Temporary quarters.
I think maybe I always knew that our time here would be fleeting in the end.
Call it a sixth sense or a spidey sense or just a quiet knowing.
I mean, of course I didn’t really know. It’s not like we went into this supposedly three year tour thinking that it would be anything but.
No. We went into this full-steam ahead, even when every. little. stumbling block that could have gotten in our way did. We tried to make the best of the unexpected weeks in the hotel followed by “camping out” in temporary quarters for five weeks with not much more than the welcome kit. We laughed as hard as we could and only cried a little when we finally moved into our permanent housing and waited almost another two months to get our stuff and car. Joe kept his cool when the moving van showed up with everything minus his motorcycle. And we took it in stride when the less-than-accurate information we had been given about preschools meant that Nicolas had to wait until the middle of January to finally get a spot.
We tried to settle into routines and mostly did. We found ways to make it work even if it always felt like something was just a little off.
But deep down I think I knew.
I’ve often said that my houses become homes when the art makes it up on the walls. Growing up in a semi-nomadic family, that was always the sign we had finally arrived: each picture had found its spot and every tchotchke tumbled into its nook.
The art never made it up here. Eight months and eighteen days since we stepped off the plane, it sits stacked in a corner of the living room that Nicolas has learned is a no-go zone.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. I had carefully unpackaged it all and spent several days measuring before making Joe hold up each piece while I confirmed that I’d be able to tell the carpenters where everything would go. But then the Omicron wave came through and non-urgent work orders (like picture hanging) were put on hold. And by the time they weren’t, there was already a non-zero chance that we’d be leaving. I figured I’d wait until we knew for sure whether we’d be staying or going.
And now?
I find it easier and easier to let go of the feeling that I have to find ways to make this place work for me.
I didn’t correct the woman at the embassy last week to tell her that we had, in fact, arrived last summer when she waved to Nicolas and said how nice it was to “see a new family at post.”
I didn’t feel the need to hide my lack of surprise when somebody remarked at book club that without it, she wasn’t even sure she’d have ways to meet somebody living off compound like me. (That was, of course, part of the reason I founded it.) And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I want book club continue to grow and flourish; the monthly meetings have been a bright spot in an otherwise pretty lackluster tour. But I also have no stakes in the game anymore.
Even though we don’t exactly know when we’re leaving, we’re short-timers now.
I have said before (after hearing it from others) that there’s a rhythm to this Foreign Service life of coming and going. And that sometimes there’s even an interlude of feeling truly settled before it’s time to start packing again.
But this stop? Always only ever felt transitory.
And there’s a certain relief in being able to just sink into that right now.
