I can finally tell where my home is
I found my first home in a playground where kids play on a rusty metal swings and a slide. One could think that you could only smell old soviet metal there, but the air was filled with bakery aroma accompanied by occasional sounds of Babushkas selling eggs and locally grown herbs. Don’t get me started about the summer where you could find tomatoes bigger than your hand and sweet cucumbers. This kind of illegal Babushkas supermarket was my daily weekend routine, and we followed this unsaid tradition to support the elders. I mean, who would not buy an egg from an eighty-year-old lady living with a cat and two dogs left in her backyard. We had our Eastern European Garden of Eden edition as well. A fancy same for a place where lots of vegetables and berries were peeking under the leaves. Kaunas in the small country of Lithuania was a permanent home for them, but not for me. When I put all the local greenery aside, I felt no connection to the town I was born in. All the time my gypsy traveling soul was calling from within and I took my first step in a search for a place I belong.
