"This ain't no joke, the motor runs but the gears are broke. This ain't no lie, wheels won't turn, damn thing won't drive. This ain't no good, at all"

Flaskback: June, Election Day
Somewhere in Sukhbaatar Province, Mongolia

9:30pm

I could only blink at the two tires and clench my fists.  No need to ask questions.  No need to even speak.  I knew what it meant.  Staring at the two deflated tires I new it spelled doom for the rest of the evening.  The fact that all of the cars passengers were wandering aimlessly around the steppe, arms raised, cell phones pointed skyward, like technology obsessed zombies was no consolation.  It would have looked comical, if I didn't know what they were searching for.  A drop of service.  A bar of signal.  To call for help.

Earlier that day: Ondorkhaan, Mongolia

Me and Elliot stood at the bus station, waiting.  We had been waiting well past the time the bus was to arrive.  On its way from Ulaanbaatar we sought to hop aboard the bus and ride it a short five hours to Baruun-Urt, the capital of Sukhbaatar province to help out at a summer camp put on by one of our fellow volunteers.  Except the bus never came.  Contributing this to elections, we sat, half irritated, half unsurprised.  When up pulls a car.  "Going to Sukhbaatar?"  the driver asks.  We sure are, accepting his offer for a ride and thanking our good fortune.  After a handful of errands, packing the car to bursting with passengers, and a small intermission at the drivers home we set off for Sukhbaatar.  I turned to Elliot commenting how at this rate we'd be there while the sun was still up.  In a way I was right.

Afternoon: East of Ondorkhaan, Mongolia 

I saw it coming.  It came on almost in slow motion.  Out of all the rocks that I spied out the windshield this one seemed to glow.  Seemed to stand out amongst its stony brethren.  Perfectly positioned it sat, then it was upon us.  I cringed as it approached.  A sickening thud.  The sound of metal smacking against the resilience of stone.  We skidded to a halt.  Assessed the damage.  One tire deflated, the foreboding sound of hissing air could be heard before I even stepped from the car.  The driver set to work, taking tools out of the trunk.  The rear tire, also having not been spared the impact sat askew in its rim.  He gave it a short inspection, a little kick then moved on to the flat front tire.  After about half an hour the spare was on.  A spare that looked like it would be more at home on a ride around lawn mower than an automobile.  We continued our journey.  Each bump made me wince, always expecting our John Deere sized tire to explode upon the slightest disturbance.

The mountains that had always served as the backdrop to Khentii disappeared.  Now just horizon, blue sky over a sea of grass.  Flat expanse.  Nothing.  Sukhbaatar.  We hadn't been driving long when the driver suddenly made a hard right off the main road.  Instead of east towards Baruun-Urt we were now headed south.  The tall waves of grass, rippled in the wind as we left that main artery to our destination behind.  "Where are we going?", we asked.  "Don't worry my two friends," the driver exclaimed jovially, "I have to vote."  Not wanting to be one to withhold the man from his civic duties I sat back as we sped two hours out of our way to the nearest soum.  We arrived in a tiny town nestled between rare changes in elevation, but no one voted.  Instead we stopped to repair the damaged tire.  Elliot and I munched on a loaf of bread and watched. With new peace of mind and a full sized tire we set out the way we came.  This time veering off again into nothingness to stop at a lone building.  An island in a void of grass.  This is where our driver would vote.  In under thirty minutes he cast his ballot and we were off again.  It was after 9pm.  My head rested against the car window.  I no longer cringed with every bump.  The sun crept below the horizon.  Still far from the main road we had turned off of earlier I knew we'd never make Baruun-Urt before dark.  The bumpy road and soft radio began to lull me to sleep.  I started to doze.

I was jolted awake.  Familiar sound.  Metal against stone.  Skidding tires.  The hiss of rapid expelled air.  Next thing I know I'm standing aghast, blinking dumbfounded at our newly crippled vehicle.  Our pathetic spare could only remedy one of the lame tires.  We were stranded. It wasn't until after dark that we got the news.  The driver had found signal on his phone.  His friend would come get him.  He'd be back later with a new tire.  After midnight he was finally fetched by an old Russian truck.  We watched as it sped off into the night.  So with nothing to do but wait we sat in the car.  Hours crept by.  The other abandoned passengers slept.  Our minds raced.  Would he come back tonight?  Would we be stuck here until tomorrow?   We were truly deserted.  Lost in a sea of grass.  At least in the ocean you drift.  It was  after 3am when Elliot stirred me from attempted sleep.  "I think I see lights!"  I sat up.  Indeed two beams shown in the distance.  We watched in awe as a truck pulled up and out hopped our driver.  In no time they had two new tires attached, and after a cigarette and small talk with our rescuers he was ready to go again.  As we got back in the car to continue to our destination I saw the light of dawn begin to creep above the horizon.

6:00am: Baruun-Urt, Mongolia

Baruun-Urt was sleepy at 6am.  Streets were quiet.  No dogs barked.  No engines groaned.  We pulled into the bus station.  As we exited the car our tired looking friend came around the corner to meet us.  The driver handed me my bag and guitar and I took them greedily, fearing that a moment longer in the car's possession might trap me again with its next ailment.  Exhausted and frustrated I wanted to kiss the paved streets of Baruun-Urt and kick our unlucky instrument of transportation all at the same time.  As the car began to pull away, the driver stuck his head out the window.  "Call me when you want a ride back," he exclaims happily.

I could only fake a smile, blink, and clench my fists.  

"Father, whose arms extend eternity. A sky of blue above the human family. We gather now in circle ’round the foot of thee. You, the giving tree."

There is a place in Khentii.

A place Omnodelger claims as its own.  Its miles away though.  Over rough terrain, tall mountains, and through shallow rivers.  Wind through the valleys and rugged trails long enough and you'll find this place.

Its called Baldan Bereeven, and once upon a time it was the top religious center in eastern Mongolia.  It boasted as many as 3,000 monks and its population swelled further with frequent visiting pilgrims.  The small monastery, nestled in the mountains was a community in itself.  The monks and pilgrims lived and prayed together in this monastery by a lake.  That was so long ago.

Change swept through Russia, then through eastern Europe, then central Asia.  It wasn't long before the change came to Mongolia.  "No religion!"  So the change said.  The change found Baldan Bereeven, next to its mountains and little lake.  They came.  The pilgrims fled.  The monks, jailed and murdered.  The old stones of the monastery smashed and toppled to rubble.  That was all so long ago.

Today the central monastery has been restored, proving that tradition, religion, and customs can't be snuffed out so easily.  Though resilient, beautiful, and still alive, walking through Baldan Bereeven lets on a somber feeling.  Moving past the ghostly foundations of buildings that once housed dozens of monks one takes on the sense that Baldan Bereeven is now a shadow of its former self.  Though restored, it is a fraction of what it was, with only a hundred or so monks coming to pray in the monastery only in late summer.

The real magic of Baldan Bereeven lies in the things that could not be destroyed and toppled.  The shamanistic mixed with the Buddhist.  Things that withstood the test of time and the atrocities of man.  Walk around Baldan Bereeven and one will come across these sacred places.  Places that hold mystical wonder.  A rock when laid upon that cures a bad back.  A mediation place in a field that soaks energy from the sun.  A split boulder that when walked through restores health.  Stones carved with script, Buddhas, and symbols.  Faded paint and weathered edges.

At the base of Baldan Bereeven's mountains sits a tree.  A tree that grew through the ages.  Stretched skyward through decades.  Extended roots and branches through centuries.  Its called the Wishing Tree.  Be silent, stand close, make a wish and the tree will make it so.  I stood with my palms clasped and leaned into the ancient tree.  I could feel the cool bark against my forehead.  Eyes closed I could hear birds chirp.  A breeze rustled the wild flowers at my feet.    I strained, leaning in further for emphasis.

I made my wish.

Get well soon Dena.

"Who knows what you're gonna find. When you aren't even tryin'"

I trudged home from school in the early afternoon.  The sun was high in the blue sky.  The spring wind blew in from the steppe, sending swirls of sand and dirt along the road.  Involuntarily using a hand to shield my eyes and mouth I rounded the corner near the hospital and approached mine and Dakraa's hashaa.  I was greeted by Tuya and five of the loyal and resourceful school workers.  The last combined rain and snow storm had completely ruined my ger's felt roof.  The soaked wool had become streaked with mildew, resinating an unhealthy smell that seems to induce headaches and sore throats.  The workers had come to right this injustice.  Immediately setting to work.  They began disassembling my house.  Piece by piece, they took apart my sanctuary.  My things quickly becoming a scattered debris field across our hashaa.  The wind blew through the hashaa billowing the felt and lining of my ger like sails on a ship.  They reassembled it with just as much methodology as when they dismantled it.  Good spirited they jostled, laughed, and joked with one another as they worked.  As I helped where I could I watched in amazement as they put together my home as if it were a puzzle.  "Hetsuu baina uu?" (Is it difficult?)  I asked one of the workers as he stood struggling to hold the two center poles upright.  "No, its easy," he said matter of factly.  "Burdensome?"  I asked.  He narrowed his eyes at me and burst out laughing.  "Yes, yes."  Chimgee, my school's librarian and invaluable ally showed up out of the blue, diving in to help build my home as well as sweep the floors.  The whole process of tearing down and reassembling my home took around three hours.  Before I knew it I had a completed ger.  Now with a full sized floor and waterproof felt.  One of the workers gave the felt a hard slap, "If rain comes it is no problem for you anymore,"  he exclaimed.  I laughed and expressed my gratitude.  Sitting on the edge of my bed, my home although almost the same as before felt new.  Fortified against the weather I felt energized.
Let the rain come.
Let the wind blow.

"Forecast says there's a calm ahead. Mild days and sunny rain. Mountain breeze, days at ease. Clear skies overhead."

Flashback: Orkhon

A hot and sunny Saturday.  Barely a breeze and clouds were sparse.  It was to be our most distant hike yet.  Orkhon, nestled in its valley between rolling hills and far-off  mountains we often picked a hilltop not yet explored by our American eyes and set out every weekend.  We branched out hiking to farther peaks and crests, eager to experience a new view.  We headed out one sunny Saturday.  Five of us, armed with water bottles and backpacks.  Past Orkhon's rickety haashas and wooden houses.  Over gentle slopes and through dried up creek beds.  Into forgotten fields of Orkhon's discarded relics.  Weaving around herds of grazing goats and wandering sheep.  Orkhon became a distant speck at our backs.  The sun was hot, eagles circled overhead, and a breeze rustled through the wild grasses.  With  each pace of our sandaled feet sent a flurry of grasshoppers and insects jumping about.  Hopping alongside our toes with each step.  Like dolphins chasing the bow of a ship.  The elevation steepened.   Up the slope we went.  The Orkhon River snaked its way into our peripheral vision.  Lazily flowing through grassy plains and alongside mountains.  We skirted past a forest of boulders.  A few resting at awkward impossible angles.  Tossed aside by some ancient glacier.  It was all so peaceful.  The breeze picked up, billowing our shirts and accelerating clouds over head.  As we neared the summit we were met with quite a view.
A colorful ovoo,
A rocky slope,
and a sky divided.

"Forecast says there's a storm brewing. Heavy rain and heavy wind.  Batten down and board them up.  Best stay overhead."

As we looked out over the valley our blue sky changed to black.  The rolling white clouds turned dark and menacing.  The storm system extended for miles.  Far away we could see lighting streak down into the countryside and the unmistakable haze of a distant downpour.  Judging by the winds direction it would only be a matter of time before it passed over us.  Too far to make it back to Orkhon, we headed down the far slope to an outcrop of boulders.  We took shelter amongst the rocks and a lone tree as the first giant droplets began to fall.  The sky rumbled and the wind howled.  We laughed at our luck, at our situation, and nervously at the raw power of nature.  Drops splashed down the face of our boulders.  Lightening sizzled in the sky behind us.  It was easy to see why Mongolians and many other cultures held the sky as their most revered god.  Never before has nature impacted me the way it has in Mongolia.  I feel humble and mortal beneath its beauty and fury.  For me, its a necessary piece of perspective.  As quickly as the storm had set upon us it drifts away.  The rain settles to a drizzle then stops.  The sky changes from dark to light again and the storm moves onward to drench another remote hill.  Moving away from our primitive shelter, we continued our hike heading back towards Orkhon.  It was just another Saturday in Mongolia.  Just another memorable experience.

Omnodelger: Present day

I lie awake in bed.  Candle light flickering off the metal of my stove pipe.  My power is out.  It's been out for hours.  The candle light is usually therapeutic, relaxing.  Not tonight.  Wind billows outside.  Gusts sending the stove pipe clanging against the opening at the roof of my ger.  It stormed all day, now temperatures plummeted, that same rain has turned to snow.  My ger ceiling, made of sheep felt and wool has soaked through.  I don't have enough pots and pans for all the places it is dripping.  It streaks the walls and puddles on the floor.  Every so often a drop hits my stove.  Still hot with the evening's fire it lets out a hiss and a puff of steam.  I scrunch my feet aside in my blankets to avoid getting dripped on.  Once again I'm at the mercy of nature.
I lean over and blow out the candle.
Close my eyes.
Drift back to that day in Orkhon on the hill.

       

  

"Sure as I'm breathing. Sure as I'm sad. I'll keep this wisdom in my flesh. I leave here believing more than I had. This love has got no ceiling"

North of Omnodelger: February

I crunched uphill.  My boots the first to scathe the undisturbed snow.  Snow that fell months ago.  Dakraa was paces ahead of me, occasionally slowing and asking if I was tired or cold.  Marching uphill for the past hour with the heavy Mongolian deel and boots I was tired, and with temperatures in the negative forties I was cold.  These discomforts I didn't express to Dakraa though, I'd smile dutifully and assure him I was fine.  So we trudged upwards, towards some distant crest.  Passing by sparse trees I'd brush my hand along their branches as I passed.  It'd been so long since I had been around so many in one place.

We left hours earlier, stepping out into the cold from Tuya's mother's ger at the base of the Khentii Mountains.  Stepped out into the hodoo, the countryside, the backlands of Mongolia.  Tuya's mother, older brother, and two sisters, were nomads.  They dwelt miles outside the confines of Omnodelger, alone, save for the animals they herded.  When the livestock had expended the area's grass, they'd get up and move again.  I was invited to the solitude to help make preparations for the coming holiday Tsagaan Sar.  After an hour or so of pressing, kneading, and stretching dough Dawkraa grabbed up his rifle and exclaimed joyfully, "come Justin, lets go hunting."  As we exited the ger I saw Tuya shoot her husband a sidelong glance as if to say "typical".  Slinging the weapon over his shoulder I looked at him curiously, "What will we hunt?" I asked.  He just shrugged at me, "It doesn't matter."  I laughed nervously aloud at the prospect of marching off into the wild with a trigger happy Dakraa.  I thought better of trying to explain how hunting laws in New Jersey worked and how he'd surely be violating all of them and just mimicked his shrug of indifference and followed him up towards the mountains.

As we journeyed heading up the mountain's western face,  Dakraa began hooting and hollering into the void.  We hadn't encountered a living creature since setting out, making Dakraa's hunting rifle just a heavy prop.  He continued shouting hoping to stir some creature from its stationary roust.  Suddenly he stopped his whooping and called me to his side.  "There," he pointed, "a fat bird."  It certainly was.  Perched on a branch a couple dozen yards away, I could make out the silhouette of a  bird, with a large round body and tiny head, I was shocked the branch held its bulbous frame.  It was like a beach ball with a head.  "Here," Dakraa said, extending the rifle towards me.  The lack of chicken in my diet for sometime compelled me to take the weapon from him.  I crouched and held my breathe as I tried to judge the shot as best I could.  It wasn't fair that the bird was allowed to be so gluttonous, I would impart his sin unto me.  Pulling the trigger, I heard the thud of metal against wood and saw bark shear from the bird's tree.  Startled, it fluttered off towards the setting sun.  Dakraa laughed behind me.  I stood up and growled under my breath, I was less angry with my embarrassing shot then the fact that the bird, in its obese state was actually able to take flight.  Handing the gun back to Dakraa we set out at our continued pace towards the top of the mountain.

He stopped when we finally reached the summit.  Turning and gesturing for me to hurry up, I sprinted the last couple paces and was met with a mind boggling view.  Our small mountain gave way to a never ending expanse of ones just like it.  They were so vast and expansive that many seemed like mere bumps in the distance.  No roads, power lines, buildings or semblance of infrastructure could be seen anywhere.  Distant forests looked miniature and blurry, the horizon expanded to a hazy white.  If the landscape was daunting, the sky was even more so.  Mongolia's nickname "The Land of the Eternal Blue Sky" rang as true as ever.  A wash of spectacular blue that dwarfed the land it covered.  It seemed there was nothing blocking me from floating away into the blue void.  I was overcome with a feeling of being alone on the top of the world and I resisted the euphoric impulse to yell at the top of my lungs.  "Khentii,"  Dakraa said with a gesture of his hand, sweeping it towards the view that lay before us.  "Its beautiful," I answered just above a whisper.  He chuckled at my stupefied reaction, "Yes, it is," he said with an air that suggested he'd seen it a million times before.  "Lets go," he added and began trekking towards the mountains western rim.  I hung back until his footsteps had faded, until the silence engulfed me, a quiet so encompassing you can almost hear it.  I couldn't take my eyes away from the view, I snapped a picture, then followed in Dakraa's wake.

The sun was all but set as we neared Tuya's mother's ger that evening.  We had been gone the better part of the day.  As we got closer to the tiny round structure I saw a figure step outside.  It was Tuya, discarding some dirty dish water.  Uh oh, I thought remembering her look from earlier.  Dakraa's going to get it for being out so late, leaving them to work all day.  She looked up and to my surprise her face lit up as she saw us approach.  Quickening his pace to meet her, he stopped a step from her and with just as an animated expression as her's he began excitedly rattling off the events of the day.  She let him speak, without saying a word, just smiling up at him.  I'd never seen them show any kind of affection towards one another before but in that moment he took up one of her hands in his as he chattered on, playfully swinging it back and forth.  Suddenly, I took an unconscious step back.  Like my presence was somehow ruining the perfect moment.  The surprise of it all made me feel sentimental and cliche.  In a world where people marry for money, prestige, and insurance, here were two people in a small corner of our planet who had none of those things to fall on.  As I caught some words, Dakraa retold how I missed the fat bird then mimed my facial expression as I stood dumbfounded in front of the extensive mountains and endless sky.  Tuya made some jest back at him and they both went giggling and stumbling over each other as they ducked back into the ger.  At that moment I realized how much they really care about each, how lucky I am to live next to such warmhearted people, to share in their relationship.  It amazes me everyday, the things I learn from this place.

Love, like Mongolia, has no ceiling.

Congratulations Kelly and Sean.

"Sittin' down here, fallout shelter. Paint my walls, twice a week."

"Justin!"
Over the howl of the wind I could hear Tuya calling from behind me.
"Come here, hurry!"
I struggled to hold the camera steady, to take one more picture. I could taste the grit of sand and dirt on my tongue. The acrid smoke filled my nostrils. It stung my eyes and burned my throat. The wind had changed again. Blowing north. Sending it hurdling forward on a collision course with Omnodelger. Someone do something! I pleaded in my head.
"Justin! Quickly!"
I turned and ran back to where Tuya was standing, struggling to close the gate against the wind. Inside the small enclosure housed the towns meteorological instruments. Having taken the pictures like she instructed me to, I rushed to her side to help close the gate.
"This happens sometimes" she said. "Its very windy, its moving very fast," she exclaimed as the gate clanged shut.
"I'm scared," she said.
"Me too," was all I could answer.

Earlier that morning

Spring in Mongolia is windy, very windy. Occasionally this wind manifests itself in the form of dust storms or in the Gobi Desert, sandstorms. Flying dirt, sand, grit, and pebbles propelling themselves into your body and face is unpleasant. Thats why I was content to let the wind rock my ger while I hunkered inside and worked on making exams one Saturday morning. It was around eleven o'clock when I decided to brave the gusts for a much needed bathroom break. I made it several strides before I stopped dead in my tracks in the center of my yard. The "eternal blue sky" was marred by an enormous plume of smoke. It poured upwards, ominously billowing out, its clouds rolling and expanding, threatening to blotch out the sun. My bathroom break now forgotten I ran over to the fence that separates my hashaa and climbed onto it to get a better look. The steppe was alight. The tall grasses burning wildly outwards in a dark menacing circle. There was no one else around to express my concerns to, the streets were quiet save for the roaring wind. I jumped down from my perch and scurried over to Dakraa's. Tried the door. Locked. Since living in Mongolia I've grown accustomed to tolerating things that seem out of the ordinary or dangerous. But I needed to know if this was normal. Banging on the door fruitlessly, I realized there was no one home.

Ducking back inside my ger I grabbed up my phone and texted Tuya asking what was going on. As I attempted to make myself lunch waiting for a reply I tried justifying the fire in my head. Mongolians are always burning trash, maybe its Super Trash Day? I can't be the only one to have noticed it. It must be controlled? Right? A familiar sound tore through the air, giving me my answer.

Air raid sirens.

Blaring somewhere from my towns center, they wailed their warning of imminent danger. The knife I was holding landed with a clang onto the cutting board as I burst back out into daylight and climbed back atop my perch. The sight I was met with shocked me. The wind had accelerated the fire at an alarming rate. In the fifteen or so minutes since I had been inside, the fire had spread, defining the topography of the steppe with blackened grass and scorched earth. From my high and distant position I could actually see it moving. The ring turning the steppe black, crawling towards Omnodelger. As I gaped, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Tuya. After translating I laughed nervously aloud at her reply, reading her message only added to the drama.  "A mighty conflagration is coming, stay there, I'm coming." When Tuya finally arrived some minutes later, she told me that the soum's men would go out to fight the fire. I clutched for my jacket and stood up asking where I could meet them. "No, she said, I need your help," shaking her head. "Please watch Misheel, I must go to work and check the wind."

So I sat on the floor of my ger with six year old Misheel and we played shagai. She hummed and giggled to herself as she played, the air raid sirens continued to blare their warning outside. I put on a smile and tried not to let on my concerns. Ten minutes later Tuya was back with her mother. "Justin, please bring your camera and come to work with me, I need your help." So we left Misheel with her mother and began walking briskly towards the edge of town. "If it gets close we will go to my mother's home in the countryside" she said as we reached the tiny fenced in area holding all of the Soviet hand-me-down weather predicting elements. We were closer to it now, smoke billowed and poured over the gentle hills of the steppe. The wind whipped wisps of grey and black through the air. It looked apocalyptic. She instructed me to take as many pictures as I could while she read her instruments. I jogged out several paces closer to the blaze and began snapping away.   How would they put a stop to it? Omnodelger has no fire department, no trucks, not even a consistent water supply.  

Minutes later we were headed back towards my ger.  Tuya had me e-mail her wind statistics and the pictures I took to a meteorologist in the closest town to the south.  "A warning," she said sternly.  I took it as it served as a way for them to be prepared if it started heading in their direction.  To this day I still don't know how the blaze was stopped.   Later Bolormaa and Munkhkherlen came bursting into my ger coughing and exhausted.  They too had been called to combat the fire.  I gave them tea and made soup, feeling guilty that my role was so minor in assisting our tiny town.  They explained that Omnodelger was safe now, the fire was under control and nothing was damaged save for a garbage dump just outside of town.  The fire, they said was probably started by a careless herder, tending his flock and discarding a dying cigarette.

The next morning a smoky haze could still be seen lingering over the steppe.  The dark blackened smear ending mere yards away from the closest hashaa.  I couldn't help but reflecting that months before I was praising fire, our ability to harness it, how it warms us, fights the unforgiving cold, makes us comfortable and safe.  The scarred landscape outside of Omnodelger serves as a reminder that it has the power to take all that away.

"Ah Mary. She'll bake you cookies then she'll burn your town. Ah Mary. Ashes ashes but she won't fall down."

New Jersey, United States of America

I could feel my heart racing, my palms getting sweaty. The Best Buy clerk looking at me expectantly, presenting two of the fifty options for headphones in each of his hands. He started repeating maybe for the tenth time what all of the different varieties did. Wireless ones, not wireless ones, Bluetooth ones, ones with microphones, ones without, ones that "lock" in your ear, black ones, red ones, white ones, ones that apparently massage your neck while you listen. I screamed inside my head, Christ, I just want to hear my music! I wanted to apologize, somehow explain my indecisive breakdown. How I'd been in a place for ten months where when I went in a store and asked for something the clerk hands me the one option there is, I smile, say thank you, slap money on the counter and I'm out the door.

Up until this point I felt like I had handled the reverse culture shock well, that I hadn't been affected by the re-acclamation from an underdeveloped country back into a developed one. New things like phones that talk to you and make your life choices and little pods of Tide laundry detergent (Tidepod?) amused me rather then made my head spin trying to comprehend them. People often asked, "Is it weird being back?" The only answer I could give that sums up my feelings best was it feels familiar but entirely unfamiliar. I went home knowing I would appreciate my mother country all the more. Things like running water, constant electricity, and climate control were much more well received then when I left. Those things I expected though. What I didn't expect was how much more the consumerism stuck out, the advertising, the countless options of everything from headphones to toothpicks. Is this one of the many ways America stays on top? Is this why Mongolians I associate with hold my country in such awe? Why the average American can't place Mongolia on a map? I chuckle at the thought of having Dakraa or one of my coworkers standing beside me in the mall, just to watch their reaction.

Being home, while giving me new perspective also refreshed me beyond measure. My fears about whether or not I'd appear different in my family and friends eyes seemed to extinguish the minute I stepped back in my house. Everyone seemed the same, and I hope I seemed the same to them too. Within days it was like I had never left. Old routines with people I shared my time with ten months ago were the same. I only wish I had more time. I felt as though I wanted to see everyone all the time all at once. The two weeks back in New Jersey was just what I needed. The generosity and curiosity of the people I care most about surprised and humbled me. I'm so blessed to have so much love coming from two continents. So to my friends and my family you have all my gratitude. I hope to see you all next time I cross the gap.