through the haze over PP always make me think of home.
I imagine myself packed up, all of our stuff either purged or packed into suitcases. Those suitcases are safely stored in the cargo section below my seat, and I won't see them again until I'm standing at a luggage carousel in LAX chatting with my best friend. I sit in my airline seat, Sila Kai contentedly settling into a movie, Julie into a book, and I wait for the stewardess to bring a round of drinks and a deliciously crappy meal, some bastardized version of chicken cacciatore. Doesn't that sound like something they'd try to replicate on an airline?
Soon we'll all be home in the sense that all of America is my home. My people live there. They speak my language--in a way that even English and Kiwis and Aussies don't. Once on the ground, my mind won't even have to translate different English idioms and colloquialisms. I'll buy a burger that first night--or something equally American--and find my way to a nice craft brew, something like a Rogue Dead Guy Ale (though maybe less mass produced). I'll tell stories about how great Cambodia was, but I'll be oh so happy to be home.
Even on the best of days, when I'm enjoying my last weeks here, when I'm unbothered by the warm puffs of moto exhaust that hit my shin as I wait at red lights, when I'm enjoying a 10 a.m. rice and bbq'd pork (strictly a breakfast offering, I assure you), or when I'm unfazed by the almost insurmountable struggle to convey the simplest idea in a foreign tongue, yes, even on those best of day, the sight of a plane gives me pause.
But when you're homesick, those planes and the change they promise can be downright melancholic. And the terrible part is that there is nothing to do but wait it out. Sure, you can get lost in the all-encompassing dark bliss of the movie theater or head off to some reproduction of an American-style bar and have a burger, but to be honest, I don't know if these things ameliorate or exacerbate the homesickness. No, I think the only thing is time. You have to stay positive and through grit and sheer orneriness will yourself back to the present, decide that you will enjoy the final days--because before long, in no time really, the wide expanses and linguistic charms of home will surround you once again.
And when you're there, when you've been a few weeks at home, those planes will make you long for foreign destinations, for adventures in far-off places, and the sounds of indistinguishable tongues. So at least there's that to look forward to.
p.s. If you want to see what we sometimes do to stave off the homesickness, check out my recent article, "Of Beer & Burgers."
I imagine myself packed up, all of our stuff either purged or packed into suitcases. Those suitcases are safely stored in the cargo section below my seat, and I won't see them again until I'm standing at a luggage carousel in LAX chatting with my best friend. I sit in my airline seat, Sila Kai contentedly settling into a movie, Julie into a book, and I wait for the stewardess to bring a round of drinks and a deliciously crappy meal, some bastardized version of chicken cacciatore. Doesn't that sound like something they'd try to replicate on an airline?
Soon we'll all be home in the sense that all of America is my home. My people live there. They speak my language--in a way that even English and Kiwis and Aussies don't. Once on the ground, my mind won't even have to translate different English idioms and colloquialisms. I'll buy a burger that first night--or something equally American--and find my way to a nice craft brew, something like a Rogue Dead Guy Ale (though maybe less mass produced). I'll tell stories about how great Cambodia was, but I'll be oh so happy to be home.
Even on the best of days, when I'm enjoying my last weeks here, when I'm unbothered by the warm puffs of moto exhaust that hit my shin as I wait at red lights, when I'm enjoying a 10 a.m. rice and bbq'd pork (strictly a breakfast offering, I assure you), or when I'm unfazed by the almost insurmountable struggle to convey the simplest idea in a foreign tongue, yes, even on those best of day, the sight of a plane gives me pause.
But when you're homesick, those planes and the change they promise can be downright melancholic. And the terrible part is that there is nothing to do but wait it out. Sure, you can get lost in the all-encompassing dark bliss of the movie theater or head off to some reproduction of an American-style bar and have a burger, but to be honest, I don't know if these things ameliorate or exacerbate the homesickness. No, I think the only thing is time. You have to stay positive and through grit and sheer orneriness will yourself back to the present, decide that you will enjoy the final days--because before long, in no time really, the wide expanses and linguistic charms of home will surround you once again.
And when you're there, when you've been a few weeks at home, those planes will make you long for foreign destinations, for adventures in far-off places, and the sounds of indistinguishable tongues. So at least there's that to look forward to.
p.s. If you want to see what we sometimes do to stave off the homesickness, check out my recent article, "Of Beer & Burgers."
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