More than twenty years ago, my then-boss Sharon took a trip
to Africa. She took a balloon trip across the Serengeti, and did everything
that moderately wealthy people do when they visit Kenya; I think she even
stayed at Treetops.
As she showed me the pictures she took there, she said something
that echoes in my head to this present day: “It was strange there. It felt
familiar. They say our first ancestors came from Africa, and maybe we feel at
home there.”
I’ve thought about that statement many times since.
My friend Bill, Irish by descent, spent his honeymoon in
Ireland. He visited the Burren in the western part of the country – a strange
stark landscape, with limestone moonscapes – which also happened to be the
traditional ancestral country of his family. “It was eerie,” he told me. “It
was like going home.”
And then there’s me.
Last October Partner and I went to France, and spent four or
five days in Normandy. I loved it. It was perfectly wonderful: green fields,
grey seashores, tiny fussy villages, narrow streets, ancient farmhouses,
medieval ruins.
I felt at home there.
My DNA analysis from 23andme.com
tells me that my mother’s DNA stems from Doggerland, a now-submerged country
along the North Sea, contiguous with Normandy.
Well, what do you know about that?
My genes felt at
home there.
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