If there’s one thing I’ve mastered in life, it’s the fine art of being from everywhere and nowhere all at once. I have a life story that starts in Norway, detours through England, sets up camp in Hungary, and now has me calling Italy “home” (for now, anyway). People say, “Wow, that must be amazing! You’re so… international.” Which, sure, sounds glamorous until you realize it means I’m the human equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube, scrambled by years of cultural twists and turns until there’s no way to arrange all the sides to match.
Let me put it this way: to feel rootless is to be a little bit like a hermit crab. You may find a new shell to inhabit every so often, but you’re forever aware that it’s just that—a shell. And sometimes it’s too tight, sometimes it’s too big (I’ve seen documentaries in which the poor things use plastic cups before) and mostly it’s just temporary. It’s home until it’s not.
Norway: The Roots I Barely Remember
Let’s start with Norway, the place I was born but have only the vaguest memories of. It’s like that one family member who sends you birthday cards every year but lives far away, so you can’t really place them in your life. Yes, I feel an inexplicable attachment to fjords, snowy topped mountains, skiing, troll stories, and kanelsnurrer (my favourite pastry in the world), but do I really know what it means to be Norwegian? Hardly. I visit my father once or twice a year who lives there, and I apparently have 37648 third cousins (probably a bit less, but you get the gist) who apparently all know me as “the girl who moved away and doesn’t speak Norwegian”. My Norwegian side feels like a mythology rather than a reality, one I can only half-heartedly claim with an awkward “Jeg snakker ikke norsk”—a pitiful attempt to express my roots in a language I can’t even speak. Though to be fair, my father has taught me 3 very useful phrases in case I get lost in the wild for days on end and stumble across an unexpected hiker: Jeg er trøtt = I am sleepy, Jeg er tirst = I am thirsty, and Jeg er sulten = I am hungry. Yeah, that should definitely get me somewhere.
England: The Fleeting Foundation
Then there’s England, the place of my earliest memories. Think of it as my introductory chapter to this thing called life. This was where I started to understand how to fit in… just before I was promptly uprooted. England gave me the gift of a British accent (one I am trying my hardest to maintain in Italy, because apparently some Italians only understand English with an Italian accent), an affinity for tea, and an instinct to apologize to anyone who bumps into me. But let’s be real: my English years feel like reading the first few pages of a novel and then setting it aside indefinitely. It’s foundational but foggy, and while I feel a connection to it, I know it’s only a part of me.
Hungary: The Years of Attempting to Belong
Ah, Hungary. Now, this is where things got serious. Hungary isn’t just a chapter—it’s the bulk of my book. I spent most of my life there, through the adolescent trials and tribulations, the highs and lows, the awkward teen years, my first boyfriend, my first real friendships, and the first glimpses of adulthood. If I have a place that resembles home, it’s here. But the catch? I’m always “that foreigner.” My Hungarian is fluent but at times my mind glitches and I have trouble remembering words or expressions, so I reside to what I’m trying to say in English. Hungary is also the place where most of my mental problems stared, beginning from anorexia to bulimia, and a pitiful suicide attempt. For years it was difficult for me to go back even just to visit. The familiar streets, the shops, and language, at all brought back those initial triggers.
And so I float through Hungary, feeling like I belong and don’t belong all at once. I know enough to call it home, to know the streets and the shortcuts, to be familiar with all the right foods and customs. But it’s still slightly foreign, a place where I fit in almost but never entirely. My one safe place there is my grandparents home, and I am beyond grateful they are still with us. I have a very special relationship with both my grandmother and grandfather, but that deserves a post of its own, so we’ll circle back to that another time.
Italy: The Most Recent Stop in an Endless Journey
Now we’re in Italy. Land of wine (oh, this will be another post I’ll have to get into), pasta, and enough historical ruins to give my sense of rootlessness some serious soul-searching competition. Italy is wonderful, vibrant, and welcoming—but let’s face it, I’m a visitor here. I may eat gelato with the best of them, say “Ciao” with confidence, and even though, dare I say, I have learnt Italian fluently, I will always have a slight accent, which then brings on the inevitable question: Where are you from? I sigh, and think to myself, well, shit… I have no idea.
The Italians like to remind me of this, by the way. “Ah, so you’re from… everywhere?” they say, baffled, as though I’m some sort of international mystery puzzle that no one asked for. “You’ve traveled the world, that must be so exciting” they say, genuinely enthusiastic. And yes, it is, but it’s also… well, kind of lonely. .
The Beautiful Chaos of Belonging Nowhere
This sense of being “homeless” is tricky to explain. On the one hand, it’s incredibly freeing. I can pack up my life in a single suitcase (plus a bag of sentimental items, including a ragdoll I got from my grandmother when I was about 3 years old, and a pair of wool socks that can keep me warm even on the north pole). I can board a plane with the certainty that wherever I land, I’ll understand a bit of the language, a few customs, and most likely find something that feels familiar. I can reinvent myself over and over because no one has known me long enough to pin me down.
But then there’s the other side of it: the loneliness of being untethered. When people talk about hometowns, childhood friends, or traditions that go back generations, I listen and nod, but deep down, I know it’s an experience I can only half-understand. I have too many “homes” to fully belong to any one of them. Home isn’t a place for me—it’s a feeling I’m always chasing, but never quite reaching.
So, here I am, embracing my rootlessness, accepting that maybe my role is simply to observe, to dip in and out of places, picking up pieces of culture like postcards from each stop on this endless journey. People ask, “Wouldn’t you want to settle down?” Maybe one day, I think. But the truth is, this life of rootlessness, this feeling of being a cultural vagabond, has shaped me into someone who belongs everywhere, even if that means belonging nowhere at all.
Love, V
