From a Different Angle

'Where are you from?'

I was born in Utah, USA. Apparently it's a spectacular place, though we left before I could form any memories. Anything I do remember is an amalgamation of my parents' stories and photographs I've seen. What I've heard from my parents: canyons, rattlesnakes, and scorching summers. It sounds impressive, but not the sort of place I could imagine thriving in. Maybe, if we had stayed there, I would have grown accustomed to it, but it wasn't to be; we left after two years for the colder realm of Canada.

Canada is the first place I remember, if only vaguely. We lived in Vancouver until I was four. I remember the climate best. It was a slightly harsher version of Irish climate, really; torrential rain that lasted weeks on end and mild temperatures, rising above 25 degrees Celsius or dropping below zero degrees for rarely more than a week each year. A week of snow would be common in winter; I remembered being pulled through the forest on a sled late at night, travelling back from the university campus where my parents worked. We were situated perfectly, between the mountains and the coast. My parents went on morning runs through the woods, sometimes meeting or hearing coyotes. I remember warm rain, blackberry bushes, and raccoons sneaking into our gardens to scavenge from our trash. Of my early memories, those from Vancouver are my favourite.

I suspect it was a beautiful place. I would like to go back there some day to collect more solid memories, but there is a certain beauty to how it is now; an almost mystical land painted in hazy brush-strokes and distorted pictures, buried somewhere deep within my brain. Returning there would most likely ruin that idyllic illusion.

We left Canada and went back to America, moving from place to place as my parents searched for a permanent job. Toronto, Michigan, Illinois. Living in apartment flats. Big schools with new faces. I settled, made friends, but part of me was glad when we moved again. Time for something different, something new.

My clearest memories from America are of the last place we lived. Two small towns that had grown out towards each other to form the cohesive unit called Urbana-Campagne. The place was clean, pristine. I stayed up at night sometimes to catch fireflies. There was a local bookshop - Barnes and Nobles - where I learned to read, a process fraught with frustration but that would eventually lead to one of my greatest loves. Books, pages, people, stories, words. I would have been more than happy to ditch our apartment and move in there.

My friends from Urbana-Campagne are the only ones from America I made an effort to stay in touch with. Abby, Tess and I had the kind of close friendship only young children can form - there were the petty fights, of course, the bitter tears and the swift, warm reconciliations, the vows of eternal friendship.

I was happy, in a way only a seven-year-old can be. A simple happiness, no thoughts of the future, no doubts or second-guessing. Looking back, the whole thing has a bright, shiny feel to it, like an over-polished picture frame. Perhaps some version of me could have found her place there, but I have outgrown that person now. The most I can feel is a limited nostalgia, an acknowledgement that my stay there was nice, while it lasted. I was content, certainly, but there was a lack of depth there, the newness and superficiality of a place with no history, no tales to tell, little more to offer than a safe and pleasant haven to stop and rest in. At the time, though, I didn't feel that I was missing anything. I would have fought tooth and nail to hang on to my haven.

My passport claims I am American. From a strictly legal point of view, this is true. From any other perspective, its claim on me is dated. I have outgrown any longing for that place. I can remember my friends' names and faces but have lost the voice that tells me they are a part of me, connected, three lives entwined together.

I am Romanian by blood. Each summer I go to Bucharest to visit my family. This has been my parents' tradition since before I was born. To them, Bucharest is home.