Che Mi Manca

Up until this week, I had experienced close to zero homesickness. It was actually a little weird how much I hadn't though about my life in Portland, but for some unforeseeable reason, Sunday morning while Skyping my mom, the tears started pouring out. At first, I had no idea why I was upset, which was bad for my poor mother, sitting on the other end of the computer, assuming the worst, but she and I both know that all of the important aspects of my exchange have gone flawlessly. I have been integrated into my family, school, and town with few complaints or mishaps. I really thought I had nothing to be upset about and that I was just being a tired, whiny little baby, who needed to go back to bed and count her blessings.

Maybe that was a little bit true, but upon further reflection and few more hours of sleep, I've realized that it's acceptable and natural to feel deprived as long as I don't feel that way all the time and let it take over my experience. It's okay if I get intense cravings for soy sauce during my 127th bowl of pasta this month. It's okay if during my Latin test I feel like crying because translating the word "silvae," brings to mind the damp, fresh smell of Oregon forests in spring. It's even more okay if I really just want a warm hug from my mom or to spend Sunday grocery shopping with my dad. My desires are fine because I know all of these things will be waiting for me when I get back. Here, I have to appreciate that the 127th bowl of pasta is just as delicious and perfectly al dente as the first and the 401st. The trees smell like citrus and are always covered with yellow and orange fruit. I get hugs from people who are practically strangers just because they felt like hugging me, and on Sunday, I can go to the open air market with my host dad or spend an hour drinking coffee and trying to explain the Easter bunny to my host mom.