HOME • EV • घर

I'm homeward bound, although I have to confess, I'm not quite sure what that means...

After nearly a month of nomadic existence through the Nepali Himalayas, I am sitting in a hard metal chair at the Kathmandu international airport staring at a bright red boarding pass. Two boarding passes, in fact, the first of which will take me from Nepal to Sharjah, UAE and the second, again to Istanbul late this evening—two boarding passes which will be the first in a total of 5 or 6 over the next three days that will eventually land me back in the good ole US of A. From Istanbul, my plan is to hop an overnight bus straight from the airport to Balıkesir where I will throw my grungy Nepali gear into a larger suitcase, zip it closed, and haul it back on the bus back to the other Istanbul airport the following morning. To catch my next flight. İnşallah.

Picturing myself disembarking back into Istanbul is a little less climactic than I had previously anticipated. The minute I left Turkey (initially for a few days to Greece with my family, then again a few days later for Nepal) I had a hard time leaving my Turkish-self behind. Over the past year I had slowly but steadily worked to integrate myself more and more into the culture of the country I then called home. I learned Turkish, ate Turkish food, made Turkish friends, listened to Turkish music, followed Turkish TV programs.

By the end of the year, I was by no means Turkish, but my frame of reference for the world was firmly rooted in my Turkish-expat existence. I could participate in Turkish traditions and superstitions, sing along to the songs I heard on the radio, carry out small talk with people in the grocery store or on the bus, was a "regular" at a handful of restaurants and cafés, and had a passionate stake in who would win Turkish Survivor. Moreover, I had a slew of inside jokes and memorable experiences originating from this pseudo-Turkish-American-English Teacher persona that I shared with a network of other Fulbright colleagues and friends across the country.

The minute I crossed through exit immigration in Sabiha Gökçen, however, (only after successfully arguing with the officer that my visa was valid because my residency permit was expired—my last conversation in Turkish thus far) that perspective was suddenly irrelevant. Nepal was immediately a chaotic explosion of unfamiliar colors, sounds, and smells. It was exciting and overwhelming, and I was hopelessly at a loss. Normally I crave that feeling of being out of my element when traveling, but this time, after a year of painstakingly working to trade my "yabancı-ness" in for cultural integration, I couldn't help but mourn the loss of my insider-card. The Nepali people I met were kind, welcoming, and couldn't care less that I could carry on a conversation in a country thousands of miles to the west. They accepted my one word of Nepali ("namaste") with grace, and regarded me as what I was: a tourist.

The next three amazing weeks were spent trekking through the mountains and jungle, learning bits and pieces of Nepali culture, processing the past, wondering about the future, and boring my poor friend Kacie with stories about everything Turkish. My Fulbright friends went home to amazing jobs, or off on last-minute adventures themselves, and slowly I began to accept that the past year of my life, like all good things tend to, was slowly coming to a close.

Now, as I sit in the airport and try to picture myself stepping back into my apartment in Balıkesir, I feel a bittersweet twinge of displacement. In fact, the next few weeks will be something of a whirlwind of displacement—Kathmandu to Sharjah to Istanbul to Balıkesir to Istanbul to Amsterdam to Portland to Sacramento to Loomis to San Jose. One night in Balıkesir, the place I have called home. One night in Loomis with my parents, the only 'permanent address' I've had to list for several years. Then on to San Jose where I will immediately start my new job with nothing but a car full of suitcases and a spot on a friend's couch. Part of me is exhausted just thinking about it. Here I go again, starting from scratch, no house, no community, no clue what lies ahead. But the other part of me, the more significant, grounded part of me, knows I wouldn't want it any other way.

A lot has changed over the past year, but the thrill of a new place, new people, new job, and new adventures has never seemed to lose its appeal. In fact, after a year abroad, California seems just about as distant and exotic as anywhere I've been thus far—a land of kombucha and coffee shops, reliable wifi and endless toilet paper. Almost too good to be true.

More significantly, however, is the whispered voice that remains when all the excitement, anticipation, and uncertainty fade away. The same voice that I heard so clearly while staring at a different set of boarding passes—these ones also starting from a familiar place and ending in a strange city that I would soon call home—almost one year ago. It is the voice that says, "I know the plans I have for you, to give you hope and a future" and "I will bless you and keep you" and "fear not." That voice, so clear in the deep wilderness and mountain-top splendor of Nepal, is the voice I want to cling to as the hundreds of other tired, worried, stressed, or lonely voices flood in with the "real world." That is the voice I choose to trust. The voice of a God who was also both homeless and at home.