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Thomas Wolfe was right.

After that first year in Japan I tried to go home, but I couldn’t. I tried a couple more times after Korea, Thailand, and Laos and I still couldn’t go home.

Twenty-three years later, I am still in Asia but now I don’t want to go home. That’s what happens when you’re a migratory bird.

After all these years, there are some things I do miss like meatloaf and mashed potatoes—the kind that my mother used to make, God rest her soul—raking autumn leaves, the smell that rain has when it falls on hot blacktop, or Sunday afternoon football, but these are just some of the trade-offs; ones I’ve learned to live without. Homesick? It’s a word that seems foreign to me now.

One can never really have their fill of ancient stone cities, golden pavilions, Reclining Buddhas, or misty mountain temples, now can they?