Dear America, Remember Me?

I thought once I left Azerbaijan people would stop trying to marry me off to their sons.


The manager at Original Pancake House fixed that one for me.


I used to dress cute.


I'm eating a lot, but somehow, the food isn't as good as I had built it up to be in my mind. I'm making a homecooked meal tonight that miraculously resembles something I'd make in my Azeri kitchen. Add asparagus and avacado.


The beer is as good as I remember. Thank you Market Brewery 6-tastes flight.

The community theater is still there. Some of the faces are new, some of the faces are old. The Pizza Hut is an El Senor crappy mexican restaurant. My bedroom is there, but looks like a posh hotel room. The yellow walls and black bedding contrast more now without the vases of sunflowers and childhood trinkets. Oh yeah, and there is a baseball player living in my bedroom now too. I get to sleep in the guest room. The house smells like artificial fresh and is impeccably clean. The lawns are all too well manicured to be real. Everyone is on their cell phones all the time, I find myself frustrated when my friends in AZ don't text back within the hour, whereas my US friends seemed to be glued to their phones.


PC feels like a dream. I think this is what Alice felt like when she climbed out of the rabbit hole.


I'm back, and I fit in like nothing. But in the back of my mind images of camping trips and Azeri kids playing softball dance around and nag at me like small children seeking attention. I tell my stories, and my friends dutifully listen and nod and respond at the appropriate times. But they've moved on. My friend's are getting married for goodness sake, I'm just honored to be involved.


It's great to be home. It sucks too. I suppose it just comes with the job.