The Reunion

A strong feeling of anticipation began to build up a full day before we met.  I realized at a certain point that I was biting my nails, and that I was using various strategies of distraction – like taking down the garbage frequently, and picking on the kids.  The night before, I was a nervous wreck.  I was trying to think how it would feel like.  Did things change?  Will it be the same?  I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the past.

I was reminiscing about where we met first, how did we come home together, our mutual experiences.  I knew I was sinking into nostalgia.

At a certain level I knew there was nothing to worry about.  Indeed, we were apart for a couple of years.  But strong feelings don’t change dramatically in a couple of years.  Do they?  I can’t wait already.  I couldn’t wait.

I woke up at sunrise.  And what a glorious sunrise it was.  I was dressed and ready long before it was time to leave.  I wore one shirt and then changed to another, smarter.  Shaved.  Put on my best cologne.  I was as ready as possible.

They were all waiting for me in the study.  In the old house.  They were quiet.  The didn’t make a sound.  None.  They didn’t show excitement, or anxiety.  They were just sitting there, waiting.  I didn’t know where to start.  And that wasn’t even it.  There were more coming in later that day.  Admittedly, I’ve been away from the others for only a couple of months, but I still missed them.  A lot.

So I reached for the first one.  Not even knowing what was inside.  I opened up the first box.  And there were books.  Harry Potter came out first, and then Timeline by Michael Crichton.  Shortly after that cam out CDs, by the dozen.  U2, and Elton John, Boston and Pink Floyd.  And then, in another box, some old tax documents, and some cowboy hats that we bought in some rodeo years ago in Tucson.  China (dishes, not the country), more books, cooking gear.  I missed them all.  I was happy to see them.  I think the feeling was mutual.

And then came the container.  Like a long lost relative.  Accompanied by four strong men speaking a foreign language.  And they started unloading.  And there was our favorite table, and our favorite linen.  Our towels and clothes, and the LCD TV.  The teddy bears, the toys, the bikes, the dishes.  We finally reunited.  We’re home.

When it was all over, the truck drove off, and we were left with tons of stuff to put away.  Hopefully by next week we’ll be able to move back in.  I can’t wait.

In the meantime, we picked the kids from school and went to a late lunch.  I believe it would ordinarily be called a “restaurant”, but the institution we went to was not even close.  Restaurants are for amateurs, this place is for professional, starving, lower middle class, serious-about-fast-food, no-nonsense, people.  The only analogy I can come up with are pets.  And the difference between a restaurant and Sammy-in-the -Square Shawarma is the difference between a hamster and a drooling Doberman.

The menu is very basic.  Shawarma is number one (a rolling block of meat, turkey and lamb, surrounded by low flames for extended periods of time, occasionally being “shaved” off the last layer and put into a piece of bread – most likely pita or better – baguette).  They also have skewers with different kind of meat.  Around, a very colorful museum of pickled vegetables, humus, tahini, hot sauce, etc.  People stand in line.  Pavlov would have been proud of us all.  As soon as you see that rolling block of meat, saliva is starting to work its way out of your mouth.  It’s a predictable and obvious process.  All people standing in line are going through it.  Not even trying to hide it.

Once you get your order, you usually withdraw to a dark corner and start chewing.  Huge bites, dripping, filled with joy.  We couldn’t help watching this guy who was sitting there opening his mouth big, as if he came up with a method of unhooking the hinge connecting his jaws, filling his mouth with inhuman bites of bread, meat, vegetables, and tahini sauce.  It was almost a biblical experience.

It feels like a puzzle.  Packing, closing accounts, saying good bye to friends and colleagues, flying home, meeting the family, seeing old friends, connecting with the family, receiving your things, putting the house together, moving into it.  Re-attaching yourself to the things you love – the people, the foods, the places.  The good things, the bad things.  It’s home.  For better for worse, it’s home.  We are in the process of connecting our severed roots.  It’s a joyful yet painful process.