Today we ventured down I-95 and east toward our old stomping grounds. I had wondered how it would feel when I finally started seeing familiar landmarks. Would I be elated? Wistful? Or would I feel like a foreigner?

As the highway pulled me toward my former home, the overriding feeling I had was that I had never left Virginia. My life in Belgium became a dream I had woken from, and now I was once again back in my old routines. It was as if my mind had pulled a file from a folder called July Day in Virginia and hit replay.

Sure, there were changes, but nothing overly dramatic. When I saw my old house, I wasn’t awash in nostalgia. The kids were startled how “small” the yard seemed, and sad to see they were almost too tall for their old playhouse and too heavy to climb the trees in the front yard. Our tenant, J., had left the keys to the house so we could go inside.

I wandered through the rooms feeling less like I was revisiting my old home and more like I was seeing it for the first time. I kept thinking, “I really like this house,” while admiring various details. J has a different decorating style than I do, and it was interesting to see how she had put the rooms together and made the house her own. It was spotlessly clean and perfectly kept. It looked new.

I was thrilled to be able to use my old washer. It has double the capacity and takes half as much time to wash a load as my Belgian washer. So satisfying to stuff the drum and click it on and see it come to life. I know I’m a weirdo, but really, I so appreciate the convenience of my American appliances now. I wanted to reach out and hug my Kenmore frontloader.

When I stepped out to talk to E, who was working in the yard, he told me that J had said I could use the Jacuzzi if I wanted.

“Really? She really said that?”

“Yeah,” E said, “She’s the one who brought it up.”

I didn’t waste another moment. In a heartbeat I had the water running in the Jacuzzi and was grabbing a towel. When I lived in my house, I practically had a spiritual relationship with the master bath. Y’all, I’m not joking.

I can’t describe how good it felt to slip into that tub, start the jets, and experience the paradox of roiling water creating inner calm.

I don’t know if we’ll ever live in this lovely house again.

I don’t know where my children will go to school when we move back.

I’m not sure what town we’ll live in or what kind of home we’ll be able to afford, but while I’m sitting in the Jacuzzi, none of that matters.

The hum of its motor says “No worries,” and as my muscles unknot, I agree.

July 3, 2007