Back to the Homestead I recently asked my co-worker about the origin of his noble sounding last name, "Wellington." He proudly explained that his Irish grandfather had changed his name while running from the law in Arizona. Later, he met a woman, fell in love and the Wellington clan took root. When I inquired what his last name had been originally, my co-worker frowned, thought for a while and then shrugged his shoulders and said he did not remember. That is the beauty of North America, the past disappears behind the ocean and you are free to create a new identity. This weekend I was invited to a castle in Popovice. When I told my father where I was going, his face lit up and he began explaining that our family, the Brabenecs, were originally from there. He made it sound like I would be seeing tall, skinny looking men such as himself all over the place. When I looked up Brabenec in the phone book, I found that indeed there is a concentration of folk with the same last name as me, living in Popovice. That is the beauty of Europe, you can trace your ancestry right down to a family of farmers in a small Czech village that no one has ever heard of. Whether you can trace your family roots or not, the search for identity and belonging seems to plague the modern individual in one way or another. Without wanting to sound like a Marxist, it is not hard to feel lost in the international, economic, urban jungle. So like many people my age I dabble in yoga, New Age religion, social and environmental movements with the hopes of making the world more humane and somehow finding myself. And like many Czech re-immigrants, I go on these ancestral searches hoping to find something intangible and magical, something that will soothe the restlessness in my soul. As a child, I use to go to a lake in the summer with my family. I was convinced that at the bottom of the lake there was a ring that I would find and that ring would grant me three wishes. I did not know what I would wish for but I looked for the ring every day. I made the journey to Popovice by train with an energetic Canadian photographer, a fiery Scotsmen and a snarky Czech, Jewish lesbian. Our group quickly discovered a shared love for dark, raunchy humor and we proceeded to one up each other with jokes, stories and well intentioned insults. We arrived at the crumbling castle and its inhabitants around noon. A young black terrier and her shy master, Pavel, a small man with glasses greeted us at the gates. Inside we toured the giant medieval rooms before settling down in the main room with the castle proprietor, Jaroslav, and a communicative cat named Vlaska. The rest of the day was spent recovering from another week in the city of Prague, the city that gives so much but also takes so much. No one seemed to have the energy to talk and so we watched one apocalyptic video after another. Burning metal, action and alienation in a box, in a castle, in the village where my great grandfather was a farmer. On Sunday morning I awoke early and set out on a walk with the Canadian photographer, Liza. The landscape of my ancestors was calming. The rolling hills and pockets of forests reminded me of the Czech storybook pictures from my childhood. We lost our orientation quickly and ended up trekking through a field of long grass. Wet green grass brushed against my calves, the sun shone and I felt damn good. I have been living in the city center for the past year and the noise, the pollution and the sheer amount of people is overwhelming. I use to resent my parents for growing up on a farm but lately I have caught myself toying with the idea of setting up a goat farm. I could be a goat farmer in the village of my ancestors. Inevitably, Sunday evening came and we packed up our stuff and set out to the train station. We managed to squeeze in a stop at the local village pub. We were clearly not locals and some of them stared at us as if they had never left the confines of Popovice. Our witty group of four could not resist making jokes at their expense. After a quick drink we rushed off to catch the last train to Prague. I unlocked the door of my flat sometime after midnight, showered and crawled into bed. Now the week is in full swing, trams and people fly by, phones ring non stop and I find myself thinking about long green grass. -- Nikola