You spend your whole life being told some place is home, only to get
there and realize you don’t really belong. For me, it happened the
summer after I turned eight. My mom and I boarded a plane from Canada to
England, our first time in Europe. We stayed overnight at a hotel near
London’s Hyde Park: its lobby floors a polished wood, the terrifying
taxidermy head of a wild cat affixed to the wall.
I’d never been in a hotel like this. My parents—immigrants,
frugal—generally favored off-the-highway establishments, with buzzy neon
signs, and wood-paneled rooms that open directly onto a parking lot. I
remember how different the taxidermy hotel was, how there were fresh
flowers near the elevators, how Mom and I ordered room service for
dinner. A splurge. My hamburger arrived hidden under a metal warming
dome, and I remember thinking: this burger costs five times as much as a
Big Mac, but does it taste five times as good?
*
When James Baldwin left home for Europe, he was broke. It was
Armistice Day, 1948, when he sailed from New York to Paris, 40 bucks in
his pocket. He would say he left not to go to France, but to get away
from New York. He left because he had to. ... [mehr] https://lithub.com/james-baldwin-might-have-been-most-at-home-in-istanbul/
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