...Just one more year...

I am addicted to living abroad. I’m not proud of that, nor am I even sure of my reasons. To be honest, I’m a little nervous that they are part of a vortex addiction to adventure. It’s not like every day in Lebanon, Palestine or Iraq is straight out of an Indiana Jones flick; but let’s be honest: the most mundane days are still a series of small adventures. Going for a run, getting a taxi to my tutoring gig, walking down the street to buy vegetables, finding a decent dentist to remove my wisdom tooth. There isn’t a Wal Mart down the road that I can drive to in my Prius. My daily existence takes effort – and balls!

 

I suspected my addiction ever since I moved back to the US from a brief stint Palestine, only to get a job on Capitol Hill and nearly drown in boredom every time a transportation bill dominated my week.

 

….So I quit my high potential government job to be an unpaid intern in post-war Lebanon.

 

My concern grew a little bit when, instead of coming home as planned after the internship ended, I started looking for jobs – anywhere and everywhere – that would keep me in the Levant region.

 

…So I signed a full time contract to stay in Lebanon for a year.

 

But it was all confirmed when the end of that year approached and I became more and more uneasy about the prospects of going back to the good old US.

 

…So I took a job for an even lower salary than the one I was currently scraping by on. Just so I could continue living in the Middle East.

 

Fortunately for me (and my poor bank account), I didn’t actually have to stick to making beans for pay. Instead, I ended up moving to Iraqi Kurdistan for a much higher salary and a change – of sorts – in scenery.

 

 

 

The pattern has become clear: every time its “time to go home,” I get about 60% of the way there and then start backpeddling until I’ve squirmed out a way to stay. And each time it’s for ‘just for more year.’

 

So here I am, a full 2.5 years after leaving home (I’ve never lived in the US while Obama was president), and again I’m at a crossroads. This time the stakes are a little bit higher. This time its graduate school luring me back to normalcy. As usual, I’ve done my part of the “going home” process: in the past it was just giving my employers the notice, telling all my friends and family I was coming, even looking at flights and lining up interviews for my return to the West (all ultimately followed by a 180 reversal and deciding to stay). THIS time, however, its applications: I’ve invested upwards of $300 in submission fees and lattes, not to mention the time and carpel tunnel syndrome from essay-production, and ended up with complete applications to six of the top Middle Eastern politics programs in the world[1]. I was SO relieved when the last “submit” button was pushed and I checked off the final personal statement from my list. The next chapter in my life, perhaps the highest form of education I will achieve, had started rolling.

 

And yet I find myself writing this email to my friends and family:

 

 

 

 

 

Whats my deal? Am I permanently doing this expat thing? Am I really always going to talk and never going to go home? Every time I get close to leaving the Middle East, I find some way – be it crazy or sane – to hang on a little longer. I’m addicted to living abroad, I’m addicted to the Middle East, and I’m scared shitless (sorry, man) of going home. SCARED. TO. DEATH. So here I go again, doing everything to prepare but deep down in my heart of hearts already knowing that I’ll probably try to buy myself more time when it comes right down to it.

 

My amazing mother, to whom I owe all my success and happiness – seriously – writes this back:

 

 

 

 

OK, aside from the really REALLY bizarre reference to my biological clock (which sort of irritated and completely surprised me, especially coming from MY mom) – that was basically what I expected. She definitely isn’t thrilled about it, but she gets it. She gets me. And, as always, she tells me what the answer on paper is – that I really should get my butt back home – but then confirms her confidence that I know what I’m doing and that my life really is my own. Which she and I both know is something to cherish and cling to.

 

Like most of my seemingly erratic obsessions (Nepal, fiber, calendars and shampoos – just to name a few), I’m going to have to just embrace this. This addiction to…whatever – expat life, the Middle East, daily adventures, political turmoil, or just simply NOT being in the US – is completely OK. Whatever it is, it is my passion, my choice, my LIFE. It is very clearly who I am, and every single decision I’ve made since the moment I graduated from college have confirmed and reconfirmed that I belong exactly where I am. I’m ridiculously happy. I’m learning, I’m contributing, I’m becoming. I’m staying.

 

Just for one more year. J

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