If there is just one random fact you need to know about me, well, I am obsessed with orange trees.
For years and years each time I would visit a country where orange trees are natural residents, I would go on an orange tree hunt. I am not exaggerating. Just ask my boyfriend. Half of our photos would be of me hugging a random orange tree for the hundredth time. Yes, I hug trees. Please feel free to report me to any of my doctors. They probably figured it out already anyway.
When I first found out I would be working in Barcelona – scrap that, when I first felt like any of my job leads can actually work out for me – the first thought in my mind was: orange trees. I kid you not. By the time I accepted my job proposal, I had already picked a name for an orange tree of my own (Horacio) and told my boyfriend I would not be moving into a place without a proper Horacio room (that is a terrace or a balcony, or a sunroom).
We bought Horacio in our second week in Barcelona, before we even got a permanent flat.
My mum owns an orange tree, even though it drives my cat insane. Yes, I bought it for her. You would be surprised how well it fares in Poland, until I remind you that my mum’s tree lives indoors. Still, regardless of the countless sabotages my cat has tried, it stands strong. Poland needs more orange trees, I am telling you. Fake palm trees, like the one in Warsaw, just do not cut it.
Why?, you may ask and I do not blame you. I kind of wish I knew. To some extent, I think, orange trees combine everything I love into one simple thing – Christmas, the best smell in the world, warmth, just being pretty in general, more warmth. They seem more exotic than cacti or palm trees. I am fine with living next to parrots or wild turtles, or anything of that sort. Orange trees? Oh my, I am in a tropical paradise.
Finally, orange trees make winter bearable. I hate winter. Winter scares me. And here they are, being cheerful and just waiting for me to fawn over them, as if I were a little child once again.