I understand his confusion. Our lives are shaped by this tension, the sense of not quite belonging, of not being sure what ‘home’ means anymore. Are we Australian or American? Officially we are both even if our hearts are not always so certain. We still talk about flying ‘home’, yet in many ways we are very much at home right here.
|Arriving at SFO to fly 'home'|
On Sundays I do my best to sneak out early and grab a New York Times. The Sunday edition is the equivalent of the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald, with magazines and book reviews and op eds galore. In the afternoon we head to Pho, just like we used to on a Saturday afternoon in Sydney.
It is like our Australian weekend in reverse except for all the people that are missing. And that is the hardest part, the one aspect of our life here for which there is no fix. So unless teleporting becomes a reality, or somebody invents those stairs to Australia, I will continual to feel I have arrived 'home' each time the wheels first touch the runway at either end of that long flight between Sydney and San Francisco.