The World is Too Flat
Thoughts on Life Outside the Mountains
As an international student from the United States, I knew that my life would be different after moving to a new country. When I made the decision I braced myself for culture shock, homesickness, you name it. I thought I had it all figured out. But when I got here, I learned that no matter where you go, or where you’re from, or how different you may seem, people are just people. I wouldn’t call what I had an easy time adjusting, but it certainly wasn’t as drastic as I thought it would be by any means. I gained an appreciation for the universality of things like kindness (and youth). But of all things that I exhausted myself researching to be prepared for all contingencies when I got here, there was something I didn’t even think to consider. I didn’t anticipate that the landscape itself would need so much getting used to.
On the train ride into Canterbury from London, I was enamored with the rolling hills and little villages, settled into the green. There were sheep, horses, sunbeams and homesteads dotting the countryside. I found it quaint and peaceful. The sky even seemed bigger, bluer, brighter. At the time, I didn’t realize why. I just enjoyed the view while it lasted, impatiently waiting for the train to reach the station. A few weeks later, though, I was looking out over the city from the University campus (which ironically sits at the top of the biggest hill around) and realized that the sky didn’t just seem bigger here, it basically was. There weren’t any mountains. For me, that’s how the world had always looked, and I didn’t notice how special it was until I left.
I grew up in Asheville, North Carolina, a city in the midst of Appalachia. In Asheville, if you look in any direction you can see the Blue Ridge Mountains. They’re called that because from a distance they appear to be this gorgeous misty blue that changes hue the further away each peak is. There’s nothing like it. In some places, they’re so close that they eclipse the sky and all you can see is the trees. We were surrounded, but it never felt like we were trapped. To those who live among them, the mountains are a shelter. So, for me, who had lived all my life under the protection of the Appalachians, to watch the horizon get further and further away as the train approached Canterbury was mildly unnerving. That horizon line was as foreign to me as anything else I encountered here. The Kentish countryside is beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but although I’ve been here for over two years, there’s still something so strange about looking out and seeing so far into the distance.
Even when I was a kid, the lack of mountains was always a mark of ‘other’. Whenever we drove across the state to my brother’s university, or all the way to the coast, I took notice of when we officially left the mountains behind and entered the Piedmont, or the plains, both characterized by their unfortunate flatness. It was the way I knew we were on our way to Elsewhere. But, consequently, it was also the way I knew we were closing in on home. Even now, when I get off the plane after a whole day of travel, it’s not just the fresh air that brings me relief. The sight of the mountains, my mountains, is all I need to feel like I’m home.
