This morning I woke up in my sister’s bed in Atlanta. I’ve spent the last three months sorting through all of my earthly poisonous and they’ve been stored, burnt, donated or forced upon my friends. My cat is safely stowed at my parents.

I thought that I would feel relief the second I got on the plane. “It is what many people told me- the second you get on that plane, all this stress will go away.”

They were wrong. My mind was doing jumping-jacks around my last conversation and goodbye to my tearful sister through my watery eyes.

I knew that saying goodbye to my family was going to be hard. I didn’t know I’d have to say goodbye to my precious grandmother with oxygen tubes pressed below her nose in a hospital bed. I didn’t think my sister would on the verge of getting engaged before I left for this trip.

There were a lot of things I didn’t think. But I kept thinking about all of them in seat 39A as Atlanta melted in the green distance behind the plane and I sunk into what I hoped would be a longer nap than it was.

After the 8 hour flight, I grabbed my wheelie (her name is Myra) and my backpack (Gustav) and paced off the plane.

It hit me. It hit me then. The feeling I’d been waiting for, the flooded rush of being foreign again.

I noticed that tall blondes dotted my periphery and men slouched differently, language trailed out of people’s mouths as if they were some perversion of English that was meant to be a joke everyone was pulling on me. “Let’s speak this crazy language today and make Natalie think she’s lost her mind.” Whether or not anyone decided this, it does always feel this way. The second you become a foreigner in a land that you can’t claim, name or recognize.

I’ve arrived to Amsterdam, and am waiting at the gate to go to Hamburg.

The last time I was here (April to June of this year, just a few months ago), it was hot. Now everyone has coats, boots, scarves, sweaters, and no shortage of trench coats.

I’m wearing the wrong pants. In Europe, I am perpetually wrong-panted. ALWAYS THE WRONG PANT. These are mint leggings from target. They are cotton and fabulous, but they are ill-advised for Germany in October. I knew this but I didn’t care. I have time enough to wear the right pants, and I have two sweaters and a warm poncho. Suck it, gawkers. You wish you had these mint leggings and yes they are from Target and no you don’t have that here.

(Sometimes you have to get sassy with the passersby in fake conversations in your head so that you feel safe, known, since you obviously don’t fit in).

It’s good to be an outsider again. It’s so thick around me, the feeling of being a visitor again. I let a yawn swallow me as I put my bags down at this transfer gate. A man turned to me and said something in (I think) Dutch that was something like (I think) “You must be tired” or “Did you just wake up?” or “I saw those pants at Target!” but I can’t tell you because I don’t know what he said. I winced and said “I don’t speak [hand gesture], sorry.” You can’t say “Dutch” because well they call it something else I think.

Myra and Gustav comfort me. They walked this continent with me last time, they will guide me through again.

They are finally announcing my flight. Destination: Hamburg. See you in Germany!

False alarm, they had a gate change for some other flight.

After waiting in a constipated line at customs, I finally made my way up to the visa counter. My friend (who is already in Hamburg, waiting to greet me when I get there!) had endless conversations about this crossover. What if they look through our passports and see our stamps, and figure we’ve been here before and don’t let us in or ask us if we are looking for work??

I said “Hi” as I approached the gentleman and he said “Hi, where are you going?” and I said “Hamburg.” and he said “Hamburg. OK” and I watched the stamp lower onto the misleadingly empty pages of my passport. I trained through most of Europe the first time, and then flew “domestically” so I didn’t get any stamps!! This was an exciting new talisman for me, a Dutch stamp.

That was too easy. He was cute so I should have said “Want to come to Hamburg, too?” but these aren’t things I say out loud, however much Europe encourages me to do so.

Goal number one has been achieved, everything else is just extra. I sold my stuff, everything, and I am back to Europe.

Check.