Home far from home
I am a morning person, you know the type: ‘throw back the covers and jump out of bed'. No snoozing here and drowsiness: never. So can really feel it, it's real - even at half past seven in the morning, the early hour that finds me walking down my drive, getting to the end of my street, stepping into the countryside, and encountering my first, fellow early birds. Their greeting is a touch more sincere, their smile is a touch more convincing, their 'good morning' is a touch more heartfelt.
Whether or not they have a dog on a lead, running shoes on their feet or music in their ears - it makes no difference. We are greeting each other and reading each other more intensely than ever. Admittedly, reader, at the appropriate recommended distance.
It reminds me of vacations in distant or less distant foreign countries, where as sure as God made little green apples you will walk into a local supermarket on day one and find yourself face to face with a couple of vague acquaintances from your home town or village. Pushing trolleys overflowing with packages of pasta en WC paper (without there even being any sign of a pandemic), the conversation moves on from ‘never, what a coincidence’ and ‘where are you guys staying’ - and before you know it, you're spending an evening sharing a bottle of wine and a bowl of olives, fourth glass in hand, cheeks flushed with alcohol, and suddenly you are best friends for a day (or three).
‘Beerens' meats are quality cuts’ I found myself reading a quarter of a century ago on the wall of a Turkish busstop, on a scorching hot day en route to the limestone terraces in Pamukkale. I flushed with village pride, there 3200 kilometers from my local butcher whose slogan had been scribbled on a wooden plank by a fellow villager who had passed that way sometime before. Far from home you can suddenly feel amazingly connected with some ordinary piece of home.
And this is exactly what is happening now. Exactly but in reverse. I'm just so happy that I can check in with my colleagues on Skype each morning, always eight minutes too early because I'm looking forward to this so intently, and sort of look them in their equally tired eyes. I just melt when I see the press officer during our online departmental meeting flanked by his two offspring, their hands waving back and forth in eager greeting. I just suddenly feel so involved in the plight of the to me entirely unknown student in Saudi Arabia who got his visa extended by 180 days, simply because he has no idea when he will be able to get back home.
Our work or study, our colleagues or fellow students, at times they can all get our goat. But now they are like those vaguely known villagers from home, that sappy butcher's slogan, crossing our paths digitally, people with whom you exchange virtual nods of recognition and sympathy far from home. Your second home, TU/e.
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