A young woman walks out of a mud hut and is struck with the afternoon sun. A heavy bead of sweat rolls down her dark face, but she does not slow down. A pile of clothing lies before her, her task. She bends down for the rags and a baby strapped tightly to her back begins to cry. She scrubs the cloth in a steel tin of muddy water. But she does not scrub with vigor; she cleans with care. She is washing her son’s school uniform, a dark green shirt with a collar. She handles the shirt, her hope, his future, gently. A thin rope runs between her home and her neighbors’. One by one, she hangs the washing items out to dry in the relentless noon heat. A green collared shirt, an orange sari bursting with red flowers, a bed sheet with soft yellow designs, a salwar kameez, blue as the sky that watches over India. Colors splash the brown backdrop. The woman finishes hanging the last shirt, wipes her hands on her own deep purple sari, and walks back in the hut. A glimpse from a tour bus window. Poverty. But is she poor?

I finish wrapping my scarf around my head and look in the mirror, tucking in pieces of blonde hair that are peeking out. Now I’m just a face. But they will still see right through me. I walk down the hotel stairs and out onto the dusty, dirty streets. My first day in Cairo. My heart races, the excitement of an unexplored city, the fear of being watched, hassled. I hear him shout and pick up the pace. I left my map in my room, I left my backpack, and even my water bottle, on purpose. I am no tourist. I march to the end of the block, ignoring whistles I hear from behind me. I take a sharp left. Keep going. Turn right? Sure. I walk with confidence. Do they know I’m insulted?

A stout Thai waitress pours her a third drink. She doesn’t acknowledge the act, picking up the glass to take a healthy swig. A diamond twinkles on her long, narrow finger, on the hand in which she holds the full glass. She absentmindedly runs her fingers through her curly brown hair, nails red as the lobster on her plate. She talks of her penthouse on Fifth Avenue in New York. She talks of her husband and three children. She talks of Venice’s canals, Cancun’s resorts, Mediterranean yachts, and exquisite Spanish cuisine. She has been everywhere, it seems. But is she wealthy?

He wakes up with the sun, just as he always does. His weary body rises off the cool ground. Today is Sunday. He wears simple brown pants, but a bright white shirt, and sets out down the main road of Whitefield. He passes a young boy selling bananas. Though his stomach moans, he continues. He passes an old, wrinkled woman in white selling roasted nuts by the bag. Again he disobeys his stomach’s plea. He passes “Brother’s Bakery” on the corner, smells of fresh naan escaping into the sticky Indian air. He walks on. Finally he gets there, to church. He sneaks in the back row as the music begins. He feels a hand on his frail shoulder. “It’s nice to see you,” he hears. He picks up a song book and, surrounded by people of faith, begins to sing. Is he hungry?

I walk through a market in Istanbul. It’s crowded today. I am drowning in faces, hundreds of faces I have never seen before, bustling, shopping, selling, eating, passing. They all look Turkish to me. Olive skin, deep brown eyes, black hair. The men have facial hair. The women are fully covered. Each face is a stranger. A face I do not know, a face I will never know. This world–millions of glimpses, millions of people, millions of strangers. Are we all strangers?

Everything is not what it seems.

I came to Hong Kong expecting China. What I got was the West. Aside from the snake soup restaurant on the corner and surgical mask fashion statements, Hong Kong felt very modern, nothing like stereotypical China.

My preconceived ideas of China included outdated communism, the one-child policy, very little English, repression of religion, and harsh media censorship. But when I got to Hong Kong, I saw democracy, families have multiple children, countless English speakers, freedom of religion, and local newspaper headlines condemning the mainland’s government. But ever since China regained the island in 1997, ending the days of British colonial rule, Hong Kong has, and has not, been a part of China.

It was the reformist Chinese leader, Deng Xiaoping, who coined the phrase that defined the relationship between Hong Kong and China: “one country, two systems.” It meant that Hong Kong residents have basic rights that don’t exist in the mainland. Theoretically, natives of Hong Kong enjoy the rights of religion, press, property, travel and marriage. But in actuality, things aren’t so black and white, since Deng Xiaoping’s words are ambiguous.

The Joint Declaration signed by Britain and China in 1990 states that the socialism of the People’s Republic of China would not interfere with the capitalist ways of Hong Kong. The island would continue to be as democratic and as financially lucrative as it had been in its recent colonial past.

But identity is still an issue. When I’m abroad and asked where I’m from, I answer “The United States.” Not Minnesota. Not Minneapolis. But the United States. Yet all eight Hong Kong natives I interviewed told me they came from Hong Kong, not China. So what’s the difference?

“We speak different languages,” Yip said. “And not every Chinese person on the mainland is very educated, but in Hong Kong everyone enjoys the free education system.”

The official language of Hong Kong is Cantonese, a dialect of Chinese, while the official language of China is Mandarin. The language divide seems to be a major contributor to the separation between Hong Kong and its mother country. Everything in Hong Kong from road signs, to restaurant menus, to official government documents, are in a foreign language to the 1.3 billion people on the other side of the bay.

Like any language, Cantonese embodies a culture of its own. “The Cantonese language unifies us,” Cosette Leung, a native Hong Kong resident told me. “Language is culture.”

Leung was my youngest interviewees. Though she acknowledge the importance of her own language, her views of the mainland are positive. “Now I feel like we are part of the mainland. Their government is accommodating to us.”

I noticed the way in which questions about identity were answered depended on age. Overall, young people seemed to have more sympathy toward the mainland, while older generations remained more antagonistic.

I interviewed Emily Lau, Vice-chairperson of the Democratic Party of Hong Kong, who claims the mainland is intentionally catering to Hong Kong’s young people. “The mainland is instigating vast programs of bringing Hong Kong people to the mainland, making them feel good about the mainland, nurturing nationalism and patriotism. Young people have not experienced the bad things of the past; they don’t know.”

Whether they are sympathetic to the political capital of Beijing or not, Lau claims that the Hong Kong-Chinese people want democracy. “Democracy is the very strong desire of Hong Kong people. I speak up for my people, and not one of them has ever asked me to give up defending their rights. How dare I abandon that?” Lau said. “We are not revolutionaries; at least not yet.”

While the Democratic Party of Hong Kong fights for democracy, the elimination of functional constituencies (part of the political structure worked out before 1997), and the implementation of direct elections, not all agree full-fledged democracy is crucial.

“Hong Kong is responsible to cooperate with the mainland and not treat it as a competitor. [The Democratic Party’s] fighting method is a bit radical,” Yip said. “I do think that Hong Kong should develop or uphold democracy. It’s important for our people. We just need to be more mild.”

Mark Sheldon, a native American, but long-time Political Science professor at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, believes a political move toward greater democracy must be made or else Hong Kong will lose its chance, not to mention its identity. “So far, we have much more of the ‘one country’ and very little of the ‘two systems’ as far as further political or cultural or social development are concerned. In fact, we are going backwards on political development,” Sheldon said. “It is so important for the political reform aspirations of the [Hong Kong] people to be met and for the HKSAR government to gain legitimacy and credibility. Otherwise, we become more like the mainland, like any other big Chinese mainland city […] and this will be Hong Kong’s kiss of death in the longer term.”

It seems as though unification and identity can grow out of this very fight. When people’s rights are suppressed, it bodes well for unification, as strange as that may be. And through a unified people, identity can be found.

“In 2003 we had a march for democracy, that brought out three quarters of a million people. They marched because they were afraid they would lose their freedoms. When there are signs of losing that freedom, the people will come out,” Lau said.

A singular, cohesive definition of Hong Kong identity seems unattainable But I’ve discovered Hong Kong is an island of paradoxes. It is simultaneously international but national, unified but separate, focused but unsettled, democratic but circumspect, content but still fighting.

My visit to Hong Kong fell during a complex and transitional time, both politically and socially in the island’s modern history. Belonging to China is still a fairly new concept in Hong Kong’s life, and it’s very evident that the fight for democracy and the matter of identity is far from over.

Who are we, Hong Kong? Depends whose side you’re on.

Our ‘home’ tends to change fairly often on Global, usually every few weeks, sometimes even every few days. Currently, the Horizon Suite Hotel is home. Entering the hotel lobby from the street, a large Christmas tree and garlands covered in white lights stand out. They seemed to magically appear promptly on December 1, which apparently is the beginning of the Christmas season here. Soft Christmas music can be heard in the lobby, another reminder of the Christmas season. On the opposite side of the large lobby is an expansive glass wall that gives a beautiful view of the Tolo Harbor behind the hotel. Several very patient, smiling employees sit behind the front desk, willing to help in any way possible. One day they helped me understand a difficult Chinese accent on the phone, another time they directed us to the nearest grocery store. On the far side of the lobby are doors to a small mini-mart, Park ‘n Shop, where we can buy much needed groceries without walking very far. A wonderful option at times.

Our hotel is unusual in that it’s meant for extended stays. Because of this, we get to live in apartments, which is exciting. A kitchenette, two bedrooms, living room and bathroom… by far out nicest accommodations yet. I get the feeling in the elevators and lobby though that many of the other residents live here for much more than a month, maybe even permanently.

Each place (hotel, Christan center, apartments…) we have stayed in the past few months has provided a very different atmosphere for experiencing the country or city. The Horizon Suite Hotel’s atmosphere is very formal compared to our previous ‘homes’. Loitering in the lobby and gathering with large groups there are both disliked. Moving here from the ECC was a bit of a transition. At the ECC we lived in a separate building all by ourselves and could really make ourselves feel at home by posting sign-up sheets in the hallways, using the lounge for group movie nights, and turning the Dialogue House into a haunted house for Halloween.

One of my favorite parts about our current home is its location. Our rooms look out at the beautiful harbor and we can even see the Pat Sin Leng mountains on the other side during the middle of the day when it isn’t foggy. The view also looks out at many skyscrapers that are especially beautiful at night when they are all lit up. The harbor-side location also means that an extensive bike/run/walk path runs directly behind our hotel for miles along the harbor. Going for a walk along the harbor the other day, the path was filled with people of all ages biking, running, and walking. I particularly enjoy seeing people walking on the paths and simultaneously  doing arm rotations or finger stretches or something of the like. I’ve also learned that tai chi is very popular here. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tai_chi_chuan)  Along the path there were multiple spaces designated for practicing tai chi, something I find very interesting, mainly because I’ve never seen anything like these spaces before.

It’s hard to believe that our time in Hong Kong is already half finished. For now, I am enjoying my home here, but I also look forward to moving on to see new things in a few weeks.

Dear Mom, Dad, and Sophie,

This is weird. How do I write you a Christmas card? Instead of the food-filled, church-going, song-singing, family-oriented Christmas I’ve had for the past twenty years, this year all I get is a piece of paper. One piece of paper, in my neatest handwriting, that will be sent to you from Hong Kong in a small square envelope, that probably won’t reach you until January anyway.

I could sit here and write about the smells. The unmistakable scent of a freshly cut tree, a pine tree invited into our living room for the month, frosted with ornaments that Soph and I made in Sunday School a decade ago. The smell of those flat, colorfully sprinkled sugar cookies that melt in my already-watering mouth. The smell of wet snow pants, thrown over a chair in the basement to dry, wreaking of outside, from sledding down the hill in the back.

I could sit here and write about the sounds. “Lo, Er a Rose was Blooming” from the Christmas Harp CD; it calms me. The daytime noise of screaming children coming from the sledding hill in the nearby park. The murmur of mom and dad, practicing their Christmas Eve sermons to themselves. The melody of Soph’s violin, the harmony of mine. The empty silence of a new snow.

I could sit here and write about the traditions. A rushed Christmas Eve dinner between services. Placing the Swedish tomptes around the house. Aunt Barb’s seven layer jello. Uncle Mark’s personally-designed Christmas cards. Seafood bisque.

But why sit here and write about the things I’ll miss?

We’re currently reading Bill Holm’s “Coming Home Crazy,” a collection of essays he wrote when he spent a year in China in 1989. In one of his essays, he includes the Christmas letter he sent home to family and friends that year. He so intriguingly concludes, “God save us from a regular Christmas and deliver us to strange places.”

What about a regular Christmas is so unattractive to Holm? What value is there in spending this homey holiday in strange places?

Well here I am, in a strange place, about to have a very irregular Christmas. I will eat dumplings, I’ll be with a bunch of other 20-year-old kids, there won’t be snow, the native language around me will not be English, and I won’t attend the usual five church services I’m used to (let alone one!). Bring on the strange Christmas!

This holiday season abroad, I will not sit down and list the things I’m missing. If I did, I can assure you it would be multiple pages long and bring back sweet, sweet memories. Rather, I will sit in my hotel room in Shanghai and look around at the other St. Olaf kids, a group I’ve been happily stuck with for four months now. A group that’s endured desert heat, endless bus rides, food sickness, homesickness, making new friends, reading maps, learning how to tie an Indian sari, breakups, language barriers, one too many temples, and dance parties. These kids are now my family.

On Christmas, I reckon we’ll sing (grant it, we are Oles), exchange small gifts and notes, share Christmas memories, and probably end up with a broken rib or two from all the hugging. And even though I’ll miss out on your cookies and seafood bisque, I really do like dumplings.

God bless you in this Christmas season. I love you, I miss you, I wish I was there, but know this: irregular Christmas’s in strange places are ok too.

Love, Ali

Since the first week of Egypt, we’ve been planning to have a “Fantasy Foods” party when we return home. Sick of falafel sandwich fast food and a general lack of fruits and vegetables, we passed around a sheet of paper and each wrote foods we were crave while abroad.

1.) Milk

2.) Chocolate-chip banana bread

3.) Oatmeal

4.) Peanut-butter

5.) Caribou/Starbucks coffee

6.) Salad

7.) Grilled cheese and tomato soup

8.) Build-your-own-nacho day in the St. Olaf caf

These are just the first eight items on the list. There are approximately forty two more. So you get the idea. We love food, and despite the thrill of sampling spicy, exotic, foreign cuisine, we miss our food.

Turkey had some good options, but sadly, good food often times meant more money. We splurged one or two times, but got in the unhealthy pattern of eating street food. For lunch five days in a row, I had a chicken and rice sandwich. Yes, they actually stuff rice between two pieces of bread. It became known as the how-many-carbs-can-you-fit-into-a-sandwich, sandwich.

Egypt made us realize how much we shall forever cherish greens. The rule is, it must be peeled or boiled. No lettuce, no smoothies with ice, no apples (unless you’re up for tediously peeling it with your dull Swiss Army knife), no tomatoes, and no grapes. I think there was one instance where I actually peeled a few grapes. I was desperate.

India was better, if you can handle the spice, that is. I probably have the highest percentage of Scandinavian blood of our group, so my ideal meal is pretty beige-colored. The rest of the group did impressively well taking the heat, but sometimes it’s nice to not cry involuntarily while you eat.

Then we got to Hong Kong. We’re living in apartments now, and are completely responsible for our own meals. So, just seconds after setting our suitcases down, we ventured out into the Hong Kong night to find a grocery store.

A half an hour later, and after plenty of embarrassing “do you speak English?” interactions with locals, we found “Wellcome.” Don’t ask me why it’s spelled wrong. We stumbled through the bright entrance, and were greeted with pyramids of stacked oranges and grapefruits, cucumbers, shiny red apples, brand name cereals, yogurts of all kinds, milk, pork chops, California raisins, chicken noodle soup, deli meat, and more. I started salivating uncontrollably and my eyes were glistening with tears of joy. It didn’t even matter that I didn’t know how to cook; I was so happy.

We were on a rampage. We each took a cart and started tearing around the store, knocking old women over and cutting sharp corners. Just kidding, we didn’t knock anyone down, but we probably came close.

After fifteen minutes of intense grocery shopping, we were packing our plastic bags, ready to get back to the apartments and dive in.

“380 dolla” the woman behind the counter said (don’t worry, that’s in Hong Kong dollars). I handed her the cash, and she handed me the food. Best purchase I’ve ever made.

But the minute I took my bags, I realized my mistake. We all did. We were so overwhelmed and joyous in the store, frantically throwing buckets of yogurt, gallons of milk, and cans of soup into our carts, that we simply forgot about getting it all home.

It’s about a fifteen minute walk that ended up taking closer to an hour, due to stopping every five feet and giving our poor arms a break. We were weak, we were hungry, and we became giddy.

But dinner that night was one of the best tasting meals of my life. Now I have to go ice my arms.

At least for me, Hong Kong is the perfect setting–a cosmopolitan city full of trendy people and huge skyscrapers against the backdrop of misty mountains surrounded by sparkling bays.  The Chinese University of Hong Kong were we will be taking classes about the Arts of China is on a mountain, and we take shuttle buses around campus because of the steep hike.

We are also getting used to apartment style living.  Each of us are in a beautiful apartment with one or two other people.  Most of us have already gone grocery shopping as well as amenity shopping (toilet paper, dish soap, laundry detergent, etc).  I’m living with Mira and Norzin, and we lugged giant backpacks back to the apartment full of groceries and other things.  Since I am a senior, I feel like I am getting the first taste of what it will be like after graduation being on my own.

We cooked last night for the first time (correction: Norzin cooked and we watched intently, trying to pick up some skills).  We had noodles with cooked celery, tomatoes, and onions with a few Indian spices Norzin picked up.  We sat around our round glass table enjoying delicious food we made, a truly satisfying experience.

We are in Hong Kong until December 24th, so I’m sure there will be many more stories to come.  For now, enjoy thanksgiving and know that we are truly thankful for our family and friends back home and miss you dearly.  Much love!!

We have our stereotypes, us Minnesotans. Many of us are outdoorsy folk–a good trait for living in rural India for a month. Many of us may be Lutheran–a sudden minority in India’s strong Hindu culture. Many of us are happy with very bland food–a rude awakening when you bite into a spicy Indian samosa. And many of us take our sweet time with goodbyes–a trait recently exercised in India.

We had spent the month at the Ecumenical Christian Center outside of Bangalore, South India. Many of us instantly found a home in this lush, green, quiet haven. Each morning we’d wake up to the sound of exotic birds chirping (or maybe it was monkeys?), walk to breakfast on a winding stone path through a field, and have hot tea, toast, and fruit, served by a warm and smiling staff.

Our days at the ECC were filled with various lectures on the “Religions of India,” the academic course for the month, soccer games with the ECC children, multiple tea breaks (yes, we’re now addicted), bike rides to the small town of Whitefield, and bonding time with one another.

We felt settled at the ECC, and as a result, we came to know it as home. It was home not only because it was the first place we were able to unpack our suitcases, or because of the wonderful Indian meals compared to Cairo fast food, but because of the community the ECC wrapped us in.

Our cook’s daughter invited all twenty five of us to her arranged, traditional Indian marriage. The director invited us over to his home for wine and cake. Our two surrogate Indian dads, Jeb and Paul, both invited the whole group over for dinner at their homes. Everyday the cleaning woman would greet us and make sure we ate a good breakfast. The teenage girls would invite us over to their homes and draw intricate henna designs on our hands and feet. And on the last night, the Indian children and the twenty five of us St. Olaf students joined together for a Bollywood dance party.

From the first day we arrived, I knew the goodbye would be hard. With each hour spent sharing a meal, choreographing a dance, taking a walk, enduring an eight hour bus ride, playing a pick-up soccer game, or spending time with Jeb’s family, I knew I was setting myself up for a tearful departure. But I realized a hard goodbye is merely a testament to a meaningful experience.

When the day came, our Indian friends rode with us on the bus to send us off at the airport. We exchanged hugs I wished never ended. We all walked slowly, pushing our heavy bags to the ticket counter, our faces red and puffy.

I turned around. There stood our surrogate Indians dads now on the other side of the window, smiling, crying, and waving. They knew how to welcome us in, and they certainly knew how to say goodbye. It was a Minnesota goodbye; the kind with tears, and drawn out endings; the kind with breath-crunching hugs and promises of return.

Their food may have been a tad bit spicy for my Scandinavian palette, but they sure did master the Minnesota goodbye.

We just attended a traditional Indian wedding. The daughter of the cook (Mrs. Ponnamma) looked stunning in her elaborate red and orange wedding sari, adorned with gold jewels and bangles. Her long hair blossomed with jasmine. She seemed nervous, constantly attending to the folds of her sari. When the priest offered her the lamp of flames, she went through the customary hand gestures quickly.

I would be nervous too if I were her. This was only the second time she had met the man she was marrying. The first time she met him is when her parents and his parents arranged their marriage. No words were exchanged as in western marriages, just unspoken rituals. I’m sure the loud drums and accompanying instruments matched the rapid pulse of the bride and groom.

The ceremony was difficult to see even though I was in the front row because the whole extended family surrounded the marriage tent, snapping pictures and capturing video footage. I could see the bride most of the time, but I didn’t see the groom until the very end. I saw his hands place a necklace with a ring on it as well as a flower garland around her neck. As the ceremony went on, the bride and groom exchanged a few shy glances and smiles. When it came time for them to walk around the marriage tent three times, hand in hand, they were grinning from ear to ear.

When I talk to Indians my age, they always ask me if I am married. I laugh and say no, I’m way too young. They look at me puzzled, asking me what age I would like to get married. I tell them I don’t know if there is a certain age I would like to be married by or if want to get married at all. Now they are the ones to laugh. Would you have your marriage arranged if you don’t find anyone in the states? They ask me. I honestly can’t imagine marrying someone with whom I am not completely in love. If love doesn’t happen, I have no qualms about living my life on my own. Of course I would not be along, I would have my girls, my friends and family. And perhaps cats.

It’s very odd to be pressured about marriage. Many of my friends are starting to get engaged and married, but I refuse to consider it. It is actually easier being on global where there are twenty-three other girls and the two guys are like our brothers.

We only have one more week in India. I am excited for Thailand, but I don’t know if I am ready to move on from the ECC and all the people here. This happens in ever place we have been so far, but here is a little different because we really got to know this little community. We have attended their weddings, their son’s first birthdays, eaten at their houses, learned how to make incredible tea from scratch.

For our final farewell, we have a potluck and a talent show coming up. I’ve been busy choreographing a Bollywood dance and teaching it to the girls. Our rehearsals have been a blast. When “Fire Burning” comes on at the Grand, you can expect our global group to bust a move.

Quite a few people have felt homesick and so Jonathan and Barbara gathered us in the lounge one cold (well cold for India) rainy night and told us the story of how they met. They passed around pictures and we all were highly amused. I don’t if it helped anyone with the homesickness, but it was an adorable story. I am blown away by our group. Jonathan and Barbara are great leaders and are there with us every step of the way. We all get along so well and have very few problems. It’s more than just getting along–we are becoming a family away from our families. I know that sounds cliche, but it’s true. I genuinely care about each and every person.

We are all trying to soak up that last moments in India. Final trips to Fabindia, covering ourselves with henna and bindis, watching bollywood movies, eating with our hands, wearing our saris, pranking each other by putting colorful toads in each other’s bathrooms, drinking masala tea, listening to the ECC birds (including the Catch-phrase bird), and enjoying our time with ECC coordinators, Jeb and Paul. For many people, including myself, India has been the most memorable stop.

            Grocery stores. Internet access. Clean socks. Grilled cheese. Warm showers. Newspapers. People I know. The radio. Milk. Reliable electricity. These are the things that scream home to me. These are life’s little comforts, taken for granted in our mundane routines, fanaticized about amidst the discomforts of travel.

            Abroad, you’re forced to become immune to the stench of feet, cold showers, spicy food, and the power going out multiple times each day.

            Travel poses innate and inevitable discomfort and uncertainty. You always feel like a foreigner, unable to blend, constantly curious, always hungry and tired, dressing extra conservatively, and never at liberty to just grab a Starbucks coffee and check your email. Normality and regularity become hazy and ungraspable concepts.

            You’re uncomfortable, but you adjust. You’re uncomfortable, so you adjust. You adjust from American punctuality to “Egyptian time” or “Indian time.” You learn to ignore stares. You figure out how to negotiate rickshaw fees. You put butter and sugar on your naan pretending it’s lefse. And you slowly accept the reality of distance and decreased contact with loved ones.

            Amidst these adjustments and the perpetual cultural limbo, there lies a steady comfort: this is temporary, this is just travel. For you have a home to return to, people to return to, a routine to return to. Home is permanent, unchanging; waiting.

            But I think one of the most important questions to ask when we travel is “could I call this place home?” Why else do we travel, if we aren’t constantly striving to understand people and places, how others live, how others see this as home?

            Traveling can be a completely selfish or leisurely experience. It can be pricey and materialistic. Travel can be for personal gain or pleasure. And though you’re a foreigner that must put up with those intrinsic discomforts, you’re also a guest, which means you’re treated with godly respect and embarrassingly extravagant welcomes. Travel’s purpose shouldn’t be to accept the welcome, impress the host by saying “thank you” in their language, and move on to the next site. No, travel should endure far past the welcome.

            It should incorporate openness to new experience, openness to adventure, and maybe most importantly, openness to mistakes. It should spark curiosity, the kind that inspires research and investigation, question-asking at its best. It should look to the people, learn from the people. It should welcome introspection and personal growth, but instill an awareness of others. And it should always keep in mind this question: is this home?

            I’ve been traveling and living out of my square, brown suitcase for over two months now, and I’ve looked for those glimpses of home in each place I’ve been. Just now am I realizing that here in Whitefield, India, I’ve found my piece of home. I haven’t found grilled cheese or reliable internet, I’ve gotten destroyed by mosquitoes and freaked out about snakes, but something deeper tells me this is like home. I don’t know if I’ll ever make India my home, but it’s so comforting and refreshing to feel part of a place.

            Travel is travel and home will always be home. But everywhere you go is someone else’s home. Could it ever be yours?