A little presumptuous of half the human race?

My Auntie Nationalist Home, in the Nations Capital

Sophia stood before the quaint house on Wijngaard Straat, an artery in the heart of the nation’s capital. It was an emblematic structure, representative of the city's old-world charm, and paradoxically, the modern ideals that breathed life into its cobbled streets. This house, with its unyielding bricks and the resolute door, was known colloquially as ‘My Auntie Nationalist Home’, a moniker that both puzzled and amused passersby. To Sophia, however, it signified more than just a place of residence; it was a shrine to memory, a keepsake of her lineage, and a guardian of her ideals.

As the daylight waned, its fading rays kissed the edifice, casting long shadows that seemed to whisper of bygone eras. It was here that Sophia felt the weight of her inheritance, a legacy of patriotism, and the deep-rooted sense of belonging to a country that revered its heroes. Her aunt, the matriarch of the family, had been a figure larger than life, her fervor for the nation's history and culture instilled deeply within the brickwork of her home.

But as the evening crept in and Sophia’s contemplation deepened, Virginia Woolf’s words floated through her mind, untethering her from the solid ground:

As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
— Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

How profound, she mused, that amidst the sturdy nationalism that her auntie's house represented, there existed a broader, more encompassing idea. She considered her own travels, the cultures she’d embraced, the people she’d met, and the myriad of ways in which her identity had been shaped not just by this street or this city, but by the world.

The house, with its bricks laid in a forgotten era, seemed to stand in defiance of Woolf’s declaration. Yet, as Sophia ran her fingers along the cool, rugged surface of the wall, she sensed a kinship with the author’s words. Within these walls, her aunt had cultivated a spirit of universal understanding, her hospitality extending beyond borders, her curiosity about the world unwavering.

Sophia's own story had been one of seeking and learning, of finding solace not in the narrow alleys of nationalism but in the expansive landscape of human experience. Wijngaard Straat had been a beginning, a solid foundation from which she had leapt into the vast unknown, with the bicycle before her representing that journey – a simple machine that had taken her through streets and stories of countless cities.

She turned her gaze towards the darkening sky, where the first stars began to twinkle like distant fires of a campsite welcoming travelers from every corner of the earth. In the quiet that enveloped the street, she could almost hear the voices of those she’d met along the way, each one adding a verse to the poem of her life. Alexander, a friend met in the dusty paths of a faraway land, had once said to her that identity was not a flag planted in the soil, but a quilt woven from the threads of shared human experiences.

Sophia, standing before the house that had seen generations pass through its doors, felt a profound connection with Woolf's sentiment. The patriotism of her forebears was not diminished by her expansive sense of belonging; rather, it was the kindling that sparked her desire to know and understand the world beyond the nation’s capital. Tomorrow, she would set out again, the wheels of her bicycle turning toward new horizons, but tonight, she was content to be a daughter of the whole world, under a roof steeped in national pride.

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