Supermarket cheese aisles depress you in a profound, almost existential way.
Home is the people who remind you of who you are.
If politics really don’t matter, if the market makes all the decisions, than how about I treat my vote like I would the marketplace?
It feels like the work I do is only for myself and the company that employs me. Not for the good of the nation. Not for my family. Not for any “greater good.” In a way I prefer this.
Bonds will be forged, traveling companions will become life-long friends, and memories will transcend the imagination.
The next day I went to meet someone I needed to tell something. It was raining in Williamsburg. Kids ran past McCarren Park smiling, no umbrellas, soaked. I had a little collapsible black thing she gave me last summer when I lived in Brooklyn and we were still seeing each other.
We might yell a heavily-accented “DOMO ARIGATO HAHAHAHAHA” at a man in the subway in Tokyo, but of course, they would know we were not being serious and therefore not judge us on our deaf ear for language.
But there are the fears. And yes, life has gone on without you. And the longer you stay in your new home, the more profound those changes will become.