The Paradox of Homesickness

I know, I know, I am not supposed to even mention homesickness. It has become a four letter word in my vocabulary. One that I am supposed to guard myself against but it has gotten to the point where if I failed to mention it, I would be doing a grave injustice to the whole Peace Corps experience and my attempt to share it. Homesickness is a study in contradictions. There are moments when I would give my right arm to go back to Blacksburg, Virginia and enjoy a sunny day on the Lefty's patio, surrounded by my friends, family and sweet dog, Murphy. After a short trip to the luxuries of Target, I would lace up my boots and hike to the top of a mountain. Lord, it would be a good day. On the other hand, despite not having to give up an arm, it is also a dream to spend the afternoon swimming in the ocean with new friends, dancing the night away with my newly discovered hips or looking up DaBrat videos while I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter with my closest companion here. You see, you can manage to be overwhelmed with joy while still being torn at the heart. I think this means that I am one lucky girl.

I find this paradox keenly felt when I eat soup. Now, I already know what you are thinking, "You eat soup there?! Isn't it 90 degrees everyday?" Yes, it is hot here but soup is a staple. The school makes soup so good on Thursdays that I have already begun the emotional preparation for the summer when I will have to live without it for eight weeks. I also enjoyed my fair share of soup while I was in the states. Chili, broccoli cheddar, Hokie House's frozen concoctions; I loved them all. As I was eating a cup of Callalou(green sort of like spinach) soup (no spoon, just cup) this past Saturday it got me to thinking. I was trying to navigate the green minefield; looking out for delightful dumplings and wondering what part of the goat had landed in my cup. Then I remembered a nice hearty bowl of chicken noodle where there were no questions about what part of the meat I was eating and spoons were readily accessible. Sure, I missed the chicken noodle but I was plum happy in the earthy, mystery flavors of the Callalou. Somewhere between the noodles and the goat lies the truth of this experience. You must adjust, you have to learn to love the Callalou to the point where you are buying bags of it but you don't ever forget how to mix eggs and flour to just the right consistency so that you have the most heart-mending bowl of chicken noodle. There will be days when you want the new stuff and others when you just want the old familiar but most of the time, I find myself trying to strike a balance and adding homemade noodles to the pot of Callalou.