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Part I
The Fool and the Magician
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“There’s no place like home.”
L. Frank Baum
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1
Kitten Lands on Her Feet
August 25, 2:40pm
Iroll my tattered purple suitcase along the moving walkway as I yawn, kitten-like. She’s been there for me since high school, the perfect travel companion. She’s a little torn up on the bottom, but nothing that makes her less useful.
I shake my head a to reorient myself.
What time is it again? Morning, afternoon, evening?
I look up. It’s nice to have the International Time Zones up on the wall. It helps my world make a little more sense in shifting times. I savor the feel of the ground gliding under my feet. I like long romantic walks…on moving walkways in airports. I giggle, perhaps too loudly. The woman I'm passing gives me an odd look.
Yeah, yeah, lady with the oversized sun hat, I'm laughing with myself. I've been on a fifteen-hour flight. Give me a break. Who is she to judge, anyway? It's twenty degrees out, and she's dressed like it's Miami in a floppy wide brimmed hat with a white ribbon and a pink, yellow, blue tie-dyed sundress.
Welcome to Chicago, I tell myself.
It's good to be back in the States. I know I've only been here a few hours, but even on the transfer flight from New Orleans to Chicago, I'd already started feeling more at home. More like I belonged. As the minutes pass, I grow more and more comfortable. Not that I’d been unwelcome abroad. On the contrary I’d been eagerly swooped under the wings of the locals who wished nothing but the best for me during my stay. But none of that altered the fact that I hadn’t grown up with them, in their culture. Please. I’m not trying to sound self-pitying. Nobody wanted me to feel like an outsider. They never mean it like that. It was simply how I felt. And now I feel, well, less like that. I don’t know how else to describe it.
It’s still very new, of course, this relaxed mindset. I'm transitioning back to being "American." Funny, I'd never have used that phrase before I moved abroad, but I'm still acutely aware of being "American" even as I’m surrounded by Americans. I’m trying to remember the first time I introduced myself as such, but I cannot. I definitely felt American when surrounded by mostly not Americans. I even heard my own American accent for the first time. Not merely a regional dialect, but a certain, overall "American" accent. Kind of more brassy, maybe? Sharper, more distinct, as opposed to the languid smoothness of the British accent, or the lilt of the Canadian accent.
I maintain a steady pace, as I approach the train into the city. I walk fast, I’m told. I know I’m walking even faster than normal, wanting to be out of my travel clothes and into a hot shower. I’m distracted by the noise around me. I appreciate being someplace I feel at home, but it's weird to hear English around me, from everywhere. I can't stop hearing. I grew up with the mentality that you don’t spy on other people’s conversations, but I can understand every word they say and it's off-putting. Culture shock, indeed. I put earbuds on, so that I don’t feel as if I’m interfering with their conversations. Nobody ever tells you that culture shock happens when you return to your own county and you're oddly weirded out by things that should be normal.
I get to the station, drop my phone and earbuds into my bag, and swipe my card. Haven’t used that in a while. I’m surprised yet pleased to find out I had the foresight to leave money on the card. I see they “fixed” the broken escalator— with a wooden staircase. Just a short while ago – I don’t remember how long, maybe a week or two ago, a train ran off the tracks and crashed into the escalator. I saw the images even if I didn’t believe them. But here I am, looking at a wooden staircase with some consternation –I’m going to have to lug my tattered suitcase down the stairs.
Oops, did I let Rachel know I landed?
I text my friend that I’m almost to her place now. I count the moments until I can wash up, lay down and take a cat nap. I fish my earbuds out of my bag and adjust them to drown out the silence around me. Nobody talks in the cars, except the occasional train prophet. I pause within the peace and quiet. Ugh, I’m hungry. I should’ve eaten the pizza hot pocket they gave us when we landed. I just didn’t trust it.
Back when I first arrived in Thailand, I thought that this is when I’d feel the culture shock people talked about. That I’d gasp in some kind of awe at, I don’t even know. The food? The layout of the stores? Yeah, everything was a little different in someone else’s backyard. But I didn’t mind at all. I expected this to be the case. I prepared myself mentally. I’d traveled before, yes, but not lived in another place. And I went away for two years. Two years is more than I’ve lived in any location since I left for college. Even then, I changed dorm rooms every year.
But, as it turned out, living in Thailand wasn’t that much different from home. People didn’t really eat “breakfast” food, I noticed, like they did in America. They just ate…food. Same kind of food, three times a day. Sure, the dishes varied, but it wasn’t like this kind of food was a “breakfast” food and this was a “lunch” food, and this was a “dinner” food. My coworkers and I went out to bars after work or on the weekends. I liked how there were little “pop up drunk food stands” that showed up by the time everyone wandered out of the bars. Back home, you basically ended up at a Denny’s. But sometimes I just wanted a cheap, greasy snack that was right on the way to the train I took home (no worries about driving or having to take a cab home. This was before Lyft or Uber). I got used to grocery shopping, taking public transit, etc. in a different culture. I learned how to navigate their world (as it turns out, basic day to day life is more or less the same everywhere).
I fade in and out of sleep, lulled by the moving of the train.
Oooh, shit, this is my stop.
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August 26, 2:55am
What time is it?I really need to sleep. Drink lots of water, sleep well.
That’s my new life mantra. I can handle that.
Why did I wake up again? Must have been a bad dream. Hmmm, what should I have for lunch tomorrow? I could get up and check the fridge for leftover apple pancakes. But that means getting out of bed…I should just check Facebook, real-quick. You know, check on the family. Make sure everyone knows I’m back. Hah, look at those baby ducks in the kitchen sink. Have you ever seen anything so adorable?
