I’ve been back in the country for three weeks now—after ten months abroad—and one of the strangest things (as far as culture shock goes)  is putting toilet paper in the toilet.  Everytime I go to the bathroom, I feel somehow not right about depositing the tp directly into the toilet rather than the waste bin, which is how it’s done in the great majority of places I visited in South America.

As I walked around New York City the first few days, passing people talking on cell phones and talking to each other, I thought how funny that they’re all speaking in English, how weird that I can understand everything without even trying.

But the more I walked, the more I started overhearing people talking in Spanish, and then, I grew envious.  I wanted to get in on the conversation.

Grocery shopping in Fairway, I listened as two of the employees spoke in Spanish, and I milled about them, attempting to think of something to say.

“Donde esta…?”  (Where is…?)

But, I chickened out.

On the subway, a young couple sat next to me and exchanged words in what was unmistakably their native tongue, and I longed to turn to them and ask where they were from.  Almost just to show off.  Prove that I might not look like I spoke Spanish but that I actually spoke it quite well.

But, I remained silent.

On my second day back in The United States, I went to the bank and there I engaged (and impressed) the bank employee with my Spanish conversation.

More recently, however, I failed to impress an Argentinean friend who was in town on business.  Although he didn’t criticize or correct my Spanish, he said in perfect English, “Wait, can we talk in English for a second?” as I was in the middle of giving him directions.

I’ve always been able to take a hint.

Understandably, people have been asking me about my trip and how it feels to be back.  While I can barely proffer an adequate answer to these questions that in reality require quite lengthy responses (I prefer my stories to come out naturally over the course of time), I’ll take them any day over the biggie, “So, how have you changed?”

Let me get back to you on that.

While I’m certain that my experience of independent travel has shaped me in ways I will continue to discover days, months, and years from now, I am unable to comfortably digest the bold inquiry at this moment.

Happily, I fell right back in with my family and friends, one close friend agreeing that my first night back I made several “spot-on Stacey comments.”

This made me smile.

So, I’m me but only different to posit a completely useless understanding of my “great” transformation.

Even though I’m thrilled to be back in my favorite city in the world, I am not completely comfortable.  Riding the subway wasn’t a problem (though shelling out $89.00 for a monthly unlimited Metrocard was), nor was finding my favorite cup of coffee (Abraco on 7th between 1st and 2nd).

Making a decision about how to fill my stomach—this from a self-professed foodie—has proven challenging though.  I ate a bagel and cream cheese the morning after my return, but then I didn’t eat for the rest of the day simply because I couldn’t decide what to eat.

In Buffalo with my family, my dear mom handed me some cash and told me to go to my favorite grocery store to stock up on the things I’d been missing.

I returned with organic milk and my favorite cereal and met my mother’s confused look as she peered into the grocery bag on the counter.

While I’d like to develop my restaurant list once again, I don’t know where to start, and I am unreasonably frustrated with myself for feeling out of the loop about the current theatre and museum exhibits (something which can easily be fixed by opening up the current New Yorker).

Because I was constantly on the go in South America, I had a routine of sorts.

Pack backpack.   Travel to bus station.  Buy ticket and board bus.  Read about new place then hope for some sleep or chill out time with music.  Arrive.  Find accommodations or meet Couchsurfing hosts.  Peruse map.  Find delicious street food (none of it varying too much).  Explore new city/town/village.

Repeat.

Of course, no two places were the same, and I’d be hard-pressed to truly categorize my trip in such simple, easy terms.  But, I had a routine.  And a backpack.  And few obligations.

Here, I’m in limbo.  I am looking for a place to call home, ready to start working.  Instead of lugging my backpack around, I’m carrying my laptop looking for wireless Internet and thinking it’d be so much easier if NYC had the plethora of Internet cafes that even the smallest pueblo in South America has.

Yesterday, I went up and down about five times, finally having a good cry in the sauna at the gym where I’m utilizing a free week and trying to politely refuse a membership.

I just feel weird sometimes, and as much as I would like to elaborate on that vague statement, I cannot.  Not because I don’t want to share (for if you’ve been reading my blog, you know I’m comfortable with sharing) but because the weirdness (which comes and goes) is so strangely unsettling, that words cannot describe it.

Maybe this is what they mean about culture shock.

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