On the bus home

“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

Featherstone by the Paper Kites (this is what you should listen to while you read this blog)

On the bus coming home from Seoul, it hit me that there are moments that you experience half a world away from the place you call home that can make all those miles in between disappear. There I was, on the bus, on a rare sunny day this summer, nearing my destination, with the sun shining in through the windows in a way that reminded me of driving home from the Oceanside Beach at sunset, your hair still smelling like the tangy salty ocean, tired and sleepy and hungry, feeling comforted in the warm golden sun. Everyone on the bus asleep, me listening to a soft tune, the driver in full control and aware of his charge. There are rare moments when you are reminded that the world isn't so big after all. Or that, if it is, you can still find familiarity in the midst of what is foreign. Because I still crave something that I can relate to, even while I admire and learn from what is new to me.