Home Part 3

After nearly a month in Mozambique, life is finally settling into somewhat of a stable rhythm. I don't want to say routine - because there is certainly nothing ordinary or predictable about the people and projects that fill my days and keep my mind whirring at night - but I am definitely beginning to feel grounded. It's almost ludicrous, really, that I should feel so stable right now. Every last detail of my life is different than it was two months ago, and I am still very much a stranger in a strange land. It's the little details, however, that make the difference and allow me to already feel completely at home in this new setting.

Home is the time I spend each evening sweating on the treadmill, pounding my feet and trying desperately to forget about the red digital clock in front of me. I absolutely hate running on a treadmill, but Ricardo and I have made it somewhat of a ritual and I must admit that I've come to savor those 45 minutes of solitude. I've learned to completely zone out as I run, putting my legs on auto-pilot and letting my mind free-associate. It's a time of reflection, planning, and intense saudades for all that I've left behind.

Last night as I ran, I thought of my girlfriends back in Austin: driving around in Marlen's jeep with my hair blowing in the wind; early morning walks along the river with Jamie and the dogs; making caipirinhas and watching the Ivete Sangalo DVD at Leticia and Bruna's house; night after ri-donk-u-lous night with Erin. I thought about my mom and all of our nicknames for each other. I remembered lazy afternoons at my dad's house, the tv on in the background even through nobody was watching.

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Home is the familiar array of bath and body products in the shower. Burt's Bees toothpaste and face scrub and carrot body spray. Organic shampoo and mint conditioner. The same purple pick I've used for over a decade to untangle my hair.

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Home is the way Ricardo and BL and I talk shit to each other in carioca slang portuguese. Nearly four years had passed since we last hung out in Brasil, yet we didn't skip a beat. I feel as comfortable with them now as I did back then, barhopping in Copacabana and having bizarre adventures. We drink beer and insult each other and invent stupid games to pass the time. Monday night we had an impromptu party that ended up with shots of Drambuie, carnaval music, and dancing around the living room in our pajamas. The familiarity of a solid friendships, more than anything, has made me feel at home here.

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It's raining in Chimoio, the first storm since I set foot in Africa. Home is the smell of wet concrete, red dirt turned to mud on the soles of my shoes. Jemez to Maringa to Chimoio; it all comes full circle.