At the end of the march in India, most of us prepared to go home, including the French couple who coordinated the foreigners and served as the international communications team. They had been in India for two years, with visits home every six months. The last six months had been extremely stressful as they negotiated with service providers and struggled with a non-Western sense of time and urgency to get things done.
Sam said to me on his last evening, "I can't decide which I want to do first when I get home - take a big bite into a chocolate croissant, or get a plain croissant and dip it into a cup of hot chocolate." Since then, I've been hankering to do something similar - dip a chocolate croissant into my coffee. Oh I had croissants and coffee in Kabul, but they weren't so much croissants as crescent shaped warm dough and the coffee was powdered instant.
This week, after my morning pilates class, I went into Pain Perdu, our local French cafe. I may not be French, but being in there was like coming home. When The Man took The Exchange there in the summer, The Exchange came back elated and exclaimed, "It was like holding a piece of France in my hands."
So I ordered a chocolate croissant and a bowl of cafe au lait, and I dipped the croissant in my coffee and took a bite. It was sublime. The croissant melted in my mouth, tapping awake forgotten taste buds before flowing down my stomach in a milky wash of warm, frothy coffee.
Thing is, I don't usually dip my croissant into my coffee. The idea of soggy bread doesn't appeal to me, and I am lactose intolerant so milky drinks literally don't sit well with me. But it was something about the way Sam said it, with that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, and his girlfriend, Anais, beside him, saying, "Ahh..." as he said it, that made me want to dip my croissant into a warm milky bath.
Sam and I had had earlier conversations about how to treat Anais right. At that moment, I reminded him, "When you kiss Anais, make sure you cradle her head. That just sweeps a woman away." It's only now that I realize I had given kissing tips to a French man when he was talking about croissants and hot chocolate.
In North America, bread and milk are staples in many kitchens. But truly, it's the French who have elevated these staples to a gastronomical adventure of the most satisfying kind, tying food in with all the delightful sensual, friendly, and comfortable necessities of life.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Musical Interlude
Driving home from lunch one day, the radio announced a choral concert at a nearby church in the evening. I came home to look up the information gleaned from the announcement. Turned out it was a concert by Russia's Academy of Choral Art at St. Anne's Anglican Church on Gladstone. The choir would sing selections from Rachmaninov's Vespers. I don't know about Rachmaninov's Vespers, but Russian a cappella virtually down the road!
I phoned for a ticket and went. I love last minute choral concerts in churches. That's how one should listen to such music - stumble upon it as if called in by song, and that's where music ought to be played - in the place that the music is composed for, with god in attendance.
I acquired this preference in France and Italy. When I travelled all those years ago, I wandered many towns and city neighbourhoods on foot. Invariably, I ended up in a church at the end of the day. I was usually looking for a place to rest before heading back to the hotel. It always surprised me when I came upon a concert. I went it even if I was late.
Once in Dijon, while sitting in an almost empty church, people started coming in and setting up music stands. Before you know it, more people came in and sat down around me. Then musicians picked up their instruments and played. Someone handed me a program of the night's concert. It was Mozart and Bach. For the next two hours, I wondered if I was in heaven, and I was not a fan of classical music in those days.
So St. Anne's Church has a high dome in the middle. It has a colour scheme of pink, blue, and yellow, with harlequin patterns and florals painted around window frames and arches. Seated in a pew, we watched the choir enter the stage area. They were young! Not children, but none of the singers could have been more than 25-years-old. The men in black suits came in first and sang a few songs. Then the women in burgundy gowns filed in. All the men moved back and smiled, as if they now felt complete. They certainly looked less frightened.
I was not familiar with the music, but I know good voices when I hear them. Most people can. It is a gift to be able to play your voice like a well-tuned instrument. Most people can't. These young singers can. It stunned me when a young, beardless, thin man opens his mouth and out came a deep bass note. The man and the voice didn't go together. Or when a young woman started to sing and she barely opened her mouth, but a deep soothing alto song issued forth and I wondered where it came from.
The most fascinating musician was the conductor. He too was a thin young man of 30 at most. The program notes said he only graduated from the Moscow Academy of Choral Art as a choral conductor in 2004, and that he is currently a post-graduate student at the academy. It's always fun watching conductors because they are so theatrical. They stand tall, puff out their chest, wag their head, and wave their arms in jubilance when they want the song to get loud and strong, they curl up and writhe in pain when they want the song to be soft. Sometimes they mouth the song with the choir.
But this one, this one also hummed the opening notes for each part of the choir for each song. At first, I looked around to see who's providing the tuning notes. It took a few songs for me to realize it was the conductor. It was distracting. People who sat in the back must have thought so too. They looked around for the source of the humming every time.
But they sang brilliantly. Then I learned this same choir was singing at Roy Thomson Hall the next night with the Moscow Chamber Choir. But Roy Thomson Hall is not a church and going the next night required some planning, and I can't leave The Boy home alone two nights in a row now that I am not travelling. So I went home satisfied with what I fed my soul that night.
I phoned for a ticket and went. I love last minute choral concerts in churches. That's how one should listen to such music - stumble upon it as if called in by song, and that's where music ought to be played - in the place that the music is composed for, with god in attendance.
I acquired this preference in France and Italy. When I travelled all those years ago, I wandered many towns and city neighbourhoods on foot. Invariably, I ended up in a church at the end of the day. I was usually looking for a place to rest before heading back to the hotel. It always surprised me when I came upon a concert. I went it even if I was late.
Once in Dijon, while sitting in an almost empty church, people started coming in and setting up music stands. Before you know it, more people came in and sat down around me. Then musicians picked up their instruments and played. Someone handed me a program of the night's concert. It was Mozart and Bach. For the next two hours, I wondered if I was in heaven, and I was not a fan of classical music in those days.
So St. Anne's Church has a high dome in the middle. It has a colour scheme of pink, blue, and yellow, with harlequin patterns and florals painted around window frames and arches. Seated in a pew, we watched the choir enter the stage area. They were young! Not children, but none of the singers could have been more than 25-years-old. The men in black suits came in first and sang a few songs. Then the women in burgundy gowns filed in. All the men moved back and smiled, as if they now felt complete. They certainly looked less frightened.
I was not familiar with the music, but I know good voices when I hear them. Most people can. It is a gift to be able to play your voice like a well-tuned instrument. Most people can't. These young singers can. It stunned me when a young, beardless, thin man opens his mouth and out came a deep bass note. The man and the voice didn't go together. Or when a young woman started to sing and she barely opened her mouth, but a deep soothing alto song issued forth and I wondered where it came from.
The most fascinating musician was the conductor. He too was a thin young man of 30 at most. The program notes said he only graduated from the Moscow Academy of Choral Art as a choral conductor in 2004, and that he is currently a post-graduate student at the academy. It's always fun watching conductors because they are so theatrical. They stand tall, puff out their chest, wag their head, and wave their arms in jubilance when they want the song to get loud and strong, they curl up and writhe in pain when they want the song to be soft. Sometimes they mouth the song with the choir.
But this one, this one also hummed the opening notes for each part of the choir for each song. At first, I looked around to see who's providing the tuning notes. It took a few songs for me to realize it was the conductor. It was distracting. People who sat in the back must have thought so too. They looked around for the source of the humming every time.
But they sang brilliantly. Then I learned this same choir was singing at Roy Thomson Hall the next night with the Moscow Chamber Choir. But Roy Thomson Hall is not a church and going the next night required some planning, and I can't leave The Boy home alone two nights in a row now that I am not travelling. So I went home satisfied with what I fed my soul that night.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Goldilocks
Mom stayed over last night. I was still downstairs when she went to bed. She had had too much food for dinner so when she fell asleep, she had nightmares. She woke up around 11 pm and called downstairs for me.
Instead of getting back into bed in the spare room I set up for her, she crawled into my bed and slept on my side of the bed! She said she was going to do that, I told her not to. Was I annoyed when I was ready for bed and found her in my place. I slept in the guest room.
So this morning, I tried to tell her the story of Goldilocks and the bears and how one should not invite oneself over, eat the host's food, and sleep in the host's bed. But I couldn't get through the story. She wasn't interested and as I was telling it, I realized nothing bad actually happens to Goldilocks in the story. She got away with taking over the bears' house then ran away.
The Boy left his breakfast untouched, so mom ate it, took a shower, then I drove her home.
Instead of getting back into bed in the spare room I set up for her, she crawled into my bed and slept on my side of the bed! She said she was going to do that, I told her not to. Was I annoyed when I was ready for bed and found her in my place. I slept in the guest room.
So this morning, I tried to tell her the story of Goldilocks and the bears and how one should not invite oneself over, eat the host's food, and sleep in the host's bed. But I couldn't get through the story. She wasn't interested and as I was telling it, I realized nothing bad actually happens to Goldilocks in the story. She got away with taking over the bears' house then ran away.
The Boy left his breakfast untouched, so mom ate it, took a shower, then I drove her home.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Hardware Store
I am installing runners on the stairs at my mom's house. Now that she has tenants in her house, the stairs have become a high traffic area and the broadloom on the stairs have gotten tattered and uncleanable in places.
To remove the 20+ year-old wall-to-wall carpeting, it meant prying the weave out of corners, cutting between the rail rungs, ripping out the under-pad, pulling out all the nails and staples, without getting too soiled and choked up by the dirt uncovered, and without stabbing myself on the little wooden slats of nails that held down the carpeting. Then I had to bang and pry the wooden nail slats up, after which I had to use wood filler to repair the parts of the stairs that got damaged from the prying out of the wooden nail slats.
Then I have to install quarter round where there is a gap between floor and wall. I haven't decided if I'll re-stain and varnish.
I've never done any of this before, nor do I know how to install the runner. But I am sorting things out as I go and relying on the advice of the sales people at Home Depot.
So mom and I went to Home Depot to get the supplies we need today.
I was served by an attractive, delightful man who couldn't do math to help me figure out what length of stair runner I needed. But we worked together. That is, we each made our calculations separately, compared figures, then re-calculated together the ones that were different to arrive at an approximation of the length I needed. I didn't mind that he made mistakes in his math because each time he flashed a smile at me, I melted.
Then he directed me to another man for carpet nails. The nail man explained how many nails I needed for each step and where on the step to hammer in the nails. We calculated I would need almost 300 3/4 inch carpet nails for my job. But Home Depot only sells carpet nails in little boxes of 30. The nail man took me aside and said, Go to Dundas and Runnymede. There is a Rona Hardware there. No, not the one across the street. They sell nails by the pound at the other Rona. You will get what you need at a fraction of the cost here.
While I was being serviced this way, mom was scampering around the carpet area. She wanted a rug for her bed side. She liked a floral one that was actually very pretty. But she fretted and paced about because the rug cost $45. If she chose one that was the same pattern as the stair runner, it would only cost $18. So she muttered and complained about the difference in price.
Finally, I had to put a stop to her fretting. I said, In the blink of an eye, you gave The Boy $40 for no reason yesterday. Now you won't spend $27 extra on yourself to buy a rug for your bedroom that you will stand on each day? She said, But the one that costs less does the same job as the one that costs more. I said, But you like the one that costs more better.
In the end, she relented and took the floral one that she liked better.
At the check out, the cashier scanned our items and stopped at mom's rug. It's $45, she said to make we knew what we were getting into. Now mom piped up and said, Yes we know, but that's the one I want.
So she measured our quarter round and decided to charge us only for half of the wood. She said, They're different lengths so I'll just charge you for the longest ones.
Maybe there is something about two women bumbling about in a hardware store that makes people want to help us out. Maybe it was a Sunday and the store wasn't that busy. But gosh, I had a nice time in the hardware store today.
To remove the 20+ year-old wall-to-wall carpeting, it meant prying the weave out of corners, cutting between the rail rungs, ripping out the under-pad, pulling out all the nails and staples, without getting too soiled and choked up by the dirt uncovered, and without stabbing myself on the little wooden slats of nails that held down the carpeting. Then I had to bang and pry the wooden nail slats up, after which I had to use wood filler to repair the parts of the stairs that got damaged from the prying out of the wooden nail slats.
Then I have to install quarter round where there is a gap between floor and wall. I haven't decided if I'll re-stain and varnish.
I've never done any of this before, nor do I know how to install the runner. But I am sorting things out as I go and relying on the advice of the sales people at Home Depot.
So mom and I went to Home Depot to get the supplies we need today.
I was served by an attractive, delightful man who couldn't do math to help me figure out what length of stair runner I needed. But we worked together. That is, we each made our calculations separately, compared figures, then re-calculated together the ones that were different to arrive at an approximation of the length I needed. I didn't mind that he made mistakes in his math because each time he flashed a smile at me, I melted.
Then he directed me to another man for carpet nails. The nail man explained how many nails I needed for each step and where on the step to hammer in the nails. We calculated I would need almost 300 3/4 inch carpet nails for my job. But Home Depot only sells carpet nails in little boxes of 30. The nail man took me aside and said, Go to Dundas and Runnymede. There is a Rona Hardware there. No, not the one across the street. They sell nails by the pound at the other Rona. You will get what you need at a fraction of the cost here.
While I was being serviced this way, mom was scampering around the carpet area. She wanted a rug for her bed side. She liked a floral one that was actually very pretty. But she fretted and paced about because the rug cost $45. If she chose one that was the same pattern as the stair runner, it would only cost $18. So she muttered and complained about the difference in price.
Finally, I had to put a stop to her fretting. I said, In the blink of an eye, you gave The Boy $40 for no reason yesterday. Now you won't spend $27 extra on yourself to buy a rug for your bedroom that you will stand on each day? She said, But the one that costs less does the same job as the one that costs more. I said, But you like the one that costs more better.
In the end, she relented and took the floral one that she liked better.
At the check out, the cashier scanned our items and stopped at mom's rug. It's $45, she said to make we knew what we were getting into. Now mom piped up and said, Yes we know, but that's the one I want.
So she measured our quarter round and decided to charge us only for half of the wood. She said, They're different lengths so I'll just charge you for the longest ones.
Maybe there is something about two women bumbling about in a hardware store that makes people want to help us out. Maybe it was a Sunday and the store wasn't that busy. But gosh, I had a nice time in the hardware store today.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Is He or Isn't He?
This is The Man's dog in Kabul. He says it comes with the house he's rented but he keeps referring to it as "my dog". So the question about this dog is, is he or isn't he an Afghan Hound?
I think he is.
Compare him with these Afghan Hounds.
A groomed one.
Shaven ones.
Look at their pointy snouts and the woolly feet. The same.
Sis thinks The Man's dog is an Irish Wolfhound, like this one:
I don't think so. Look how round this dog's snout is.
What do you think? Is Scraggy up there an Afghan Hound? What do you think, Sil? Is Scraggy the Jacob of Kabul or what?
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Still Adjusting
I am having a mild case of post-travel blues. The trip, especially the march, was so intense that I feel somewhat unanchored even though I'm home. That, and the jet lag I have yet to overcome. I am still falling asleep in the early evening and waking up in the middle of the night.
But apparently, what I am feeling is nothing compared to what Jill felt. She was so much more involved in the march and India than I was. It was good to talk to her today to share how we feel. To her credit, she has set up a small company where she will train non-profit organizations to set up infrastructure and do capacity building. And she's written 50 pages of the book she wants to do on the march and India's land issues.
I've also been in touch with two people I met on the march. I had promised to get back to them with some information. It's good to touch base with people from the march. I think we all needed the connection with each other to prove what we experienced was not a dream.
On the home front, it's been surprisingly busy. For one thing, I am ripping out the broadloom on the stairs at my mother's house, a job that will resume this weekend because it is surprisingly noisy. There are little slats of wood with nails hammered into each step to hold down the carpet. to pry these slats off the steps requires much banging. So I have to do it on the weekend when her tenants are out and not working from home.
I have resumed pilates. I love being back at it. My increased limberness and mobility probably saved me from a worse injury today. In the parking lot of Loblaws, I walked over the painted yellow arrows that direct cars to go straight, turn left, or turn right. Who knew these painted arrows are slippery when wet.
So this afternoon, I am home home nursing my swollen knee from falling in the parking lot. It's also the first opportunity I've had in a long time to sit, drink tea, and read.
Already, I need to regroup so I can start again to get back to normal.
But apparently, what I am feeling is nothing compared to what Jill felt. She was so much more involved in the march and India than I was. It was good to talk to her today to share how we feel. To her credit, she has set up a small company where she will train non-profit organizations to set up infrastructure and do capacity building. And she's written 50 pages of the book she wants to do on the march and India's land issues.
I've also been in touch with two people I met on the march. I had promised to get back to them with some information. It's good to touch base with people from the march. I think we all needed the connection with each other to prove what we experienced was not a dream.
On the home front, it's been surprisingly busy. For one thing, I am ripping out the broadloom on the stairs at my mother's house, a job that will resume this weekend because it is surprisingly noisy. There are little slats of wood with nails hammered into each step to hold down the carpet. to pry these slats off the steps requires much banging. So I have to do it on the weekend when her tenants are out and not working from home.
I have resumed pilates. I love being back at it. My increased limberness and mobility probably saved me from a worse injury today. In the parking lot of Loblaws, I walked over the painted yellow arrows that direct cars to go straight, turn left, or turn right. Who knew these painted arrows are slippery when wet.
So this afternoon, I am home home nursing my swollen knee from falling in the parking lot. It's also the first opportunity I've had in a long time to sit, drink tea, and read.
Already, I need to regroup so I can start again to get back to normal.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Retail Therapy
At the end of the day yesterday, Lindsey said, Now you know you're no longer in India.
I went out with three friends to Sherway Gardens. Lindsey's sister-in-law works at The Gap and this is staff appreciation weekend. With a transferable coupon in hand, we got 30% off everything at The Gap, even on sale items. So we bought stuff. I was looking for a non-T-shirt. I bought a plaid shirt, a long down coat, socks, and handsome umbrellas. Lindsey's husband, Tony, even joined us for a bit as he was finishing work in the area, en route to another job.
When we passed by a store called Bombay, they too had a 30% off sale on everything. Sandra and Lindsey bought Christmas presents for their moms and I bought Christmas ornaments. Then Sandra went to Ikea for a foldout bed. It's Ikea. We bought things we didn't need. No, the only thing I needed was shelving liner.
I hate shopping, you understand, especially for clothes. Shopping is just not a thing I do for leisure. When I really need something, I dash into a store, find what I need, then dash out, all within 10 minutes. So yesterday was an unusual day, and it was highly enjoyable, though exhausting. Fulfilling the cliche, we shopped till we dropped.
And Lindsey was right. I am no longer in India. Bringing my mind home in a mall with retail therapy. Only in North America.
I went out with three friends to Sherway Gardens. Lindsey's sister-in-law works at The Gap and this is staff appreciation weekend. With a transferable coupon in hand, we got 30% off everything at The Gap, even on sale items. So we bought stuff. I was looking for a non-T-shirt. I bought a plaid shirt, a long down coat, socks, and handsome umbrellas. Lindsey's husband, Tony, even joined us for a bit as he was finishing work in the area, en route to another job.
When we passed by a store called Bombay, they too had a 30% off sale on everything. Sandra and Lindsey bought Christmas presents for their moms and I bought Christmas ornaments. Then Sandra went to Ikea for a foldout bed. It's Ikea. We bought things we didn't need. No, the only thing I needed was shelving liner.
I hate shopping, you understand, especially for clothes. Shopping is just not a thing I do for leisure. When I really need something, I dash into a store, find what I need, then dash out, all within 10 minutes. So yesterday was an unusual day, and it was highly enjoyable, though exhausting. Fulfilling the cliche, we shopped till we dropped.
And Lindsey was right. I am no longer in India. Bringing my mind home in a mall with retail therapy. Only in North America.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The Older We Get...
The Boy said, Hey let's have dinner out Friday night. I said I can't, because I have my book club meeting Friday night. He said, How can that be? You just got back from India and you've already got plans?
That's the thing about being an adult. You always have plans. You try to carry them out with focus and order. While you carry out those plans, you also try to live in the moment and appreciate what you are doing, what you are experiencing, observing life around you.
Versus being a child or a teenage. Kids live in the moment. While living in the moment, they try to make plans. Their plans are invariably fluid and last minute. Living in the moment, kids seem forgetful of responsibility and oblivious to life around them.
And what about when you get much older, like after you retire. Literature tells us there are at least two ways to be. You can be a curmudgeonly old coot, full of bitterness, anger, and rigidity. Or you can be lively and full of grace, self-accepting, generous, and forgiving. You can live in the moment and make plans at the same time, and not get upset if the plans fall to shits.
That's the kind of old woman I want to be. Because that's the mindset I need to have to trek the Himalayas. My Himalayan guide, uncomplicated Mohamed, said you have to be physically fit and mentally unburdened to do the Himalayas. If you were not physically fit, you just wouldn't be able to do the trek that requires climbing up and down the mountains, sweating during the day, and freezing in the night. If you were fit but mentally preoccupied, you would be wasting your trek because you would be too distracted to appreciate the effort you made to see the beauty of the lakes high up in the mountains and clouds.
The Man and I have talked about trekking the Himalayas in Nepal. Oh he's afraid of heights and I am afraid of success. But think what a project we have - get fit, grow more graceful, overcome fear. I don't think life will be boring for us even if he is in Kabul right now.
That's the thing about being an adult. You always have plans. You try to carry them out with focus and order. While you carry out those plans, you also try to live in the moment and appreciate what you are doing, what you are experiencing, observing life around you.
Versus being a child or a teenage. Kids live in the moment. While living in the moment, they try to make plans. Their plans are invariably fluid and last minute. Living in the moment, kids seem forgetful of responsibility and oblivious to life around them.
And what about when you get much older, like after you retire. Literature tells us there are at least two ways to be. You can be a curmudgeonly old coot, full of bitterness, anger, and rigidity. Or you can be lively and full of grace, self-accepting, generous, and forgiving. You can live in the moment and make plans at the same time, and not get upset if the plans fall to shits.
That's the kind of old woman I want to be. Because that's the mindset I need to have to trek the Himalayas. My Himalayan guide, uncomplicated Mohamed, said you have to be physically fit and mentally unburdened to do the Himalayas. If you were not physically fit, you just wouldn't be able to do the trek that requires climbing up and down the mountains, sweating during the day, and freezing in the night. If you were fit but mentally preoccupied, you would be wasting your trek because you would be too distracted to appreciate the effort you made to see the beauty of the lakes high up in the mountains and clouds.
The Man and I have talked about trekking the Himalayas in Nepal. Oh he's afraid of heights and I am afraid of success. But think what a project we have - get fit, grow more graceful, overcome fear. I don't think life will be boring for us even if he is in Kabul right now.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Home
My body is back in Toronto, but my mind is suspended somewhere between home and India. I hope it doesn't take too long to follow.
On the way home from the airport, the Toronto highways were traffic free, the air smogless, the roads quiet. The sky was slight cloudy, casting that muted light on everything. After Delhi, that calm felt a bit surreal, like we were the few remaining survivors post apocalypse.
It's mid-Autumn here. Today, we stomped on carpets of yellow wet leaves outside while bare branches poked through most trees. I wore my down-filled jacket. The Boy had already turned on the furnace. Half a world away where my travelling companions are, and where I was two short days ago, it's 30C, noisy and dusty. You haggle through every exchange, elbow your way to the head of a queue, and jump out of the way of cars, buses, rickshaws, bicycles, cows and dogs.
The strangest feeling was using the keys to access the different parts of my life, like putting a key into my front door - I wasn't sure which key to use, like putting a key into the car - I had to think twice before knowing which way to turn to ignite the engine.
I have been welcomed home by family and friends, I have shopped for groceries, I have made The Boy get a haircut, I have identified a stench in the kitchen as dead onions on a shelf and cleaned out that cupboard, I have cleaned out moldy food from the fridge, I have exchanged e-mails with some of the people I met, I have had dinner with Sis, I've scrubbed one of the bathrooms clean, and I went to Joe Fresh and bought a red hoodie. I have much to do to prepare the house for winter. The Boy has said several times, It's good to have you home although I had a great time while you were away.
Yes, I am home.
On the way home from the airport, the Toronto highways were traffic free, the air smogless, the roads quiet. The sky was slight cloudy, casting that muted light on everything. After Delhi, that calm felt a bit surreal, like we were the few remaining survivors post apocalypse.
It's mid-Autumn here. Today, we stomped on carpets of yellow wet leaves outside while bare branches poked through most trees. I wore my down-filled jacket. The Boy had already turned on the furnace. Half a world away where my travelling companions are, and where I was two short days ago, it's 30C, noisy and dusty. You haggle through every exchange, elbow your way to the head of a queue, and jump out of the way of cars, buses, rickshaws, bicycles, cows and dogs.
The strangest feeling was using the keys to access the different parts of my life, like putting a key into my front door - I wasn't sure which key to use, like putting a key into the car - I had to think twice before knowing which way to turn to ignite the engine.
I have been welcomed home by family and friends, I have shopped for groceries, I have made The Boy get a haircut, I have identified a stench in the kitchen as dead onions on a shelf and cleaned out that cupboard, I have cleaned out moldy food from the fridge, I have exchanged e-mails with some of the people I met, I have had dinner with Sis, I've scrubbed one of the bathrooms clean, and I went to Joe Fresh and bought a red hoodie. I have much to do to prepare the house for winter. The Boy has said several times, It's good to have you home although I had a great time while you were away.
Yes, I am home.
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