Yesterday, I said goodbye to my family at Heathrow. I cried the length of the Piccadilly line on my way back and curled up on the couch to watch videos of a baby polar bear to make myself feel better.
It never gets easier.
After three weeks of adventures, which included dining at Duck & Waffle, sampling escargot in Paris, shopping for chocolate in Bruges, playing Apples to Apples at Christmas dinner, and watching the new Star Wars movie in Walthamstow - I woke up from a nap thinking that my family's visit was all a dream. The house, once busy and full, was now quiet, still.
Every time, it's the same: my parents go, and I'm left with the gifts they spoiled me with during their visit. This time, it was the congee my mom helped me cook, the eggs my dad made the night before to go with it (which I promptly ate while sobbing into my bowl), a completely new set of tableware from Heal's still in their bags, and practically a new wardrobe from COS, which my mom and I had picked out together.
I look at all these things and cry some more.
Once they leave, I comb the house for something they might have left behind. Anything to remind me of their stay. But my mother had stripped the bed and put the sheets in the wash, so I resorted to picking through their trash for remnants: receipts, ticket stubs, and discarded shopping bags. I only brightened up in the shower when I noticed that she'd left her shower cap behind. I carefully folded it and tucked it away, saving it for future visits.
As someone who has lived abroad for almost 10 years, I can tell you that saying goodbye at the airport never, ever gets easier. You think it would, but it doesn't. I suppose the hardest part about yesterday was the realization that I didn't want to go back with them; rather, I just wanted them to stay with me.
The thought of returning to the small hometown I grew up in after our fantastic time in London, Paris, and Bruges depressed me.
I realized that I belonged here. In the city. In my house. The one with the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall and the kitchen that makes no sense and the upstairs shower that doesn't work.
And that made me sad. Happy, but sad. Happy that I've found that feeling of "home" I've been searching for, but sad that it cemented the fact I'll probably always live far from my family.
Saying goodbye is always the hardest part. The best we can do as expats is to remind ourselves that "next time" is not too far away.
Season's greetings to you, and to your nearest and dearest - and a very happy new year.
xo
I look at all these things and cry some more.
Once they leave, I comb the house for something they might have left behind. Anything to remind me of their stay. But my mother had stripped the bed and put the sheets in the wash, so I resorted to picking through their trash for remnants: receipts, ticket stubs, and discarded shopping bags. I only brightened up in the shower when I noticed that she'd left her shower cap behind. I carefully folded it and tucked it away, saving it for future visits.
As someone who has lived abroad for almost 10 years, I can tell you that saying goodbye at the airport never, ever gets easier. You think it would, but it doesn't. I suppose the hardest part about yesterday was the realization that I didn't want to go back with them; rather, I just wanted them to stay with me.
The thought of returning to the small hometown I grew up in after our fantastic time in London, Paris, and Bruges depressed me.
I realized that I belonged here. In the city. In my house. The one with the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall and the kitchen that makes no sense and the upstairs shower that doesn't work.
And that made me sad. Happy, but sad. Happy that I've found that feeling of "home" I've been searching for, but sad that it cemented the fact I'll probably always live far from my family.
Saying goodbye is always the hardest part. The best we can do as expats is to remind ourselves that "next time" is not too far away.
Season's greetings to you, and to your nearest and dearest - and a very happy new year.
xo