I would say pardon the French, but you all know I speak it with relish and half-assed fluency.
Seriously. I am approaching day ten of a steady diet of antibiotics and mushy vegetables and I still don’t feel 100% me. I have the sniffles, a lingering (albeit much less wet) cough, and a bad attitude to match it all. I do not say this lightly: I want to go home. Like, right now. Beam me over, Scotty. There is absolutely nothing fun, endearing, or enjoyable, about being considerably ill in a foreign country where most people get one day off a week if they’re lucky. The Protestant work ethic has nothing on these Turks - I promise. I’ve been hacking up a lung for the last week during my classes and though my students grimace and nod understandingly when I have to excuse myself to go throw up green goo in the bathroom, my bosses just don’t give a flying fuck. I might as well be a dollar bill with legs and big hair.
I know this isn’t what you guys want to read, and I promise I do have some fun new anecdotes for you, but I’ve gotten to that stage in being away from home where I need to do a bit of angsty hemming and hawing and - to be blunt - whining. They say the first three months are the hardest, always. I’ve now passed the month #2 mark and I can’t say it’s gotten much easier. In fact, now that the culture shock has subsided a bit and I’ve gotten to know some people on a more personal level, I might say it’s gotten harder. I trusted my intuition to take me down this path. I followed my heart here. Against all reason and logic and convention, I took a chance and tried to make a dream come true. It hurts to question that passion and intensity and certainty I felt so strongly not long ago, but I can’t stave it off any longer.
What the fuck am I doing in Istanbul, Turkey. What. The. Fuck.
Before I left, I had dinner with two friends from home and when we were all heading to our various cars and lives, one of them, upon hugging me, said that her mom had a message for me. Fair enough - I’ve known her mom since I was nine. She said “My mom says ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’” At the time it sounded profound. Right now as I type it it sounds profound. But whereas before I chuckled with a calm and gentle excitement as I pondered what that could mean for me, now I find it a little more pressing. What am I looking for? Why am I here? What am I supposed to be learning? How am I supposed to be growing? What do I need to find that isn’t lurking at the bottom of a good cup of coffee at Jones at home? Could I not find it in a book amongst the stacks in my room? Fuck - I’ll even go to the New Age bookstore my mom’s been dragging me to since I was a kid. I will buy a self-help book. I will highlight and take notes and listen to Deepak Chopra.
The adventurer in me, wherever she is, is exhausted. Body and soul, I’m afraid. She may be recovering from a terrible case of strep throat (which, by the way, I totally don’t understand how I got. I haven’t done anything nearly fun enough to merit that shit,) but she isn’t recovering from the overwhelming homesickness.
I miss slutty clothes. I miss diversity. I miss soy tacos and coffee and beer. I miss walking on the grass barefoot and being just another person on the street. I miss the creaky floorboards of my mom’s house, and sitting on the porch with a cup of tea. I miss laughter. And hugs. I miss casual touches from strangers, and smiles. I miss my work table and my art supplies and quiet nights.
Don’t even get me started on Thanksgiving and how much every fiber of my body wishes I could be at my mother’s dining room table on Thursday.
I know I am here for a reason. I know that there are no mistakes. I know that I am an unusual person living an unusual life and that I choose my emotions. But right now I just feel lost. I’m sorry.
Here’s a picture, to ease the lump in my throat:
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