The Perils of the World Traveler

My yoga teacher just returned from a long tour of India. She left India nearly three weeks ago and she is only just now beginning to feel as though she has landed. Just today, she shared with me some little gifts – and I am currently adorned and bejeweled in the bangliest bracelets, jingly anklets, shining prayer beads and sweetest silk. As I sit on my big couch, laptop perched in front of me, I feel only slightly odd. It is as though I am a time traveler, wearing worn out jeans and brand new silk.

I once lived in Ireland for a semester in college. I loved it all – from sing-a-longs in pubs to quiet prayers in ancient church ruins. The worst part of the trip was coming home. The reverse-culture-shock of it all is a million times more difficult than the original culture shock of a new environment. I remember coming home to the excited embrace of my family and friends, all shouting, “Welcome home!” and it took everything I had to fake a smile and pretend like I was happy to be home.

To this day, there are things that will send me back to my stay across the Atlantic. It could be a familiar jig, the smell of a Guinness or hearing an Irish accent in a movie – but all of which have a 50/50 chance of setting me into tears from happy memories and a desire to visit again.

It makes me wonder, every time I lift my wrist to check for the bindhi on my forehead and I hear my new bangles chime if that sound does the same thing to my teacher, still recovering from her reverse-culture-shock.