Time to Go Home

Summers are for vacations: time to recharge, kick back, and unwind…except that for expatriate families, summer can also bring a new and strange stress: a long chunk of time. What to do with that time seems obvious to some families – go HOME.

Sounds good, doesn’t it? Reconnect with family and friends. Visit old stomping grounds. Eat your favorite foods. You booked the plane tickets and you’ve packed.

The plane lands. Customs is confusing. For the first time, you question where it is you belong: in the line for residents or for those from another country? You’re both – where is that line? You choose the resident line and, to your relief, you’ve chosen correctly.

You didn’t ask anyone to pick you up at the airport. You’ll want a car anyway, so you’ve rented one. You don’t expect the pang of envy you feel at watching families greet one another as your group winds its way through the airport alone.

Finally, you herd three sleepy children out of the terminal. The first thing you notice is that the signage is all in your native tongue, and almost simultaneously it registers as both wonderful and strange. You hear conversations taking place between others. Even though it occurs to you that you are eavesdropping, you lean in a little closer. For the last year, you’ve spent more time alone than you ever have in your life. Travelling on buses and trains, the conversations of others hold no significance to you – they merely serve as white noise behind the thoughts in your head.

The line moves forward, and twenty minutes later, you find yourself standing in the bright sunshine, although your body clock says it is much later. You breathe in the unmistakable scent of home and your clothes begin to wilt and stick to your tired body. You scan the rows of rental cars, find yours, load luggage, and buckle kids in.

Despite having been fed more times than necessary on the plane, the kids complain that they are hungry. You agree on a pizza spot close to home, though by the time you get there, it has closed for the evening. Disappointed, you hit the nearest drive-through – something you haven’t done for (exactly) a year. The coffee you’ve yearned for, the familiar, sweet, milky coffee in a styrofoam cup – the coffee you’ve had hundreds of times – tastes the same. But as you swirl it around in your mouth, you realize that you no longer prefer this brew and you miss the coffee from home…your OTHER home. Your home away from home. Things are getting confusing.

You pull into the driveway. The house is dark. It’s late. A friend has left air mattresses on the back porch, as you’d arranged. Lights turned on, the house becomes at once comforting and unfamiliar. Most of the furniture is gone: it’s sitting in an apartment without you thousands of miles away. That’s OK. You bustle around settling kids and unloading luggage; then you all collapse. No one brushes teeth.

The morning brings bright sunshine and the promise of an exciting day. Friends trickle in and family members swing by with doughnuts. A dozen different doughnuts. The kids have made do with one kind for a long while now. Your doorbell rings announcing a delivery from the grocery store. Bags and bags are unloaded: everyone’s favorites. It’s like Christmas, only the gifts are all edible.

The pool has been opened and glistens a bright blue in the back yard. Like moths to a flame, the kids throw on suits and jump in. You watch while dragging out patio furniture that had been stored. Some fresh cushions would be nice. Later, you drive to the local store that carries odds and ends, the one where you got the last patio loungers. You park and grab your bag. Open the car door and notice that the store is gone. Just gone. Windows are papered over. You wonder why no one told you. A friend apologizes and then quickly tries to fill you in on what else has changed: the new yogurt shop, the bank that closed. The new bakery, but “Don’t go there, it’s not very good.” You sigh.

The weeks fly by. Barbecues with family and friends. Visits to favorite places. But something is nagging at you – a feeling of being disconnected and feeling separate from family and friends. Your kids are beginning to look a little frazzled, dazed by all the attention and the summer of gluttony. It’s been a feast of family and friends. Then one morning your daughter announces that she wants to go HOME.

And like Thanksgiving dinner, after you’ve spent weeks preparing and days cooking and feeling festive, by the evening of Thanksgiving Day, you’re ready to clean things up. You want to restore your home to order and settle in for a quiet evening nursing a hangover of sorts. You begin to look forward to returning to your new life.

You want to get back to your life that centers on your nuclear family, where you control the well-meaning indulgences given your kids. After a year of non-stop togetherness, you’ve missed them in their endless round of summer sleepovers. And you realize something so profound that it almost shakes you. This move that you once wept over and felt a hundred different emotions about (but not one of them was something you’d have called grateful) has become the biggest gift you were ever given.

Your family has become centered and grounded in a way you’d never experienced before. Time slowed down, and though you’ll never enjoy cooking, you appreciate the fact that you have time for it. Time to make meals, time to drive the kids to school. Time for yourself. And now, it’s time to go home.

Enjoy your visits home, wherever they may be. 

By Jennifer Dziekan

Jennifer and her family have lived in Switzerland for three years. A high school guidance counselor on sabbatical, Jennifer has hosted many guests and hasn’t had a complaint yet.

Illustration by Laura Munteanu

Laura has studied Journalism and Advertising, and has been working as a journalist and an illustrator. She has been illustrating for magazines, websites, charity and diverse campaigns. She lives in Zurich with her husband and six-year-old daughter.