Culture Shock

This home of mine is strange to me. I don't understand why everyone is speaking English. What's up with the accent? And where is the sun? You can't handle the heat? What? I can't remember which coins are which. I can now seek people's eyes as I walk down the street, but they don't look at me; they don't smile. Bananas? Is that the most exciting fruit we can come up with? Why do I have so many clothes in my closet? And for goodness sakes, why are that girl's breasts popping out of her shirt?

I walk the streets I've walked for a year. Wasn't I just here? Why does everything seem as if I haven't gone anywhere, yet is so different?

Bishop Ken still watches as I walk by and blesses me from the wall of the Cathedral. I breathe in the smell of roses and enjoy the soft green grass. The welcome sound of rain and thunder comforts me. A cup of tea, Gran doing her crosswords, Ian on the phone . . . so familiar, so why does it feel so foreign? Isn't this a place I belong, a place I feel at home? A place I love? Isn't this the country I could feel in my blood?