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I held my breath as the plane hovered over the runway, only to exhale when I felt and heard the tire hit the asphalt. My father and I high-fived. We were in the United States of America. We were home. 

I became ecstatic entering the airport with all the signs reading in English. After two months in which I was constant dependent for translation, these signs filled me with triumph. I could resume being a completely independent, functional human being again! 

I whispered a chant of the national anthem as we emerged from the airport out into the pouring rain. It was much warmer than Poland. If I’d been living in India instead of Poland for the last two months, I’d probably regard the pouring rain as a sign of bad luck for our return, but the constant rain in Poland that occurred no matter bliss or suffering taught me otherwise. 

While sitting in a bus on the way home, gazing outside the windows that dripped with rain drops and watching the familiar landscape of the passing highway felt right. There’s no other way to describe it. I wasn’t excited to be on the highway, I was excited to see the people I loved. I was excited to reunite with my favorite meals and my own bed. But on the highway it wasn’t elation, it was just content. I felt content and safe. 

Suddenly, when I thought about Poland on that highway and when I plopped onto my own bed in my own room that night, it felt as if it were all a dream. As if I had never left, just somehow escaped into a joyous, extraordinary slumber and now I was graciously awoken by my mother’s Halloween decorations. 

But as much as the trees and familiar streets attempt to deceive me, I have not missed just one night of sleep. Much time has passed. And with this time, much has changed. I find it somewhat scary how much can change in sixty five days. Not so much the landscapes, but how much occurs in people’s lives. It feels as if I have almost become a stranger to some who I didn’t keep in touch with while in Poland.

It also feels as if I live in two different worlds. I am the same human being in each, but with a complete different life: living with mom vs. dad, living in house vs. apartment, suburban town vs. city, car vs. public transport and walking, surrounded by trees vs. skyscrapers. I regard both as my home just with different definitions. Massachusetts is the physical definition of home with a town and family, while Poland seems to be a home with people.

As much as I loved the vegetables and the people of Poland, I love the feeling of my own bed, reading in my own room, petting my dog, hugging the few people I missed, walking into my favorite coffee shop, feeling the salty air and wind of the ocean, seeing the miles of trees and land, and eating pumpkin pie more. 

After all, I have lived in the same radius of fifteen miles all my life besides these sixty five days. And even if I don’t feel completely connected with these fifteen miles, and rather more connected with my life across the ocean, these fifteen miles comfort me in my short visit. These fifteen miles are my home.