My breath hangs in the air, frozen but alive, twisting and turning into shapes unknown before disappearing into the cold Nepali atmosphere. A hot cup of tea warms me from the inside out as I step into the morning light. The sun is coming up on this Nepali rooftop, and I can see colorful Kathmandu come alive. The elderly and young alike bundled up in colorful knits and sweaters soaking in the warmth of a new morning.
Once she knows she has my attention, she rushes out the door again, knowing I will always give in to the chase. Her little legs expertly navigate her way through the Indian prostitutes and the lifeless clients that follow them. At last, I catch her, hugging her tightly while she wiggles and giggles, until she squeezes me back. I think that maybe if I can hold her long enough, my arms will say what my words never can, that she is never alone.
Music blares and flashing lights blind, tourists flood the street in search of some sort of fulfillment. Thai girls dance on bars to the same song, night after night, hoping to get picked by a wealthy westerner. They have vain hopes that the purchase of one night can lead to a lifetime of happiness. It’s a backwards solution to the emptiness they feel.
I concentrate on taking a breath every third stroke, my eyes hazy with the chemicals in the water, they do not notice my new visitors. I finally surface to an eruption of dancing and clapping. Twenty Cambodian children have hopped the fence to cheer on their new hero, the crazy white girl that swims and swims. Small splashes transform the surface of the water as they throw their school supplies in the pool to show their admiration. Smiles and laughter make me feel more buoyant than the water I float in.
There is this perfume, Madagascar Vanilla, that I bought in South Africa right before New Year’s in South Africa. Today, I put it on again, and while everyone else tells me it smells like Oreos, to me it smells like something entirely different.
It smells, to me, like living.
As I put it on, all of those memories came rushing back like a freight train, staggering me where I stood. It awakened something in me that had begun to slumber.
For the last year, I found myself in the most extraordinary of settings, new homes, new families, new professions each month in 11 different countries. My agenda was simple, to show that extravagant love has no bounds, that it loves the beggar, the business man, the prostitute, the criminal and the orphan, fully.
There is something about the comfortable life of America that is like quicksand, pulling you under into complacency before you even have a chance to register what is happening.
Why did my dreams feel so much bigger when I was living abroad?
Maybe it was the rice and beans that I ate every day, or the squatty potties and all the critters that came with it. Maybe it was the refreshing bucket showers or the adventures of public transportation. Maybe it was because every day was so unpredictable, the day could lead you to a trash heap or an orphanage or a hospital, but I never seemed to live the same day twice.
When I sleep in a bed that is entirely too big for a single girl, or when I get to have a whole bathroom all to myself. When I can indulge in any food under the sun, and when it’s a challenge to find a place without Internet. When I start to forget what a cockroach looks like or drive a reliable car where everyone predictably follows traffic laws. When I’m comfortable, that’s when my heart is the least at peace.
