And I was reminded of that moment eighteen months ago, the last time I landed in Almaty on an international flight. I was exhausted, in the middle of a massive life transition. Starting a new book in my life. Facing the strange familiarity, like the kind you get when reminded of a memory you didn't realize you had, and still aren't sure you're remembering right, because some things seem different. Simultaneously overwhelmed and excited for the new experiences that lay before me. And struggling to adjust. Perhaps a little depressed. Perhaps a little ecstatic. Perhaps a little of everything. You remember. It's basically all I've really told you about, in this well-intentioned effort of a blog, before that lovely intention fizzled.
But today was different. Today I was flying back from Thailand after a four-day visit, a visit ordered by my doctor here to go see a doctor there to figure out what's been going on with me, because the doctor here couldn't figure it out and he wanted me to get the best testing available, which happens to be over there. (Yes, they diagnosed the problem, no it's not serious, yes it's easily manageable--- more on that later.) I digress.
Today was different. As the opaque wisps of clouds disappeared above the plane and the ground got closer and closer, it wasn't strange or scary or exciting or unknown. It was good. It was familiar. It was happy. It was like coming home.
I was excited, sure. But it wasn't the cool, shaky, brave exciting you get when you're facing the unknown. It was the warm, comfortable, steady exciting you get when you come back. After four days of feeling suspended in limbo as the simultaneously privileged and helpless foreigner. Receiving deference at every turn and being catered to, experiencing the comfortably warm climate and lush scenery, and the nicest hotel you've ever been in, and having an entire hotel room to yourself, and room service for the first time in your life ever-- but also being stuck in a strange place with unfamiliar sounds and speech, unfamiliar symbols on signs (even in the accents of the people speaking English, the accent is so strange and different you can barely understand). A place where the currency is weird and you're constantly doing the exchange rate math to figure out how much you're spending. A place where the climate is one your body is unaccustomed to. A place where you're not sure how to dress so you don't stick out or which side of the road to walk on or where to find good food or what the protocol is for saying hello or goodbye or thanks-- or even how to say hello or goodbye or thanks, even though you've looked it up at least twenty five times on Google translate. When you've been feeling suspended in a surreal dimension of your experience (partly while dazed and drugged from hospital things, and vegged out because you avoided Haze Unfamiliar by hiding out in your hotel most of the time, which was merely a milder and less unsettling, Haze Unfamiliar's little sister), and you come back to a place you know. Like waking up to life again after a weird dream. That kind of exciting.
I was excited, sure. But it wasn't the cool, shaky, brave exciting you get when you're facing the unknown. It was the warm, comfortable, steady exciting you get when you come back. After four days of feeling suspended in limbo as the simultaneously privileged and helpless foreigner. Receiving deference at every turn and being catered to, experiencing the comfortably warm climate and lush scenery, and the nicest hotel you've ever been in, and having an entire hotel room to yourself, and room service for the first time in your life ever-- but also being stuck in a strange place with unfamiliar sounds and speech, unfamiliar symbols on signs (even in the accents of the people speaking English, the accent is so strange and different you can barely understand). A place where the currency is weird and you're constantly doing the exchange rate math to figure out how much you're spending. A place where the climate is one your body is unaccustomed to. A place where you're not sure how to dress so you don't stick out or which side of the road to walk on or where to find good food or what the protocol is for saying hello or goodbye or thanks-- or even how to say hello or goodbye or thanks, even though you've looked it up at least twenty five times on Google translate. When you've been feeling suspended in a surreal dimension of your experience (partly while dazed and drugged from hospital things, and vegged out because you avoided Haze Unfamiliar by hiding out in your hotel most of the time, which was merely a milder and less unsettling, Haze Unfamiliar's little sister), and you come back to a place you know. Like waking up to life again after a weird dream. That kind of exciting.
I normally get annoyed when the passport control officers pepper me with curious questions about what I as an American could possibly find interesting about Kazakhstan, or what my family could possibly like about living here. I normally am just thinking, behind the polite nod and simple response Just stamp my freaking passport, I want to get back to my place already. But today, as I briskly walked off the plane with my suitcase clipping behind me, I was so happy to walk into a familiar arrival gate, to actually be able to read the signs, to be in a place where I could speak and understand the language around me, I really didn't mind the friendly interrogation. It made me feel welcome. I didn't need a taxi home, I could take the bus. Because I knew where to go. I knew the streets and parks and restaurants we passed, I knew which bus stop I needed to get off at. I was able to ask my fellow passengers, with effortless language skills, for help lifting my suitcase off the crowded bus as my stop approached. I knew the shortcut from my bus stop to my favorite cafe on the corner by my house, I knew every shop and sign and hole in the sidewalk the entire way. And I knew exactly what I wanted to order on the menu. I knew the cafe manager, and gladly chatted with her about my trip in response to her inquiries about my suitcase that still had the "Air Astana" sticker on the handle. And after dinner when I approached my stoop with my suitcase chugging cheerfully behind me, the key I used on the door was my key, and it was my door.
It was home.
Sure, the bathroom sink is still clogged like it was before I left, and I still need to call the plumber. I still have laundry to fold, and I still have work to get back to this week, lessons to plan, a Christmas program to plan (yes, they put me, the poor overwhelmed new teacher, in charge of the preschool Winter program this year--- that's for another blog. I digress again.). Sure, I have my sweet, mucousy, adorable, impossible little three-year-olds to look after and teach when I go back to preschool later this week. I still have to vacuum my room, which I neglected last week because I was running late for my flight and ran out of time. And sure, there are a few inconveniences I deal with as an expat local that the local locals don't.
But now, instead of things I have to do, those are things I get to do. Because this is home now.
Sometime in the last eighteen months... don't ask me to pinpoint when, but sometime... Almaty quit being that big move I made, and started being home. I think it has been for some months now, but it wasn't until today that I realized it so deeply.
And that's what matters.
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