World Traveler
You live in two worlds.
One, full of long, carefree summers, catching cicadas inside your father’s empty cigarette packs and collecting iridescent shells of all shapes and sizes before conquering the dark, blue sea. A lucid dream.
The other — rainy days and cold white winters, crushing fallen leaves on your way to school. Stuffy classrooms, hushed sleepovers. Cozy routine.
Two worlds with their own set of rules, their different values and traditions.
It’s hard enough navigating your way through one, but you do your best not to break under the weight of them both. Turns out, cultures can be pretty heavy.
When you were little, you switched languages with such ease, you didn’t even notice that different sounds tumbled out your mouth. Like that one time, when explaining to your Greek cousins the rules of a game you no longer remember, without realizing you had changed languages mid-sentence. The baffled expression on their faces.
Now your broken words merely mirror the incoherence within.
You grow older and question your hybridity. Little You longs to be like the other kids, but your hair’s too dark, the food you bring to school too exotic. A duckling in a pond of swans.
While your classmates play after school, you translate administrative letters addressed to your parents. Or at least you try.
Sometimes, at night, you imagine swapping your parents for better versions of themselves, for upgrades who are able to support you for a change. Like it’s supposed to be. But then you can’t fall asleep because you feel ashamed for having these thoughts.
You wish someone would eventually get your name right. Take it from Future You — no such luck.
You tan easily, but you can’t stand the heat.
You’re always on time, but don’t follow rules.
Though you can’t live without music, the sound of the bouzouki gives you migraines.
Two hearts beat inside your chest. Still, they don’t pump enough blood through those veins for you to feel alive.
An impossible combination. Yet here you are, craving the best of both worlds.
“Where are you from?”
Four words you’ve heard one too many times. Four words that make it hard to call this place home.
Here, a foreigner, a visitor expected to leave. There, a distant relative too alien to fit in. Two halves don’t always make a whole. Sometimes, half and half equals nothing.
You stare at the two passports in either hand. Same Bordeaux color, different coat of arms. White cross versus black eagle. One has already expired, you notice with regret. And as you stow it away in the drawer, a little piece of you remains hidden in there too.
Your wanderlust strikes and you pack your bags — again.
The restlessness inside sets you on your way. With a smile on your face, you keep searching, exploring, breathing in the world. The places you travel to don’t judge. They’re like friends you haven’t seen in a long time. Welcoming. Accommodating.
You search in Madrid, at the Temple of Debod, waiting to feast on the perfect play of light at sunset. In London’s Underground, hot air whirling through your hair while you’re pressed against a stranger. In Florence, in the cool shade of the Duomo surrounded by artists selling their miniature watercolor paintings to eager tourists who melt in the heat.
Certain — hoping — you’ll find what you’re looking for. Not realizing you already have. It’s the banged up suitcase you carry wherever you go. The people you connect with under constellations of a serene night sky. The stories you cherish inside your travel diary.
“Where are you from?”
You hesitate, but this time the question has its place. It matters.
Finally, you can exhale a million breaths as you answer with a liberating smile.
Home — it’s you.
