Back to Ann Arbor, Michigan, the Athens of the Rust Belt. My internal clock is still situated on a fish-hook peninsula poking off the west coast of Africa, and I wake up before dawn each morning and walk the empty streets through crackling cold. Mist shrouds the town, the thickest I’ve seen since hiking up into the nether-world of Lesotho, and evokes similar feelings of entry into a different realm, a surreal and foreign land. The difference is that this is my place. I spent four years here and can sneak into the dining halls, gyms, and libraries; I know which roofs to climb for the best view; I successfully guess the wifi password of the house I’m staying in on the first try. People I knew stop me on the streets to talk; people at parties say they’ve heard of me. So I know this town. I should be able to fall back into anonymity in this fascinating mass of humanity no problem. But it just doesn’t work like that, and I find myself living the classic story that you’ll hear from many “expat aid workers” that come back to their home country: These returnees have spent a significant chunk of their lives in foreign lands, being constantly thrown into new situations that test their limits and force them to learn new ways to interact with themselves and the world. Through this process, they feel themselves concretely progressing- logistics and trips that seemed impenetrably difficult to organize have become possible and then easy, difficult interactions have become smooth, a new gumption and vitality has made itself known. The progress has led to deep personal satisfaction; the experience has been rich, and the returnees cannot wait to use these newfound skills and stories in their own countries. But when they get home, these returnees are frustrated. The restaurant menus have too many options and people talk too fast. No one understands their stories and it is unclear whether the skills that were so effective abroad will have any application. A certain activity level on the street, a spark of community connection, is missing. Moreover, the returnees are viewed differently by society than they were abroad. They are no longer motivated foreigners who clearly have some kind of purpose, expertise, reason to be there; now they are simply normal people, locals, part of the anonymous mass, not inherently interesting. That’s the story you hear, anyway. I’m not sure how much of it I experienced. It certainly felt challenging in some ways to be home, but it’s never easy to parse one’s own feelings, especially during a hectic once-in-who-knows-how-long home visit full of rushed meetings with friends, one-hour Salvation Army runs meant to supply clothes for the next several years, and quality family time. It was fun, and surreal, and humbling. I told most people who asked that I’m still learning and finding adventure abroad, and I’ll keep this life going for as long as that doesn’t change. MH