“Traveling—it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.”― Ibn Battuta
From time to time, I’ll be sharing stories from my travels. They will be a collection of “postcards” from the road. Unlike my other work, these posts will not be essays. Rather, they will be un-edited on-the-go reflections made while staring out car windows, waiting in airport terminals, or enjoying a meal of new and exciting flavors. I hope you enjoy this slight detour in our journey together!
“Hello.” I said to the waiter as we entered the Nepali restaurant in Little India. My mouth was already watering at the smell of momo’s wafting from the kitchen.
“Hello. Please, sit.” The waiter showed us to our table and handed us menu’s.
“Sanchai cha?” I asked.
“Oh!” The waiters eyes widened. “You know Nepali!”
“Ali ali” I replied.
“Oh!” Still staring, he walked away, chuckling to himself, mumbling under his breath, “Sanchai cha,” as he nearly bumped into the next table.
It’s been just over two decades since I first visited Nepal, but many of the phrases are still with me.
The landscapes, language, people, and food (oh the food) have fused with my own sense of home. Nepal, more so than any other place on Earth, feels like home. That being said, my sense of home has morphed over the years.
More than any location, or person, or environment, home is a feeling.
As I watch my children explore the world as TCK’s, I’m in awe at their ability to grasp this concept from such a young age. For them, home has always been fluid.
Questions about where we’re from are common in our experience. Whether we’re “home” in Saudi or traveling, we get asked where we’re from a lot. Sometimes these questions act as ice breakers, leading to deep conversations with strangers about government, racism, and core values. Other times, they’re conversation enders.
The cabby was silent. He wasn’t interested in early morning chats with tourists. But kids are great for diffusing tension.
“Where are you from?” he called back to my youngest son as we headed towards the Singapore Zoo.
“Well, we’re from America, but we live in Saudi. I was born in Vietnam, but my mom is Korean, but she grew up in the United States. So, yeah.”
Befuddled, our driver simply chuckled. My son looked up at me to confirm he’d gotten the answer correct, and I smiled.
Complexity isn’t something he, or any of our family members, shy away from.
The farther we venture out into the world, the less need we feel for easy answers. Ironically, this surrendering of the easy has a simplifying effect on our lives. It’s that age old idea that as we learn more about the world, we end up knowing less. As it turns out, knowing less is where true freedom lies.
The idea of home used to be painful for me to talk about.
Struggling to “belong” was a running theme throughout my childhood and young adulthood. I hated the complexity of my story and the glazed over looks I’d get as I tried to explain my existence. But their confusion wasn’t proof I didn’t belong. It was testament to the need for a new definition; one that allowed for the complexity of my life.
We all have complexity woven throughout our stories. It can feel like a wild animal at times, something that must be tamed and boxed.
But when we offer that complexity some space to roam, un-tethered to any predetermined concept of what it should be; that’s when we discover true freedom. Freedom of mind, freedom of body, and most importantly, freedom of spirit.
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