If I think of the times where in just a split second I instantly just wanted to go home, I can think of three situations.
The first is pretty sensible: my dearest friend got engaged and my sister had her second baby on the same day in March 2011. That was overwhelming, and I just wanted to be stateside to see a ring and hold that sweet little bundle.
The second is absolutely ridiculous: the week I just couldn’t get my hands on the Hunger Games movie; I couldn’t see it in theaters five hours away, I couldn’t find a copy, and I was suddenly so aware of our removal from the society I once knew.
And the third is still too close to evaluate. Last night, I joined a group of girls for football at the local pitch. As we started to play, I quickly realized the common language used on the field wasn’t English. And then as I listened, it wasn’t Thai, or Karen, or Burmese either. It was Spanish.
And I really just wanted to scream.
Another language? Really? I have been working my mind to shreds for Karen, and recently began desperately squeezing minimal Burmese and Thai phrases in between. And now you’re going to shout in Spanish?
It was then that I decided this would be an effective form of imprisonment or torture: place a group of people who don’t speak the same language in a room, or have speakers play conversations in foreign language. I think it breeds insanity.
For the first few minutes of the game I was just running on frustration. Eventually, I settled into the life I’m so familiar with, where I only know a small piece of what is going on, and I loved the game. I’ll be back next week, and I suppose before too long I’ll probably pick up a few Spanish phrases, too.