Traveling Home

     One summer, in my teens, I traveled around the Republic of Georgia for a month with friends.  While we were there we didn't stay in hotels or youth hostels, we lived with people.  We would stay with a family for a few days before moving on to the next village, the next family, the next home.  They were generous people, sharing their homes and their food, and it was a beautiful country; from the fields of the farmland you could walk up into the mountains and find snow, even in August.

     When the time came for us to go, we reminisced about our trip.  We talked about the Georgian words we had learned, the experience of showering from a bucket of rainwater warmed by the afternoon sun, the rich, comforting foods we had eaten.  As we boarded the plane, walking up the narrow stairs from the tarmac, I remember turning and looking out over the city, toward the mountains one last time.

     We landed first in London, where we had a brief layover.  After so much time in Georgia, it was strange to hear people speaking English, and stranger yet to see people nodding when they meant 'yes' after so many days carefully training ourselves that in Georgia it meant 'no'.  It was harder still to comprehend so much food.  We had lived on mostly meats, cheeses, and breads.  Even for breakfast we would eat warm Khachapuri, a round, flat bread filled with salty cheese.  We had been drinking mostly wines and milk because potable drinking water was hard to find.  But in London, people were eating soups, salads and pastries, and drinking soda, water, coffee, and juice.

     We flew from London to Boston, landing in the early evening.   As we approached the airport, I looked out over Boston, and could pick out the Prudential Center, Hancock Tower, UMass Boston, and the JFK library.  And when I saw the city it was so dazzling and bright, filled with life and movement, and I knew I was coming home.

     At my parents' house that night, after everyone had gone to bed, I snuck into the kitchen.  I searched the fridge and the cupboards before I finally found them in a bowl in the pantry.  All through dinner I could smell them, but I couldn't turn away my mother's "welcome home" roast, even if it wasn't what I really wanted.  So I ate her roast and later that night, while everyone else slept, I quietly peeled and ate the juiciest, tartest, most tangy sweet orange I can ever remember eating.  I hadn't even realized it while we were away, but there were no oranges in Georgia, or at least none were offered to us.  I didn't even know I craved one until I could smell them at dinner.  

     To this day, the smell of oranges makes me feel like I've just come home after a long journey.