At home, everything is weird.
After an 11-hour flight, everything is weird.
My mom and my boyfriend and my dad are weird. I can't relate to them anymore, but hopefully I will recover.
I think in Hebrew and begin my questions in Hebrew. At restaraunts, I want to order in Hebrew and I want to ask for directions in Hebrew, and at the same time, I am mortally afraid that I will lose Hebrew.
The conflict is no longer an hour and a half away, but a world away. I watch it all the time on CNN, Fox, MSNBC, and it seems weird, because it's not the same thing at all. It's a bunch of soldiers marching on screen, so completey detached from everything I know. It's not people talking about the situation anymore, it's not an innate fear that comes up every once in a while. It's clean, sanitary.
Everywhere I go, it's too quiet. Not enough action. Not enough of anything. I forget that they don't sell humus in grocery stores. I have a dream about buying humus and pita in Giant. I feel lonely among people.
It's ridiculously hard to adjust. I miss Galgalatz at work every day and it's not the same when I listen to it online.
We go to a lake. We drive an hour to get there. We are still in the same state, almost in the same area. One hour is the distance from Tel Aviv to Haifa. In another 2.5 hours, you are in Lebanon. In another 2.5 hours here, you are in Pittsburgh, still in Pennsylvania. Everything is so big, so quiet.
But across the ocean, everything is loud and hot and small. And I wish I were there. Not in Tel Aviv, because I've learned that I hate the city, but in Herzliyya, or Ra'anana or somewhere quiet, where I can sit on a porch and think.
Because my thinking has just begun.