The Long Way Home

I always take the long way home.

As I enter the final months of 2009 and the last chapter of my year spent abroad, I begin to feel the linear path of my journeys close into a circle. I am coming home. the long way. The final months of my time in Vietnam I realized that I had satisfied my curiosity for Asia, for a daily existence I imagined possible only within the glossy photographs of a National Geographic magazine. The magazines that I would pick up as a child and wonder if these images actually represented the planet Earth. I discovered that rice paddies, dusty highways full of motorbikes, and women in conical hats walking alongside water buffalo do exist. There are people on the other side of normalcy who I call friends and others still who I was connected through only by the most basic strand of humanity. I lived like a local, I lived like an ex-pat. I went cruising on motorbikes and watched the four seasons pass on a blue plastic sidewalk stool. I picked up a penchant for martial arts and unique musical instruments. I ate things I never knew were edible. In the sweltering summer heat I knew that my time in Vietnam was over. The country that once came alive for me grew a bit lackluster, indicating a quiet end; generously giving me the most vivacious Vietnam I ever knew in memories. My goals for adventure, cultural misunderstandings, uncomfortable situations, and exotic food achieved, I packed up my things and left as seamlessly as I had entered.

I always take the long way home.

Along my travels down the winding road back to the USA, I have met familiar faces and new faces who inspire new dreams and evoke a sense of humility as a young traveler. My sister. My friend. Turkish students. Grandfather backpacker. An Iraqi Swede. A Japanese Brazilian. A Finnish American. Polock Canadians. A Vietnamese Kiwi. An Italian ex-con. From Roman ruins to Turkish baths, from cathedral spires to mosque domes, from cheese fondue to middle eastern meatballs, the journey home is full of new ideas and pleasures.

I always take the long way home.

Nearing the country that was once the home of my ancestors, I begin to feel the rewards of choosing the long way. I enter a foreign land that brings me to the brink of tears with it unassuming familiarity. Images, smells, and customs that I call my own are here in this faraway territory. The old woman sitting on the bench beside me, her head tightly wrapped in her babushka. Market stalls with pungent buckets of sauerkraut ready to be sold by the kilo. A church cemetery aglow in the late autumn darkness. My heart skips a beat when I see the tiny yellow, red, and orange lanterns shrouding the peaceful resting area in a sacred cloak. Walking through the rows of headstones decorated with flowers and light, I remember that today is November 1st, All Saints Day. A holy day in the Catholic calendar commemorating all those who came before us. The hot steam of my breath that leaves me to linger over the carved Eastern European names is the only thing that separates me from these people. I look at the snow-capped mountains illuminated by the full moon, the raised crucifix glowing from the colored light. A divine peace warms me from within. I think of my Polish grandfather and grandmother. Tonight they are here with me; welcoming me to the history of home as I know it.

I always take the long way home.