my hometown

It is weird when you live away from where you grew up.  You miss it so intensely while you are away but then when you return, you feel a bit out of place.  I remember my university’s study abroad office calling this “reverse culture shock.”  Whatever it is called, it is a tricky ailment to deal with.  There are no medications or bandages to alive this feeling of “weirdness,” I guess all you can do is try to enjoy each moment, whatever the location, and not try to wish it were something else.

My mom took Pablo and I to the Eiteljorg museum in Indianapolis.  The “Jingle Rails” exhibit was phenomenal.  Little miniatures of Indianapolis and the Great West made from tiny sticks and bits of wood.  It was like tangible nostalgia.  I wish I could put that little replica in my suitcase and carry my little hometown with me wherever I go.  I could just pull it out, walk around The Circle, eat a corndog at the State Fair, and check out a football game in the fancy new stadium.  Then, when I’ve had my fill, I could put it back, waiting for me for when I shall miss it.