So, I have been in America almost a week now. Sleep deprivation before and during my marathon 30 hours of travel have helped ensure that my jet-leg has been decidedly light. My flights went off without a hitch, and even the six hour layover in Moscow was made absolutely pleasant thanks to the company of an Austrian guitar player returning from India with a sitar. His name was Peter.

Folks, Chicago is largely as I remembered it, and I have taken great solace in that. My family is still the same: we make the same jokes, share the same banter, and also the same love.

Some things, though, have struck me. I was immediately bowled over when I walked into my childhood home on account of all the wood. Wood door frames, wood floors, wood paneling. Naryn was a mountainous, poor place, where wood came only at significant premiums. I also noticed how tidy everything was. Each picture on the wall and each rug on the floor was so fitted to its spot. Even messes were tucked into drawers and behind doors. All the furniture matched.

Our house also seemed palatial. There were just rooms upon rooms, enough to get lost in, or so it seemed. My mother’s magnificent gardening left me speechless, the yard already flush with colors; my piddling with root crops in Naryn paled instantly in comparison.

Folks, some friends of mine met me at home the day that I arrived, and others were more to come. I have noticed that while my home and family feel like safe zones while I readjust to things that I once knew so well, it is before my friends that I get nervous. I spent a day canoeing on the river with my best friend Matt, and we connected as if there had never been a separation. But when he invited me to a barbeque a few days later, I got nervous.

These were people I had known, but since then I have changed. Prior to attending, I made a series of comments planning my escape from the party, if it got too late. This is appropriate in Kyrgyzstan, where pressure to stay and relax can often stymie other plans. My friend Matt got a little quizzical and just said, “Carl, no one is going to force you to stay if you need to leave. Don’t worry.” When I arrived, I felt almost in a daze, unsure of how to talk with the group, unsure of how to approach people; it was no longer appropriate to seek out every male to shake his hand, and just ignore all of the women. There was no sheep to be slaughtered, and no table cloth on the ground to sit around. No one, even, to insist that I sit down and have some tea.

But there again, came Matt, among those who know me best. He asked his roommate to procure some beer I’d like, and then made me a plate grilled delectables, somehow knowing I was still uncomfortable. He made jokes, wondering if the absence of boiled sheep had left me longing.

And it was here, at this social gathering that I got the first inkling as to the effects of my letters. No one really asked where I’d been, or what I’d been up to. That was common knowledge. Some people used their familiarity with my life to tell me all about theirs, and I soaked it up with relish. Others displayed almost encyclopedic knowledge of my letters, and wanted to know about all the things I must have been leaving out.

Between my family, my home, my closet friends, and these weekly chronicles of my past adventures, it seems I have been gifted with a wide bridge with which to reenter the land of my birth.

Since then, I have attended the two events that dictated the terms of my return home: my older sister’s graduation from law school, and my young sister’s graduation from university. Of all things, it has been these ceremonies that have helped me process much of what seemed so foreign, and so extravagant while I was away.

The professors at graduation, dressed up in colorful wizard robes and funny hats left me feeling that the traditional costumes of the Kyrgyz aren’t really so crazy after all. The overly formal language involved with dispensing diplomas reminded me of all that Kyrgyz language I could never seem to understand. The dreary singing before my sister walked across the stage left me feeling that the average Kyrgyz, singing in groups at parties while out to dinner, are pretty solid vocalists after all. For all the perceived differences I found out there, the American commonalities seemed pretty overwhelming, when looked at with the right kind of eyes.

But more than any other feeling, folks, it has been like putting on glasses again, for the first time in much too long. Things here are just clearer to me than the had been in Sunny Naryn. I can understand (almost) everything that everyone says, regardless of accent or context. I know when it is appropriate to get out of bed, and when it is fine to express my opinion. My jokes translate. It feels like coming home; for that is exactly what it is.

And that is where I am today, relaxing in this palace. I am seeking work in the field of international development, or (perhaps?) writing. I wonder how my instance on doing those things from Chicago will affect my plans. These are the new challenges. No longer will people rain praise before me, simply for speaking their language. That fact that I am living among Chicagoans (with a native family!) will no longer be enough to grant me entrance into just about any room. Once again, I am just part of the scrum. And looking to make my mark here, now a small fish in a very big pond, will be, surely, my next adventure.