Returning home

Traveling continents always included days of transition. The flux period usually begins when you land and lasts until you had your first breakfast next day. I have been quite fond of these terribly mixed days.

Only a day or so ago, I executed such a transition that enlisted two planes over 8000 miles. But this time, I was least concerned about finding an ATM for local currency. I was certain I would be handed some as soon as I land. There really weren’t any ‘highly critical but equally vague’ immigration forms to fill on the plane. The signs at the airport were comfortable lettered in familiar languages. And despite my best efforts I seemed to be fitting right into the crowd.

Immigration was approached with firm confidence. There were no visa’s to validate. Instead, I took his grunt as an informal way of saying, “Welcome back, Mr. Citizen”

It was all very simple. There was no transportation to arrange, no trains to transfer and no tickets to validate. There wasn’t any looking left or right or figuring where north was. All it included was to exit the airport into welcoming arms of family and friends.

And despite the unusual hot sweaty night, ridiculously potholed roads, unimaginable tolerances between moving traffic and the ever present stench of inviting food, undeniable spirit, financial pretence, salty sweat, piled rubbish and imminent poverty, I found myself slowly sinking back nicely.

From being familiarly vague and I had transitioned to being vaguely familiar. Or in other words, I was home again.