From the day I interviewed for my current company, I had made one thing clear: the job must require me to travel, preferably internationally. A year and seven days later, I crossed the Atlantic. Sure, everyone loves to travel – no surprises there. In fact, if I had a dollar for every time I read that on someone’s Facebook or dating profile, let’s just say I wouldn’t need to interview for a job. Whether people’s reason for wanting to travel is to explore new cities, try new cuisines, immerse themselves in new cultures, or simply get away from the mundane, we all share one reason in common: for the sheer experience.
“Experience” is one of those all encompassing words that says something yet means nothing at all. It’s hard to describe the joy I felt when I ate french fries for dinner at 1am after a night of drinking with coworkers that live by the liquid diet. (Those Brits mean business). You wouldn’t believe it if I told you I stole “proprietary goods” from a restaurant in Zurich because my manager dared me to (ahem, see photo). And I couldn’t begin to explain the irony of being back in Paris, roaming the very streets I traveled last year as a tourist. I can try but my words wouldn’t do justice to my feelings.
Fast forward to two weeks later, and I’m back to where my journey began: the airport. As I was waiting in the US Customs line, with my laptop bag crushing my right shoulder, and my carry-on bag the left side, I looked down and realized that it was my passport that carried the most weight of all. I started looking through all of the stamps I had amassed in my passport over the years (there aren’t too many so it was a quick browse). I stared at each one intently as if any moment, the stamps would transform into a photo montage and begin parading through the pages. But all I saw was ink on paper that validated my presence in some place at some time. Strange concept, I thought, these stamps… we get them on our birth certificate to tell the world: I have arrived. We get them on our marriage certificate to tell the world: we are legally binded. Do we really need ink to leave a mark in this world?
Just as I thought I was onto something profound, my thoughts were interrupted by one of the Customs officer prompting “Next!” After the usual round of obligatory questions, he handed me back my passport, and I suddenly noticed an unassuming sign that read, “Welcome to the United States.” It was probably the same sign I saw as an eight year old when I first moved to America, but ignored it because, 1) I didn’t understand English at the time, and 2) nothing about the airport — or “Amereeka” as I called it back then — felt welcoming. Little did I know then about the proverbial saying, “home is where the heart is,” but twelve countries and eighteen stamps later, I understand it all too well. Despite my yearning to travel, I’ve realized that sometimes the best part of going somewhere is coming home.
Fast forward to two weeks later, and I’m back to where my journey began: the airport. As I was waiting in the US Customs line, with my laptop bag crushing my right shoulder, and my carry-on bag the left side, I looked down and realized that it was my passport that carried the most weight of all. I started looking through all of the stamps I had amassed in my passport over the years (there aren’t too many so it was a quick browse). I stared at each one intently as if any moment, the stamps would transform into a photo montage and begin parading through the pages. But all I saw was ink on paper that validated my presence in some place at some time. Strange concept, I thought, these stamps… we get them on our birth certificate to tell the world: I have arrived. We get them on our marriage certificate to tell the world: we are legally binded. Do we really need ink to leave a mark in this world?
Just as I thought I was onto something profound, my thoughts were interrupted by one of the Customs officer prompting “Next!” After the usual round of obligatory questions, he handed me back my passport, and I suddenly noticed an unassuming sign that read, “Welcome to the United States.” It was probably the same sign I saw as an eight year old when I first moved to America, but ignored it because, 1) I didn’t understand English at the time, and 2) nothing about the airport — or “Amereeka” as I called it back then — felt welcoming. Little did I know then about the proverbial saying, “home is where the heart is,” but twelve countries and eighteen stamps later, I understand it all too well. Despite my yearning to travel, I’ve realized that sometimes the best part of going somewhere is coming home.
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1 comment:
Never a truer word spoken. There's no place like home ... Asad.
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