I would never suggest that Jonathan and I have been through a war -- the comparison would be obscene and grotesque.
But the part about seeing mannequins in a store window bringing "tears to their emigrant eyes" is a sentiment that I can understand. Both Jonathan and I have, for different reasons and at different times, been emigrants and found ourselves very far away from anything familiar. And I know how it can suddenly hit you when you catch a glimpse of something seemingly trivial that reminds you of your life "before." It can make you lose your head, if only for a moment. (I once [very, very briefly] took up with a bunch of Mormon missionaries because I was feeling lonesome and they had American accents. The less said about that, the better, really.)
We are in absolutely no sense refugees. We are choosing to go, consciously searching for "the deep forbidden music we've been longing for." I have always emigrated by choice and in incredibly comfortable and privileged circumstances. But I have still been surprised into tears by the most unexpected things -- a voice, a song, a Snickers bar. You would not think that a package of Twinkies could ever be viewed so tenderly, ever be seen as so precious. But even the most rambunctious and gleeful emigrants may -- in some hidden part of their hearts -- be looking for home.
Last week we had the excitement of signing rental agreements and de-coding Italian bureaucracy. This week we are back to the more mundane reality of cardboard boxes. I said good-bye yesterday to two different friends whom I will most likely never see again. And I, who cries copiously even at long-distance commercials, was completely dry-eyed. I don't think the reality has hit me yet. I will probably break down sobbing in the middle of some Italian grocery store six months from now at the sight of Gatorade. God help me if I run across Kentucky Fried Chicken.
