catch-22

Unabashed stares. A sea of brown faces, primarily male. Women in vibrant, multihued clothing carrying infants.  Temples and mosques and churches and resonating chants. Child beggars and peddlers.Voices directed at me in three different dialects. Bewilderment over my “origin.” The fusion of pungent odors on the streets: piquant masala, animal dung, and gasoline emissions. After eleven months, the sounds and scents and visuals of India had become familiar.

I bid farewell to this dynamic land and braced myself for the reverse culture shock, but how can you really know what to expect? (Pep talk to self: Okay, you’re going back to New Jersey…people drive in lanes, there won’t be random animals all over the place, you can’t bargain but at least you can wear shorts…). The mental preparation had helped. Slightly.

My two oversized suitcases and I had arrived in Newark.

Brown, black, white people. Obese people. Strollers. Everyone walking in shoes. Ipads and nooks and kindles. Starbucks. (Coffee for 200 rupees?!) Men carrying babies. English words. Carpeted floors. Bagel shops.

Now I was the one staring.

It was all the things I had remembered, longed for, or forgotten. And it was startling. It’s interesting how you can grow completely accustomed to a culture, and yet still miss certain luxuries. Sure, I missed cereal and driving and winter while I was in India. But now I ruminate over all the little things that made my experience there.

No matter where I am now, I’ll miss something, won’t I?