Travel Disorientation

Hello. Caution for the voiceover: I have a significant Southern accent. You may select a different Substack voiceover from your settings if you prefer. Happy listening.

I cannot get used to being here. Wait, where am I?

We rapidly buzz through passport control and reach the departure door for our ride. The warm South Florida air floats around us, leaving the last cold months in Türkiye behind. Ah, South Florida in the winter can’t be beat, right?

Maybe. I am jet-lagged and very disoriented. My mind knows where I am, but my body has not caught up. It is still somewhere over the Atlantic. Spanish is spoken around me, not Turkish. The city is too tall, too shiny, too—something.

I walk into our apartment. It looks more like a hotel than a home—because it isn’t home. Not at the moment, anyway.

I want to grab my suitcase, spin around, and return to the airport. But I overstayed my visa twice this trip to Türkiye, and returning is impossible now. I was told to expect an involuntary visit with the passport police once I returned to that country. (Doesn’t that sound like fun?) I will stay in Miami until we complete my citizenship application, and I hope to have my Turkish passport processed rapidly.

There is a lot of paperwork, visits to the Consulate, and waiting. Waiting, and more waiting.

“Don’t you like it in Miami?” you ask. Of course. The weather is beautiful. The family was together for the holidays, always a good thing. We are in January, and the kids have returned to their worlds. My husband is off sailing, and I am writing. A lot. Several books, in fact.

My brain, however, and that inexplicable pull to a country a gazillion miles away says it’s time for me to go home.

I can’t. Not for a while.

Do you remember when you went to college, military service, or your first out-of-town job and returned to your parent’s place that first time for the holidays? That weird feeling your room gave off (man, that wallpaper…you gotta say something to your mom.) It is still your room, but now your new dorm/apartment/house room is your home. The room in your parent's house feels weird, smells funky, and is still decorated the way you had it in high school (seriously, that wallpaper.)

It is no longer home.

That’s how I feel. The furniture in this apartment consists of things we had no room for overseas.1 Instead of slick Miami white, we live in a discarded beach house vibe. Things don’t quite fit, but we refuse to buy new. I can’t find things in the kitchen. Everything is in the wrong place. My favorite pair of pants is at the farm. I have no idea where my blue jean jacket is. The dogs are growing, and I can’t just plop on the front porch and scratch all the ears, necks, and tummies.

“Quit complaining,” you say. “You picked this life.”

You are right. I did. So why does this disorientation linger? I expect a smooth transition between my worlds: a week or less of jet lag, then back into my lunches with friends, coffees on my walks, Mexican food binges, serious workouts, and everyday American lifestyle. I’m a control freak. Things must be as I demand.

But I’m struggling. It’s been weeks, and the noise drives me to distraction. Why must people drive their boats around at 3:00 a.m. with music at full blast? In the morning, construction noise is everywhere. Miami is booming. I count ten new towers planned for my neighborhood, and I have no idea how many throughout the rest of the city.2

“Just put your head down and write,” you say. “You have Turkish to learn, books to write, posts to outline.”

“You’re right.”

Maybe one day, I won’t be so disoriented. I can live that carefree life of the others I read about. Travel to fifty places a year, eat weird food, and see incredible things.3 And remember how fortunate I am to live in multiple countries at once.

Happy 2025. It’s time to travel.