far. I imagine, even as I return to Sydney to buy what will be the tenth place I've owned, that I will have more addresses in the future, a scattering of locations where I toss my bags, drawn by work or love or friendship.
My exile began young though. I have learned through life that there are broadly two sets of people - those from unhappy homes, and those whose homes cocoon them in a psychology of stability, projecting them into the world with the confidence that they are loved and "good enough as they are." I was married to a woman from the latter category.
When I wake here in the morning, it's as silent as the deep forest I can see when I draw the curtains, and as I wrote in the advertising guff for the sale, I can also see: "the forested slopes of Petrin Hill, the spire of St. Lawrence Cathedral, and Prague's famous 14th century 'Hunger Wall.' The windows of the lounging room and kitchen face the centuries old Mostecká Street facades, with glimpses of the Baroque St Nicholas church, the spire of Hradceny Cathedral, and the Charles Bridge towers."
The most monastic spot of all, my kitchen table in Spring morning light...
I'm fortunate to have had three homes that really felt like home. The first was my early childhood home in Sydney before my parents divorced. The second was the home I bought in New York for my young family. The third was the home I inherited from my father in Prague, and which I reconstructed from floor to ceiling.
"This bright apartment is located in the exceptional diplomatic quarter of Mala Strana (the Lesser Quarter beneath the castle), poised between Charles Bridge and Mala Strana square. With a weekly farmers market in the tram-serviced Malastranska square below, streets that hum during the day, and yet quiet and totally private sleeping quarters, similarly proportioned and appointed apartments rarely come to market in this area."
The fastidious designer and builder was me. And more to the point, my favourite cafe, Roesel's, is just 50 metres down the road before Charles Bridge. My Mac shop is in the same 14th century building that has been owned by the same family since 1848. My wine bar, U Mourinina, is just around the corner on the square. The Blue Light, a haunt of film stars while working in Prague, is closer than Roesel's. A supermarket is next to the bridge.
Prague has given me the most sublime moments of peace. Once, the rocking motion of the 22 Tram at night lulled me into a kind of trance I can still recall viscerally, wherein the groan of the old steel beast was hushed by my very mind as it lived its presence. I held the passenger rail, rocked back and forth by this physical lullaby that almost brought upon me a oneness with the night, with the passengers reflected in the windows, and with Time itself.
I have a Persian friend who lives in real exile, one forced upon her by the strictures of the Revolutionary Guard regime in Iran. She comes from a city close to the Caspian Sea, and at the age of 30 realised that she could stand no longer the tyrannical patriarchy (not a phrase I'd use easily, but one which fits Iran like a glove). Still single and unwilling to submit herself to the aegis of a Iranian marriage, she packed a bag and crossed the border into Turkey. Eight years later, now living in Antalya, she's a teacher, has built an online business, is investing in businesses, and runs her own life entirely according to her will.
But Rahaa is an exile, her very real plight unrecognised by the Turkish state. She lives in perpetual insecurity, caught between the disfavour of an Iranian passport which limits options for relocation, and
My Persian exile
"The 120 m² interior was fastidiously designer-reconstructed in 2019, from its full-oak floors to bespoke doors and modulated lighting that complement lush furnishings. It tastefully combines tributes to Czech First Republic style with modern comfort and elegant simplicity. The entire "U Hradeb" protected historical complex within which the apartment sits was fully reconstructed in 2012, including sweeping interior staircases, roofing and guttering, an efficient new elevator, and all electrical, gas, and water services."
The view from my window of Malastrana Square, and St Nicholas Church.