The end of a school year is always bittersweet – saying goodbye to colleagues moving on or away, cleaning out classrooms, changing year groups. It’s especially challenging when you teach in an international school and city because people – both the me-sized ones and the tiny humans – are constantly moving away from Hong Kong, and saying ‘goodbye’ is something I am clinically terrible at. Two of my really good friends were moving this year – one to a different school and one to GERMANY, and even though I’ve been back in session for seven weeks already this year, I still look up whenever someone comes to the lunch room in expectation, or look for their bemused expressions in staff meetings.

The balance of that sadness is that you get SO excited for summer. I was thrilled to be going home. I splurged on a helper to come check my plants and take care of my fish and make sure mold didn’t grow over everything in my flat while I was gone, which eased my mind. And after some tearful hugs on the last day of school, Maggie came over to help me drink wine and really pack for a month away. Because I had thrown out my back playing volleyball just a few weeks prior, I had been really worried about the 14+ hours on a plane and splurged for a nicer seat and oh my word. How will I ever be able to return and sit amongst the peasants again?! Priority boarding, special utensils, wider seats, extra foot room, SLIPPERS?! It was luxury and it was oh so worth it. I actually SLEPT (helps the 15 hour jetlag difference) and was mostly pain-free, which made all the difference. Mom and Gma and the puppies picked me up at landing, always the nicest, and thus began another summer of spoils.

I indulged in my favorite hobby – doing nothing in the backyard. Thinking about nothing. Answering zero emails, making zero plans. Letting my brain go smooth. Many an hour was spent gloriously lounging, with the only thoughts being “what shall I read next? What shall I eat next?” The puppies followed me everywhere around the house as I lounged from one sitting space to the next. I walked my trail in the mornings and then took the pups around the neighborhood with a road soda at night, indulging in another favorite suburban activity I never understood when I was younger – looking at other people’s houses and telling fast cars to slow the heck down.

We got delightfully small town on Fourth of July, setting up our chairs in primo location the night before so that we had the first glimpses of eighty-five baseball teams, every community club, some great local bands, the last veterans and relics of several wars, and candy throwing by real estate agents. Then my parentals had their annual party in the backyard and it hit all the right American notes. BBQ and potato salad and pool time and game perfection.

What I had most been looking forward to was visiting my sister, niece and nephew! Sutton and I had only met via Facetime, and I couldn’t wait to spoil her and become best friends. We had several days at a waterpark hotel village with both my mom and dad, and even got to have a grown up night out with my sister and brother-in-law. It was nonstop fun and also exhausting, and we crashed back at the house for two days afterwards until I had to go, rising only to play endless golf, watch Handyman Hal videos on Youtube, and be generally cute.

A very lucky coincidence was that my favorite band since I was about 13 years old, Better than Ezra, was going on tour, and performing in California when I was also there. I’ve seen them about six times, but not in at least ten years! We made a girls weekend of it in Napa and even got to talk to the bassist and drummer, and I definitely did not totally dork out and fangirl all over them. Nope. Not me. I would never. 

The whirlwind summer wrapped up with a week in Chicago to marry my best friend. Well, technically, officiate her wedding to an entirely different person, but same-same. The English language is complicated. Ry and I have been through everything together since we met in my freshman dorm room at UCSB. It was so special to be with her, our other bestie who lives in Uruguay, and have a weeklong sleepover, catching up in the same room for the first time in six years, along with her husband and two kids. During the week, I saw friends I hadn’t seen in years, toured a bit of Chicago, watched “Free Willy,” as one does with a three year old, went bug hunting in the backyard, solved all the problems of the world over bottles of wine, laughed and cried and snuggled. It was beautiful. 

I woke up the day after the wedding with a text message from Ry that she’d tested positive for Covid. A classic American story. So I quarantined myself in my basement room until I could test, and masked up for my horrific flight on Frontier Airlines (where i don’t think you can even drink water without a fee) to spend a final 24 hours at home, panic packing, eating Mexican food, and snuggling the dogs. 

I went through my mom’s pantry and linen closet, grabbing things I thought she wouldn’t miss but that I really wanted (sauces, spices, cake mix, a particular tea towel with a bee on it). I took the puppies on one final neighborhood walk – peeking into windows and speculating about neighbors’ lives while sipping on a craft IPA I’d swiped from my stepdad. I lounged by the pool and soaked up the goodness of space – sky without buildings or balconies full of laundry, the absence of honking, spitting, crowds, engines gunning, trams running, random dingings.

There are many other things I love about being ‘home’ in the States . . . tacos, to start. But also just the familiarity of places. I’ve lived abroad for ten years now, but still crave a Rite Aid or Target to walk through. The confidence in ordering food, or movie tickets, or giving an address to a cabbie. And also feeling like a normal size. In Hong Kong, I can’t fit into a men’s extra-large slipper or shorts or shirts. I’ve been turned out of stores with “nothing for you.” And just walking on the streets, I’m very aware that I’m larger than the average woman here. But in the States, I’m a normal size, so for 30 days of the year, I get to shop for clothes in stores and blend in with the population, instead of being constantly asked if I’m with child. I get to feel like I have a chance on Tinder and Bumble. It’s nice.

My last 24 hours before takeoff are always a big hit of emotions. Impending grief for the life I will miss while I’m away, excitement to get back to my friends and my own space and routines. Worry that something Dreadful will happen while I’m gone. Relief that I don’t have to deal with the day to day drama that is living so close to family, in the area where my parents and I went to junior high and high school, where we are so connected and bound to run into people everywhere we go. 

I’ve been consistently traveling for over twenty years, lived abroad for ten, so you would THINK that I would be able to calmly handle packing, but no. I freak OUT, make and cancel plans, pack and unpack, weigh and rearrange, squirrel things away in drawers to take back next time. All I want to do is eat nachos and cuddle my dogs and watch Dr Quinn dvds I found under the bed. I stare deep into puppy eyes and feed them treats and try to communicate that I AM coming back and if they could just figure out Facetime, it wouldn’t be so bad. I get small and fragile and illogical and I want my mom to take care of me and my grandma to take me to Target. It’s a real regression for a few hours – unable to make decisions beyond “yeah, pepperoni pizza. I think. Definitely beer and ice cream.”

Then there is the drive to the airport. Sometimes I like to book a cheeky Uber and just rip off the Bandaid – once we get going and there’s nothing left I can say or do to delay the inevitable that I’m leaving again, it’s a bit of a relief, with no big airport goodbyes while some SFO officer screams at you to move the car. Saying “lets just not think about it” as you hug mom/grandma/auntie, cuddling your dog and trying to deeply embed your scent into their memory. 

And then I walk away, shoving 150 pounds of luggage and lots of paperwork and have to go business mode for an hour or so – security, visa, passport, customs, long walk, 14 hours flight and then the reverse. It’s not fun. And every year I wonder why I keep doing it, what keeps me abroad, how I can stand to be away, wondering what it will take for family to come visit and see what my life is like here, readjusting to humidity and a cold culture, suffocating in the dumpster fire that is trying to date in Hong Kong, the carousel of adaptions that is international education and catering to rich expats and their kids coming off three years of Covid learning environments.

Fourteen-something hours on a plane gives you plenty of time to try and sort all these thoughts. I’ll have them coherent by the next blog post. Maybe. Likely not. But I hope you come back anyway. :)