Upon entering my childhood home, I realized how drastically my imagination had refurnished my memory. Being only 4 when I was last back, I visualized it as a palace with a spiral staircase at the heart of a gentle fortress. Back then, being only about 3 feet tall, the home looked like a mansion. I remember looking upon the living room and encountering porcelain Arabic flooring in kaleidoscope shapes that glimmered far as the eye can see and rustic window cutouts that looked like they existed only for kings.
Now as an adult, I see that the floors were were slightly less glamorous and ended abruptly upon a six yard radius and the window cut outs were more for ventilation and light entry rather than opulent decor.
But standing on the spiral staircase and looking around at the being the home use to be made me nostalgic for my childhood. Growing up as an immigrant child in the United States, I was only given what sparse memories I inherited through photos and stories dictated by my parents. Here I stand having my memory of this majestic palace worn with age and replaced by the dire need to learn more about my past.
I'm coming to find out that this trip will not only be about finding treasures, but also about finding myself and the part of my life that ceased to exist when I stepped foot on that plane in 1993.
[mr. white elephant]