… or Calgary…

… or Saudi Arabia…

… or Calgary…

About a week ago, I discovered that it’s really hard to get any sleep when my brain is wrestling with itself. I place the blame for my insomnia squarely where it belongs: the post office.

Wait, what?

Yup, the post office. Maybe the one in Thailand, maybe the one in Canada – I’m not sure. There’s really no way to tell. What I do know is that one document went missing from all the documents I needed to complete my application packet for a PhD program in Montreal. An incomplete application won’t be processed, so instead of scouring real estate listings for character-filled, historic apartments in La Belle Ville, the doors to my future were suddenly thrown wide open. And I mean W-I-D-E open.

You know me. You know I have some reservations about living in Antarctica, but any other continent is fair game. Standing on such a precipice with my passport in hand is like going to the dairy section of a North American grocery store after spending years in Asia. There are so many choices, it’s thrilling and paralyzing all at once. But instead of choosing between 8 types of Brie and 12 kinds of Cheddar, I have to choose ONE place to live somewhere in the whole world.

After very little thought – really – almost no thought at all, I had narrowed the whole world down to two choices: Saudi Arabia or Calgary.

Because those are both pretty similar, right?

In one, all the moisture in my body would freeze, in the other it would all evaporate. Both sound equally uncomfortable.

In one, I’d trade considerable freedom for considerable finances. In the other, I’d have tons of freedom, but no funds available to enjoy it.

In one, I couldn’t drive if I wanted to. In the other, I wouldn’t want to drive if I could. (Seriously, the Deer Foot Trail in Calgary terrifies me.)

I was equally excited about both – and equally worried. Sure, the worries were different, but as far as my internal worry-o-meter goes, they were both about even.

As the roosters started crowing after my third sleepless night, I came to an uncomfortable conclusion: For me, the thought of moving back to Canada is scarier than the thought of moving to a country where people get beheaded for breaking the law.

How can Canada be scary?? (Not counting the Deer Foot Trail, of course, that’s obviously terrifying.) It’s not you, Canada. It’s me. Really.

When you’re living, travelling, working, snorkelling or eating your way through other countries, it’s easy to pick and choose elements of culture that resonate with you. It’s fun to identify things you love about your host culture (Giant Nation-Wide water fights? Yes please. Heated floors? Love ’em.) and easy to grumble about things you’re not so fond of (Get your elbows out of my rib cage, you horde of crazy grandmothers! Why is there a chunk of congealed blood in my soup?) But the not-so-awesome things are tolerable, because you know they’re temporary. Eventually you’ll move on, and you won’t have to take the unpleasant things with you.

Not wanting to confess, even to myself, that I’ve been actively avoiding my own country, my decision was made: Calgary.

Nestled in the protective embrace of the Rocky Mountains, it’s home to the Calgary Stampede, giant belt buckles, and a university with a PhD program in Language and Diversity. It’s also stupidly expensive and unbearably cold.

After being away from Canada for 14 years, I find myself accessing Immigrant to Canada and expatriate websites to navigate my way back into my own country. That’s a little disconcerting. There are things I’m really excited about when I think of moving back, but I wonder how much trouble I’m going to have when I realize that Canada is home. I can’t pick and choose what I like about Canadian culture, and I can’t leave the bad stuff behind.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not terribly worried about those things. I’m not losing sleep over them anyway. I just wonder what it will be like to live in Canada again. If I do start to get anxious, I simply remind myself I’ll have 8 different types of Brie and 12 types of Cheddar waiting for me.

How did you wind up in your current home? How did you choose where to live?

I went home in August.

Well, I thought I did, but when I sat down to tell you all about it, I realized I might not have gone home at all.

Believe me, that revelation came as quite a shock – especially since I know I didn’t imagine the gazillion hours on the plane, or the bored-looking customs officer in Toronto glancing at my passport and saying, “Welcome Home.”

I didn’t imagine walking out into the arrivals hall at the airport, and it certainly looked like home: all the signs were in English and French; middle aged women were milling about wearing pastel coloured capris, showing just a bit of tannless ankle above their running shoes; I could eavesdrop on any conversation I wanted, because almost everyone was speaking English.

When my wonderful cousin Karen met me for lunch during my layover, she took me to a restaurant that had more than one variety of poutine on the menu…and I didn’t have to serve myself drinking water out of a bucket…and when I used the restroom, I didn’t have to take my own toilet paper with me, because it was included!! For free!!

I was definitely in Canada – and gloriously happy to be there. I was excited to be spending the month at home. The problem was, I’d been tossing that word around all willy-nilly, and using it with reckless abandon without taking time to consider what it really meant.

The next four weeks passed in an utterly delightful whirlwind of beloved family and friends as I drove, flew, bused and ferried my way across Canada. I ordered a medium double-double at every Tim Horton’s I came across…not because I wanted one, but because I could. In a moment of wild abandon, I tried to hug the cheese aisle at the grocery store, but my arms weren’t long enough. The cheese aisle returned my affection by delivering this delicious 3-in-1 cheese, which was perfect, because I couldn’t decide which kind to buy:

Thank you, cheese aisle.

In short, I had a wonderful time. I was thrilled to be in Canada…and judging by this heartfelt welcome in the prairie sky, Canada was happy to see me too:

I love you too, Canada.

In fact, I had such a good time, it wasn’t until I was <ahem> back home again in Chiang Mai that I realized something:

In the entire month I spent in Canada, I never once set foot in a place I’d ever lived before. I never saw a school I used to attend, or a yard I’d built snow-forts in. I didn’t drive down a familiar road, or visit an old hang-out. I didn’t bump into an old classmate at the mall, or wave to a former neighbour.

That left me wondering, did I actually go home?

Some people stick to the old adage, Home is Where the Heart Is. (C’mon, admit it. You totally pictured that embroidered on lacy pillow when you read it, didn’t you? …right?) Some people, myself included, prefer the more practical, Home is Where Most of my Underpants Are. (Now picture that  embroidered on a pillow! You’re welcome.)

It’s a wonderful blessing to have so many people and places around the world that make me feel like I’m at home…I’m certainly not complaining! But the next time someone asks me, “Where’s home for you?” I think I’ll just change the subject, and ask about their favourite type of cheese.

Where’s home for you? And why?