International Adaptation

It's been almost two months that I've been in the U.S., back from Spain desperately trying to jog off all the tortilla, chorizo, and zapatillo cookies I ate while there. It might be working, but man could I go for a combination of all three right about now.

During my first week back in Chicagoland, I felt like a fish out of water. The doorknobs seemed lower on doors, the toilets seemed like alien spaceships, too many people wore shorts, the Coke bottles appeared bloated: they just didn't have that European hourglass shape. Everyone sounded overly nasal when they spoke (hello Midwest). There were too many cars, not enough pedestrians, bikers, walkers. Not to mention the cars were too big. Too many plazas and definitely not the Spanish sort. Parking lots framed with Walgreen's, Al's Beef, Payless Shoes, T.G.I.Friday's, PetCo. The dollar was too long, thin, and drab unlike my wad of short, wide, and colorful bursts of Euro.

I may have gotten lost in the local Meijer, somewhere between the boulevard of waxy, shining apples in colors that never seemed entirely natural and a brigade of pop bottles, an army of caffeinated soldiers lining mile long shelves. I asked my Dad if he had weighed all the produce he'd "carelessly" thrown into the cart, then realized that the cashiers do it at checkout after catching a bewildered fatherly stare.

Those first days were an adventure. I felt like a foreigner in my own country. Treading carefully, looking at everything as if I were seeing it for the first time. This is how I lived? I kept thinking.

And now, I feel entirely at home. It only took several weeks and I'm driving like a pro, tearing through Walgreens for all my drug store needs, and distinguishing quarters from nickels no problem.

I've just realized that I'll be leaving fairly soon and it hit me how quickly I've re-acclimated to my own country. It also makes me think how I'll have to go through the same but different sort of experience again in France.

The first day in a different country always throws me off my feet, even if it's just a slight stumble. Even so, I usually adapt within no time. How? Because I realize that no one's going to feed me and I'm just going to have to rustle up dinner on my own. Clutching an old bag of airport trail mix, purchased in departure city that seems seasons ago, this is the moment it hits. I can't eat peanut shells or lick the bag. Not because I wouldn't, but because that will not get me through the night. Not surprisingly, when hunger hits, your powers are limitless. Call it primal instinct, call it jet lag delerium, time zone lagerium, whatever. Something gets you into that foreign grocery store coming out with a bag full of a mixture of whatever looked good at the time. Then, you're officially in. Everything after that is just a little bit easier. Getting those first jitters over with is essential. And to think you can do it with a triangle sandwich in a plastic box containing whatever meat the country is famous for.

Even with all of the inevitable "uncomfortable" moments that are synonymous with traveling abroad, the good ones make up for them in a heartbeat.

And there's absolutely nothing like coming home after a long time away.