Being grateful for pickpockets and petty thieves

Thanksgiving is a strange time to be away from your family in a country that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving.

There are so many things to miss, and by extension, so many things to be grateful for.

Mostly people. There are so many people I miss. And I am grateful that they are, or have been, or will be again, a part of my life.

I'm grateful also, when reading the awful headlines of the last couple of weeks, to be ensconced in a corner of the world that doesn't feel so threatened, or so much in the spotlight, like Paris or New York. It's a bit ironic when you think about it, because while those of us who are new here fear pickpockets and petty thieves, other Americans who have lived here longer feel more apprehensive when they return to the States. They fear greater harm on a broader scale from more calculating criminals.

When I read in the newspaper about the painful things that happen in the world, it does make me grateful for all the the things that I'm not. Not a refugee. Not homeless. Not a hostage. Not a victim. Not in a country that currently finds itself in the crosshairs of mass violence and indiscriminate destruction.

Sometimes on my bus ride home the strangest, smallest thing will make me feel homesick.  Like not knowing a word in a sign... At home, I would understand what all the signs are advertising. Or getting confused about the route the bus driver is taking home. In New York I always knew where I was, or at least which subway could get me back to a place I knew.

A lot of people seem to teach abroad because they are escaping something. (I suppose I am, too, if boredom and predictability count...I never did like coloring inside the lines.)  But I am grateful that the thing from which I am escaping is not my family. My family is my home. And although I am feeling homesick, I am grateful that I have a home to return to.