European Daydreams

When I was in college I used to dream of Europe. I heard it in the back of my thoughts, taking shape like the breath before a whisper. I saw myself in brown leather boots, trailing down cobblestone streets. The walls of the old city reached up possessively around me, pale and patched, worn from all the living they did. In my dream I felt the presence of the old city gates behind me, steadying the city, rooting it into the ground. The Europe of my dreams was Germanic, cool and clad in autumn hues. I wore a trench coat with deep pockets, fingers nestling into the seams as I strolled.

I knit the dream with scraps of stories collected from fairy tales, classic literature and family lore. It grew from the lace aprons of my grandmother’s elaborate dolls, from parasols tucked carefully away in closets. It fed on tales from the old country, drifting in on airs of sophistication, softly padded with loss.

The “old country”. I can’t remember if anyone ever spoke those words, per say. The thought of “the place from before” lingered though, in a way I was too little to understand. When I was young, I understood Grandma P was Slovak the way I understood that she had curly hair. I wish I could remember the sound of her voice. She had delicate Slovak mementos in her home, tiny schnapps cups that rattled on the shelves as we scampered down the hall. We had a family bible we couldn’t read, and a history I still don’t really know. I wonder if that was where my dream started, riding in on the backs of stories from before my time. From before my family was my family, from back when they were just their own.

Horse thieves and deserters, gypsies tired of poverty and endless invasions, stowaways and steelworkers, those are the stock I come from. Grandma’s folks were survivors; she a slim, stalwart new American. She had olive skin and sparkly eyes that flashed with humour quicker than I could catch. She was soft and gentle and a constant source of little treats. She passed away when I was still in grade school. I often think about what would have been different if I had known her.

Will I one day think of America as “the old country”? How to you build an identity out of patches of time spent in such different places? 3 continents, 3 countries, 5 states, too many cities to list…I wonder what it would feel like to leave Austria after 7 1/2 years. As I am think about what I want for the future I am trying to understand what it is that keeps me anchored so firmly in Austria.

There are days I wake and walk through the city, watching my beloved southern sun glance off the faces of buildings, giving them a glow. I walk hand in hand with the girl from my university-age dreams. We revel that in the knowledge that this is our life. We sip our gloriously thick cappuccino, crunch into a pastry from “our” favourite shop. We watch the city come alive gradually.

I love my family in America to pieces and every day my heart aches with the knowledge that I’m hurting them, choosing to live so far away. I cry as I laugh, taking joy in my victories, caressing the shadows of my guilt. The girl in my dreams turns and winks at me. Only she knows where we’re headed.