Member-only story
The Tremendous Price You Pay When You Live in a Country That Isn’t Your Own
It’s all a great adventure until you lose the one thing that matters most
My decision-making skills have always betrayed me. Ever since I was a kid. But I knew one thing with certainty – that visceral feeling would tell me – that one day I’d leave my country, Hungary.
In my bedroom, a large world map stretched across the wall. Poster-like, decorating the space. And I would stand in front of it inspecting every nook and crevice — overwhelmed by the endless possibilities.
“Which country should I live in?” I asked my twelve-year-old self. The million-dollar question. It felt like a decision between ravioli or an omelette for dinner.
Mum used to buy a German fashion magazine called “Burda” every month, filled with patterns that she used to sew clothes for us. When we’d go to bed at night, she’d stay up late cutting out the fabric, ready to sew it the next day.
Looking through the pages allowed me to dream. Bright pictures, foreign landscapes in the background — a world I’d never seen. Advertisements. Interiors with light bathrooms and corner baths. Plants on windowsills, towels neatly folded on wooden racks.