The first time it happened was when we came back to Taipei last summer after six weeks in the UK. The wheels hit the tarmac at Songshan Airport and something unexpected happened. A puzzle piece clicked into place. We felt at home.
It happened again after a recent trip to the southern tip of Taiwan. When we got off the High Speed Rail at Taipei Main Station and headed toward the MRT (Taipei’s metro), we had two sensations. We both felt as though we had been gone for weeks or months instead of just for four days, and we both felt as though we were returning home. Taipei had become comfortable and familiar. Once again, that puzzle pieced clicked back into place.
If you had told me three years ago that I would shortly call Taipei home, a city of nearly three million people with close to four million in the surrounding metropolis of New Taipei City, I probably would have laughed. Up to that point, the only place where I’d had that feeling of belonging, of everything clicking into place, was Maine, a place as different from Taiwan as you can get. And yet here I am, somehow somewhat at home in this foreign land.
I don’t expect Taipei to ever feel as fully home as Maine does. I miss the quiet fields and coastline of my home state. I cringe at the constant noise pollution in Taipei. On top of that, we will always be outsiders (waiguoren) here, no matter how long we stay. Still, I marvel at my sense of belonging, even if it is only a partial belonging.
I can’t help but wonder what this all means for the future. I now have two homes in my heart. We don’t plan on staying in this one forever, nor do we intend on returning to the other one immediately. What then will it be like wandering the world so far away from the places I love? When we create a new life in a new country, will my heart ache for both Taipei and Maine? Or will Taipei fade from my mind as I learn to love a new home? Are homes like friends? Is there always room in your heart for another? Or are they more like a once-in-a-lifetime love?
Someday in the not too distant future I will have an answer to that question. Until that day, I will continue to love my adopted home while missing my first home. And there’s the rub, the drawback of travel that no amount of new experiences and Instagram-worthy images can do away with. Every time we travel, we leave something behind.
One of the things I miss the most about Maine, especially this time of year, is the dandelions—watching the snow melt, feeling the air warm, seeing the grass grow, and waiting for those humble little flowers to carpet my lawn. It’s hard to fathom that those flowers continue to bloom every year even when I’m not there. Maine and I continue to exist, to grow and change thousands of miles apart. While I’m gone, the dandelions continue to bloom.
I had a similar experience after returning from our trip south. The morning following our return, I walked out onto the balcony. There’s a lily plant out there (specifically an amaryllis, I think). When we left, the buds were closed. When we came back the flowers were already in full bloom. I had missed the opportunity to see them come to life.
There’s no escaping this exchange, the loss of one thing for the gaining of another. It’s part and parcel of travel. You learn, you grow, and you have new experiences. You begin to call a new place home and are the better for it. In the process, though, you give up something else. While you were gone, the lilies bloomed.
Words by Rachel Kaye. Images by Ben.
