Yesterday I arrived to the United States of America, home of the free. Or brave? Whatever. The point is that I arrived, after many hours of travel, carrying all of my worldly possessions.
On the plane over, I barely slept and I never slept soundly. There were so many crying babies and chatty children around me. And the child behind me kept kicking my seat or jabbing at the entertainment monitor. (I turned around at one point, handed him the entertainment remote and said “use this.” He didn’t listen and kept jabbing away.) In my half-asleep dazes, I would often find myself thinking, “I’ll just do that when I get home.” And I fully meant my apartment in Abu Dhabi. I would look up the ending of that book or cook that recipe or ask that person about that thing “when I got home.” Except that home does not exist anymore.
I woke up at 4am this morning, wide awake, thanks to jetlag and my inability to stay awake past 8pm last night. And I had to think very hard for a moment about where I was in the pitch-black of my hometown bedroom. I can’t remember where I guessed first, but my hometown bedroom was probably my third attempt at remembering my location.
I have to get used to that feeling. My itinerary is: Chicagoland for 5 days, NYC for 4 days, Philadelphia for 4 days, NYC again for 2 days, Tulum for 5 days, and back to Chicagoland for 3 days. Then it’s time to organize and repack all my worldly possessions to haul to the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. Oh the nomad life…