Finally, after months of paperwork and stress and many wasted dollars, Kristina has arrived in the USA! I took a bus to meet her in New York City.* We stayed there for three days so she could see some of the city. We had a great time but she suddenly became very sick and we nearly weren’t able to take our scheduled flight home. In the end, she bit the bullet, took the flight and even made it to a family reunion the next day. She’s my little soldier.
We’re very happy to be in Buffalo and finally feel relaxed. We still need to get married, start the process for me to become a Swiss resident and plan a cross-country road trip but now that we’re together again, everything seems much easier.
Welcome to the USA, my baby!

*Traveler’s Tip: Never take Megabus if you have to be somewhere on time.

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Home. What does it mean? It’s such a simple word and, at first glance, a simple idea; as if it’s something absolute like “up” or “apple”. It’s just where you live, right? How long do you have to live there? Can you have more than one? How does family play into it?  These are questions I’ve pondered very often over the last few years as travelling constantly challenged my concept of “home”. Kristina and I have also spoken  a lot about home, lately. We are trying to begin a new life together and because of circumstances out of our control, we haven’t had much say in where we live in the past six months and it’s been a major source of stress for us. Finally, since announcing that I’m returning to Buffalo, people have been asking how it feels to be going home and this question has tripped me up every time. I couldn’t really find an answer, only more questions. “Is that home?”  “How do I feel about it?” I’m probably over-thinking it but it’s been such a recurring theme that I had to write about it.

As it turns out, everyone’s definition is different and mine is still evolving. The last three years have had a huge impact on my version of “home”. More and more the childlike image of a square with a triangle on top is giving way to a fuzzy Picasso.

“Wherever you go, there you are.” – ?

I have found that, for me, there is a definite correlation between how comfortable I feel and whether or not a place feels like home. Perhaps they’re even one and the same. When I was younger, like most kids I had some issues and I felt most at home in my room and not even always there.  As I got older, I moved out and could make a place feel like home after my stuff was around me and I got used to the place. While on the road I was proud to tell people that “Home is where I open my bag.”  Why this change? I’m convinced it’s because I became more comfortable with myself and the more comfortable you are in your own skin, the more easily you can feel at home regardless of where it is or who is there…or not there.

With that said….

Here I am, back in my “hometown” of Buffalo, New York, USA after three years of being in Europe and the adventure is showing no signs of stopping. I felt a bit like James Bond while leaving Europe. I never renewed my resident permit like I was supposed on account of not expecting to ever care so for two years I was in Europe illegally.  This is something they have no idea about until you try to leave. If they looked closely at my passport they would have seen that the last stamp I had was from three years ago. They could detain me and make me miss my flight, they could make it difficult for me to ever come back, they could fine me or any combination. This is partly why I left from Paris. The Latin countries are known for being a bit lazy when it comes to checking this stuff. Nevertheless, I was very proud of my performance. I played it off very cool and gave them overly complex answers so they would tired of speaking to me. I was so satisfied with myself that I decided to go through a second time! As it turned out, I had forgot to put my multi-tool into my checked bag. I wasn’t about to give it up so I was escorted out of the secure area so that I could find a solution to the problem. It would cost another $100 to check my other bag and the post office was closed. Believe it or not, the rep  told me to simply ask a passenger who still had bags to check if they would put it in their bag and give back in NYC. As an American I was shocked by this. “Really?!” I said with a stupid smile. “OK”. There was only one couple in line at the moment. “Excuse me, are you American?” They answered “Yes” already looking skeptical of the scary stranger with the big beard. I simply could not convince them to take my tool for me. I held it out in my hand, “Look! You can see what it is. How could it be something dangerous?!” At this moment I realized how paralyzed Americans have become by the “War on Terror”. To the Europeans, it just made sense to give it to someone else. To the Americans, it was a bomb! Defeated, I thought of one final option. If all goes well, Kristina will be passing through this same airport in a couple months so I slyly stashed it in a potted plant and rand to catch my flight. As I had hoped, the customs agent simply looked at the stamp that the other officer had given me and let me through again. As I walked onto my flight, I thought “Wolf…Bill Wolf…Bitches”

Three years is a long time and I was actually hit with a bit of a culture shock on my way home. The first major difference I noticed was the commercials on the plane. They were speaking to me! AHHHHH! For three years I could ignore advertisements easily because they were in another language. It was the only benefit of not speaking the language. Now they aren’t  just speaking to me, they’re YELLING AT ME!, too. Next was the squirrels in New York City. I know this sounds strange but the squirrels in Europe are super shy. You hardly ever see them. Then there was the e-cigarettes. Everybody has them! It seems so Sci-Fi to me like I’m in The Hunger Games. And finally, the beards. When I left three years ago, I thought the beard trend was already fading but it seems that everybody and their mother has a beard now. I like it. When I’m speaking aloud in public I still might glance around to see if anyone is looking at me funny because of my American English. The three years of absence must have made my heart grow fonder because I felt nostalgic when I first saw the city. It’s looking pretty good! The best part of being back is without a doubt seeing my family and friends again. It’s strange to be away from your family for so long that you can actually see the difference in age. My nieces and nephews have practically become adults. I’m sure they see the age difference in me, too.

But it’s bittersweet to be back in the Buf. Because of some amazing, ridiculous and very stressful complications, the love of my life could not come with me. She had to celebrate her birthday without me. I had to go to a wedding without her. I missed her very much during the July 4th fireworks and countless other moments. It’s quite a long story why and I will spare you the details but the lesson we learned is that truth doesn’t always set you free; especially when it comes to government agencies. (The anger and frustration of that experience is what left me with few qualms about lying to the customs agents when I flew out of Paris.) Now, Kristina has her second interview at the American Embassy in Bern on the 21st. If all goes well, we will be united on the 23rd in New York City. I can’t reenter Europe for another two months so if they deny her again then we will have to meet in some other country. The only thing that’s certain is I won’t sleep easy until we are together again.

The adventure continues…

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