going home

After packing up the apartment and finally hitting the road, I hoped to feel as if we were on vacation. Jarrett and I had two weeks before our flight left, so we planned a few fun stops on our road trip to California. However, despite the beauty of Crater Lake and the awesomeness of the redwood forests, I still felt as if we were on a deadline.

In California, it was lovely to have a bed again—even if it was an air mattress, it was better than the floor of our old apartment after we sold our bed, and miles above being in a car for hours on end with a bad back. As is our luck, though, Northern California refused to play along with my dreams of sun and sand, and rarely peaked above 80° our whole stay. My swimsuit and goggles remained in my cute pink suitcase, mocking me daily.

The parents house was far more relaxing than the stress of packing, and my mom proved she is the master of the going away party. We said goodbye to my extended family, went to San Francisco a couple times, hung out with a few friends, ate a lot of really good food, had some great nostalgic moments, celebrated our anniversary, and even watched a couple movies for the first time in months. Still, I couldn’t quite relax, as I kept feeling as if there was somewhere I was supposed to be.

It didn’t help that we were constantly busy. Suitcases needed repacked. Boxes needed shipped. Another suitcase needed to be purchased. Other boxes needed emptied and sent to Goodwill. Moving is a long, involved process any time, but an international move begins to feel like a never ending game of Tetris. The next thing I knew, the game was on pause, and we were leaving the next day.

We arrived at SFO almost four hours before our flight. It was either that or risk Monday morning commute traffic with nontransferable, nonrefundable, nonanythingable tickets. Actually, I’m fine with waiting in airports, and am actually quite fond of them. For me, getting ready to travel is all about getting to the airport; it’s all planning and stress and packing beforehand, but the airport is a breath of fresh air between the scheduling and the running amok around foreign lands. After checking in and checking baggage, we hugged the ‘rents goodbye, and made it rather quickly through security.

Aboard our 777, we scored the second best seats in economy class: the second row behind business class. The bathroom was close, but not too close (if you know what I mean); we were among the first in our section to get drinks and food; and, best of all, the third seat in our row was unsold. Unfortunately for me, the daft hippy in the seat in front of me threw his seat all the way back the second he could do so, and proceeded to lie back, sit up, and move about for nearly eleven hours. He was at his bounciest whenever I had a beverage. Also unfortunately, the adorable baby in the next row over divided his time between looking sweet and sitting in a basket while I was awake, and shrieking violently every time I closed an eye. I guess it just wouldn’t be an international flight without the Thunderdome-like aspect of steerage.

Arriving in Japan, it was apparent that Summer had caught up to us. The thin sweater I wore on the plane clung to me immediately upon entering the jetway, and the little people outside were running around, doing their jobs, and sweating furiously. Yet, I refused to be brought down by long flights, stupid rave pants or oppressive humidity. None of these things matter because, at their terminus, I got to pick up my luggage, haul ass through immigration as my dad taught me, and set my eyes on Japan.

It was a long bus ride / subway / train / walk to the new apartment, and we were literally pouring sweat upon arrival, but I finally had the feeling that we had arrived. I finally felt that all the studying and all the applications and all the bureaucracy and all the stress and all the injuries and all the everything was completely worth it when I set my sights upon my new mail box, reached in for my new key, and opened the door to my new home.

Never you mind that it was even small than imagined. Or that we had no power. Or furniture. We were in the cute little town of Kita, minutes from Tokyo, in the Japan I had been working so hard to get back to for the past three years. We were here, we had arrived, we were home.