Wong kito galo.

Before I left Indonesia for my visit home, I was really struggling in Palembang. I love Indonesia. I love all the places I’ve been able to travel. But I really don’t like Palembang. And that’s not to say I haven’t been trying.

I accept any invitation to do anything. Karaoke? Give me the microphone. Dinner at a random food stall? Give me just a second to grab my Immodium. Party of someone I’ve never met? I’m signing the birthday card now.

But try as I might, I just couldn’t convince myself that I liked the city. It didn’t help that all the other places I traveled to seemed so much more exotic and welcoming. Even being in Depok (which is certainly welcoming but not quite exotic) made me want to request a transfer. (No, that’s not really an option.)

I met with a few Americans who were traveling through Palembang a few days before I left for Christmas. They said it’s their least favorite city in the whole archipelago. “You live way out there?” they asked. “You live by yourself? You teach all those spoiled kids at that rich school? No internet? No television?”

One of them told me they read an old guide book about Indonesia, in which Palembang had the esteemed review, “Don’t bother going here.” In my guidebook, even a recommended week-long tour of the island of Sumatra doesn’t include it.

The sweet retired American couple I met at the English Library have become like adoptive parents to me here. They traveled all around Indonesia, which is why they accepted a three-year position in Palembang, assuming it would be like the rest of the country.

“There are days here when I literally search the internet for flights home,” the wife told me. “It is nearly unbearable.”

I was nearly overwhelmed by feelings of guilt. Was I just not trying hard enough? I eat everything they put in front of me (minus more of that fish soup), I go everywhere I can, and I talk to everyone I can. Is is possible that the city just isn’t that great? I certainly can’t be expected to love every single place in the world, right? Aren’t there just some that are better than others? At least Palembang makes me appreciate the other cities in Indonesia that much more, I reasoned. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was my fault, as though if I’d tried harder or been smarter or more adventurous or braver if might be ok.

The new Lonely Planet was released recently, and they revamped the description a bit:

“Sumatra’s second-largest city, Palembang is a manic concrete sprawl with little to offer anyone but the true urban enthusiast… the core industries [are] oil refining, fertilizer production and cement manufacturing, which all scent the air with a distinctive odor you might first mistake as your own funk. Chances are you’re passing North or South if you’re here. While the city ain’t much to look at, be sure to stick around for at least a meal… Palembang fare takes a while to get used to.”

At least we’ve been upgraded from “don’t bother” to “maybe attempt to swallow lunch.”

I returned to Palembang by way of Jakarta from America. I was so upset at the thought of coming back to the city that I stayed with Christine until the day before classes started.

My former roommate Leslie and I have been emailing back and forth a lot, and I told her about how I just couldn’t stand Palembang. She commiserated, and she said how frustrating it can be to be surrounded by other people who LOVE their experiences, who couldn’t possibly IMAGINE being anywhere else, who are simply the HAPPIEST they’ve ever been in their lives. But then she said something else. What would happen… if I just started saying I loved Palembang?

I assure you, this was a thought, not a plan. I have done absolutely nothing different since I’ve been back. I’m exactly the same person… but something has changed. I’m not trying any harder.

This city is starting to grow on me like a fungus. Now buses drive by and spray me with smog or dirty rainwater, and I laugh a little and say, “Gosh, isn’t this place just awful?” The internet company charged me TWICE this month for my internet which DOESN’T WORK. This time, instead of using gentle reasoning and try to make my counterpart my translator, I went in nearly shouting “AKU MARAH!” (I am angry!) They reimbursed me immediately and took lots of happy, smiling photos of me with each of the employees. I’ve discovered that if I pretend the food I’m given was cooked at a clean restaurant with tableclothes and napkins, it tastes immeasurably better. I have found food that I love. Is there anything greater?

Part of the change might be because of my trip home. I was shocked at how far away, emotionally and geographically, I felt from Indonesia. It was a reminder that someday soon this all will be just a memory.

I am starting to love this city in the way I started to love my last name. No one could spell it. No one could say it. No one in the same city ever shared it. But eventually, I realized that it was mine. Sometimes I feel like this ugly smelly dog of a city belongs exclusively to me. No English radio station, tv station, or newspaper? Of course not! This is the real Indonesia. No one wants to visit? Why should they? It’s mine.

Would anyone really recommend vacationing in Bucyrus, Ohio or Muncie, Indiana? No, but I’ve sure loved the heck out of those places.

The title of this blog, “Wong kito galo,” reflects everything I’ve been feeling. It’s written in Palembangese, which is a slightly different language than Bahasa Indonesia, and what everyone speaks here. (And speaks loudly here.) Wong is a slang term for “orang” or person. “Kito” is the Pbang form of “kita” or “we.” And “galo” means “mine.” So literally it means “person we mine.” But people in Palembang use it as a phrase that means essentially “This is mine.” This is my city. These are my people. This belongs to me. Wong kito galo, Palembang.

The woman of the couple from the English Library told me some jokes an old ex-pat friend told her about living in Palembang:

“You know you’ve been in Palembang too long…

…when you hug your toilet more than your spouse.

…when you don’t wake up coughing in the middle of the night.

…when the best part of your week is discovering the grocery store remembered to stock toilet paper.

…when someone says ‘Gee, that smells bad’ and you honestly don’t know what they’re talking about.

…when an Indonesia doesn’t shout something at you or try to take your picture and you say, ‘Hey, buddy! What the hell do you have against me?!’”

Sounds kind of terrible, doesn’t it? And isn’t it just terrific?

Rain, rain... go away.

Indonesia has two seasons: hot and rainy. When I first heard that, I thought it was some kind of joke I didn't understand. It's not. (Unless, I mean, I still don't get it.) For six months of the year, the weather is hot hot hot and dry dry dry. The other half of the year, roughly October - March, it rains.

This is the view from outside my house. I'd say it rains like this for at least two hours every day now. It's not terribly hard, but it's enough to make me want to stay inside. And it usually takes out the power. On the other hand, my water hardly ever runs out during the rainy season like it did all the time during the hot season.

Holding a camera steady has never been my forte.

If you're safely inside, it really creates kind of a nice sound to listen to.

Chirp chirp! Go B-S-U!

Thanks to Dr. Ruebel, I had a list of Ball State alumni living in Indonesia. They were all Indonesians who once studied at the university. Unfortunately, none of them answered my emails. Luckily, before I had to resort to just showing up on doorsteps, I heard from Dr. Caristi. Through a number of different people, he put me in contact with Bagus Hadi, a BSU alum living in Jakarta. After many phone calls and emails, he introduced me to a couple who had both traveled to America on Fulbrights and had both studied at Ball State and lived in Muncie with their three children for three years in the ‘80s.

Props to Samantha and Kristian for sending me some awesome Ball State t-shirts.

Thumbs up for Muncie.

It was really terrific to meet them—like a little piece of home. They call the years they spent in Muncie “a dream.”

“Do you know Tillotson Avenue?” they asked.

“YES!”

“Do they still do bed races for homecoming?”

“YES!” I answered.

I think the meeting was as good for them as it was for me. They said they’d spent some time in Ann Arbor, and I frowned.

“I don’t like Michigan,” I said.

“Wait, wait…” said Chuzai. “You don’t like Michigan… because… you are from Ohio. And people from Ohio State do not like Michigan! I remember! I remember!”

They’re both professors at the local university now.

We spent dinner reminiscing about Middletown and McKinley Avenue and chatting about how the campus has changed in the last quarter century.

Cardinal pride extends all the way around the world. Chirp chirp!

Boom!

I’m about to do something rash, so brace yourselves. I’m going to compare my year spent teaching English in Indonesia to the children’s holiday movie Home Alone for the second time. You remember how terrified little Kevin is of the furnace in his basement? This is not an exaggeration. I feel exactly that same way about my gas burners.

I even have a gas stove at home in America, so you’d think I’d be better prepared for this. But at home, you don’t see the hose connecting the tiny tanks to your two burners (one of which works on consistent basis).

They’re this lime green color. All the better for lurking just inside my peripheral vision and startling me as I type an email, like these tiny little gnomes of explosiveness. They are always so covered in dirt that they look like they belong more in an antique store or historical museum than in my kitchen.

Four a half months into my fellowship, and I still cannot light the thing without turning my head away from the flame as it ignites. I suppose I reason that if it explodes, I stand a better chance of salvaging my face that way.

Of course, it doesn’t help that my first week in Palembang, someone’s gas tank exploded on Sumatra somewhere. The teachers told me the story with horrifying hand gestures. “BOOM,” they said, their hands and eyes spreading wide open like they were only talking about fireworks.

“Did… anyone get hurt?” I ventured.

“Twenty houses… BOOM!” was the answer.

So now not only was I responsible for nightmares about MY gas tanks, I had to worry about a twenty-house radius surrounding me.

I was eventually lulled into a false sense of security. Those tanks gave me hot water for washing my face. They gave me ramen noodles.

Until one was empty.

It went out for the first time right in the middle of one of three precious packages of alfredo noodles my mom sent me. The fire just died. I wanted those noodles. They were my reward to myself for having endured the bathroom at school twice that day. (I had been very thirsty.)

I decided to go and ask my neighbors for help, since there was a spare tank under the sink. I tried looking up the word for “gas” in the dictionary, well aware that I would probably end up saying something really gross to them in another mis-translation, but the word wasn’t in there. (I learned later that’s because the word for “gas” in Indonesian is still “gas.”)

So I knocked on my neighbor’s door and waited while they shuffled around inside. It was about 7 o’clock, and Indonesians go to bed ridiculously early, since they all get up well before dawn to pray. My neighborhood is completely dark and silent by 8:30pm.

When they came to the door, I said, “NO FIRE IN KITCHEN!” in Indonesian. But what young neighbor comes across the street and wakes you up to tell you that there is not a fire in her kitchen, right?

Naturally, they assumed my kitchen was on fire.

Panic ensued. They raced over immediately, shoving their dozen small children (all right, four kids) out of their path. They were visibly confused and perturbed when they did not see flames in my sink. I pointed to the tank. “No fire.” Ahh.

The husband fiddled around with it for a while and tried the spare tank, which it turned out was also empty. He said I’d have to wait until the next day to get them refilled. I grudgingly thanked him and he went back to bed, taking with him the twenty or so other neighbors who’d come in to my house to see what all the commotion was about.

My ojek driver filled them for me. Even after paying him, it cost me less than $1. But he had to switch the tanks, which, curiously, involves a sharp kitchen knife and many rubber bands.

I watched, peering through the doorway with one eye open and hands covering my face, from the living room. I wondered what would happen if he exploded and whether or not I would be charged with financially supporting a small family in Palembang for the rest of my life.

It didn’t explode. I tipped him well.

Weeks later, two men appeared at my door and told me I had to buy some special hose attachment for the tanks. They said they were from the government, and I demanded to see their IDs. They showed me some papers, which I realized may or may not have been government identification—I had no clue. I raised my eyebrows and tried to look suspicious.

They told me the attachment was a new government policy and would protect me if one of the tanks fell over in my absence. They said all my neighbors had bought them, too. The thing cost $30, which is an awful lot of money here.

I told them I couldn’t afford it and sent them on their way. Then they offered to help me pay for it out of their own pockets. Well, that seemed unnecessary, especially since I was lying in the first place. I forked over the cash, and I’m still not sure if they were telling the truth or not.

If you want to con me, threaten me with those gas tanks. There is no single greater motivating fear in my life right now, which is really saying something, considering where I’m living.

I showed the school my receipt, and they seemed to think it looked ligit, although they’d never heard about the policy themselves. I’m still hoping they reimburse me.

Life was fine again until I returned home from America. I walked in and immediately smelled something funny. I figured it was the standing water in my sink, which hadn’t been moved around in almost three weeks.

Of course, it was the gas tank. Leaking. Thanks, new $30 hose attachment.

I resolved not to use the stove until after I could call someone to come look at the stove. Of course, then the power went out. And it was dark.

I was excited, actually, to use the new battery powered lantern Mom bought me for Christmas. Until, by the light of my cell phone, I discovered that it had somehow gotten turned on during the flight, and the batteries were already dead, before I ever got to use it.

Candles were my only option… candles that needed to be lit with a lighter or match.

But it was either that or sit in the dark. I debated. Then, I got the candle and the lighter and pressed myself against the front door, as far away as I could get from the kitchen.

Sccrrattch. The lighter lit, and I did not explode. There are no small victories in my life these days.

My ojek driver came the next morning, and he confirmed that my gas tank was leaking, and he fixed it. I think.

Tomorrow will be another battle, but I’ll risk my life as many times as I need to for the sweet taste of macaroni and cheese.

A Mid-Year Evaluation

According to my calculations, January 13, 2010 is the exact mid-point of my scholarship. In fact, I’m spending this weekend in Makassar at AMINEF’s Mid-Year Conference. So it seems like an appropriate time to see how I’m doing on the list of 20 goals I made for myself back in August.

1. Take lots of pictures.
Check.

2. Learn to speak Indonesian.
This is a toughie—can I communicate all my basic needs? Yes. Can I do anything beyond that? Well, not very far beyond that. It’s hard to practice; everyone I meet just wants to practice English, and it doesn’t seem like there’s going to be much use for Indonesia once I move back to the US, but yes, I could push myself a little more to study at home.

3. Eat lots of native foods, especially fruit.
Check. I like how I thought this needed to be goal. The only things I HAVE to eat here are native foods. My favorites thus far? Pindang, tempeh, nasi uduk, manggis, and, of course, rambutan.

4. Keep up with this blog at least twice a week.
Mmm… check. Except for the two weeks I was home.

5. Read all of the books I brought.
Check. I didn’t read anything during the month of orientation in an effort to conserve, but I finished all 24 in my first three months in Palembang. Don’t worry—I brought back an additional 23 pounds of them.

6. Use my new video camera.
This is one I need to work on. It turns out I forgot the cord I needed to connect the camera to my computer, so that seriously limited my video-editing and video-sharing potential. Mom also bought me this nifty little pocket camera for Christmas that hooks up directly to my laptop, no cords required. I’ll do better this time around.

7. Find an English newspaper in Palembang.
Um, there simply is not an English newspaper in Palembang. That much is obvious. I think there is a really small television station, however, which I only just discovered because I don’t have a tv to watch. I’m going try to visit.

8. Get my nails done.
Check.

9. Prepare some authentic Indonesian food from a recipe.
Debate: did the food need to be edible? I attempted nasi uduk (coconut rice), but it was soupy and lumpy and altogether pretty disgusting. I could try this again.

10. Track down the Rafflesia flower.
Grr. Planned an entire trip to Bukittinggi—not blooming, saw the bud. Visited the Bogor Botanical Gardens—no flower there anymore.

11. See an orangutan in its natural habitat.
I’ve seen one at an Indonesia zoo, but I haven’t seen one in the jungle yet. Mission unaccomplished.

12. Ride an elephant.
I also rode an elephant at the zoo, but I had to share with four other people, and I had to pay for all of them. And the poor elephant kept getting hit on the head, so it was a relatively unsatisfying experience. Mission also unaccomplished.

13. Keep in touch with people at home.
This is somewhat harder than I anticipated, since I don’t have the internet at my house and the post office is almost an hour away, but I think I’ve been doing a satisfactory job.

14. Stay up to date on US news.
Uhh. I know all about Tiger Woods—does that count? This is one I definitely need to work on. Phil Bremen suggested I get a short wave radio, so I’m going to find one of those since I don’t have tv or internet. I listen to NPR podcasts, but I can do better.

15. Meet at least one Ball State alum living in Indoneia.
No one answered the emails I sent out from the list of alumni Dr. Ruebel gave me; however, Dom Caristi found a man who lives in Jakarta who knew an alum living in Palembang. We’ve been in touch, and I think we’re going to meet up next week! And I did meet the Bucyrus, Ohio native, which I never thought would happen.

16. Travel to tons of places around Indonesia.
Check. And I will visit more in the next 4.5 months.

17. Bring back special souvenirs.
I’m really excited about this one. I loved all the presents I brought home for Christmas. I’m going to try to buy fewer things on this half so I can actually get all of my own belongings home. I’d still like to find some kind of jewelry souvenir for myself.

18. Learn more about Islam.
Check. Check. Check. And still learning.

19. Get in the Columbus Dispatch Travel section.
I took three different pictures—at the Monkey Forest Sanctuary, with the Rafflesia bud, and at Borobudur—of me holding up the paper, and now I just have to send one in.

20. Grow as a person.
Sigh. There’s no real way to evaluate this, is there? I read one Fulbrighter’s blog who said he/she “isn’t scared of anything anymore.” I am still scared of plenty of things. But I’m growing, certainly in terms of patience and tolerance. We’ll have to evaluate this more thoroughly in May.

And a couple additions—

21. See the Komodo Dragons.
Somehow this missed my list the first time. I simply MUST see them! Safely. From a distance.

22. Find somewhere to volunteer.
I have plenty of free time, and I’d like to use it better. The only problem is finding somewhere that needs me and finding a way to get there, since I don’t have my own transportation. I’ll get to work on this after I’m back from Makassar.

23. Travel somewhere on my own.
I am only including this in spirit of full disclosure. I added this to my list months ago, and I think since then I’ve decided to take it off. It sounded so empowering to imagine myself traveling around Indonesia on my own. Since then, however, I’ve learned that it probably just wouldn’t be safe, especially when I have so many other willing travelers around the country. We’ll count my trip home as one I did on my own.

I'll be home for Christmas...

I decided to go home for Christmas for a number of reasons, but the most pressing of those was that I missed my family, and I wanted to celebrate the season with them.

At first it surprised me, but I guess it really shouldn’t have, that Indonesians were overwhelmingly more supportive of my visiting home than Americans. I heard a lot of “This is supposed to be nine months in Indonesia—not nine months but two weeks at home” or “Go somewhere else; you can spend the rest of your life in America.”

For a while, I even felt guilty telling people I was using my two-week break to go back to the country where I came from.

For once, though, my Indonesian friends and I were perfectly in sync.

When I said I was going home to celebrate Christmas in America, they all simply said, “Of course! You should be with your family. Bring us presents!”

To them, it wasn’t a question of strength or weakness; it was simple: you spend the most important days in your home with the people you love.

My trip home was not a pause on my year of self and world discovery; in fact, I think it was an important part of it. I’m back in Palembang now with a renewed sense of purpose and an even greater confidence in my role this year—to experience, to learn, to grow, and to share.

And also I now have many boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.

Dear GOD it takes an awfully long time to get to the other side of the world. Fourteen days minus all the traveling translates into roughly nine days in America.

Door to door, Palembang, South Sumatra to Bucyrus, Ohio took 49 hours. But if the first half of my year has taught me anything, it’s that even “getting there” is an adventure.

One of my students drove me to the airport, along with two of my fellow English teachers. They asked questions the whole way about what I bought everyone for Christmas presents, whether or not I thought it would be snowing when I arrived, and what perhaps I was thinking I might bring back for them.

“What if you meet your soul mate when you’re home and you don’t want to come back?!” Miss Laily asked.

I assured her that I would come back, soul mate or not. (Not, as it turns out.)

Indonesian airlines only allow 20kg total for baggage, so of course, my luggage was overweight. I was getting ready to fork over all my money when a man behind me spoke up (in English!) and offered to check in with me, so I could use the weight he had left over, thus saving myself tens of thousands of rupiah.

“Merry Christmas!” he said.

“Merry Christmas!” I shouted, and I skipped off down the terminal.

Plane 1: Palembang to Jakarta (1 hour)

No problems at all, except that I had to wait for my bags after the flight and wrestle the beasts onto the shuttle to the international terminal. The sweet customs agents waived the $250 visa exit/entry free, which they sometimes but not always do. I checked in for all of my remaining flights and shuddered only a little when the woman behind the desk said, “And your final plane will depart in just under two days. Here’s your boarding pass.”

And so I waved goodbye to my fat red suitcases and goodbye to Indonesia.

Plane 2: Jakarta to Singapore (1.5 hours)

I had a five-hour layover in Jakarta, but my excitement kept me in excellent traveling shape. Singapore was a different story. A long story. A 12-hour-layover-story.

On the flight there, I flipped through the airline magazine, and I found a picture I really loved. “Marina Bay Countdown,” the title read. Apparently, in Singapore’s Marina Bay, they do the very coolest thing to welcome the new year. They hand out white beach balls of all different sizes, and people write their wishes all over them in Sharpies before releasing them into the bay to go mingle with all the other beach ball wishes.

I wish I could go there, I thought. And then I realized… I could go there. For the first time in my life, I just ripped a page out of a magazine, stood in line and went through immigration, carried the photo to a cab driver, pointed at it, and said, “I’d like to go there, please.”

Now my little wishes are bobbing up and down in Marina Bay somewhere.

Ok, fine. I didn't take this picture.

It was one of the most liberating things I’ve ever done in my life, I swear. I found it all by myself. Singapore is terrific: all bright lights and friendly people and magical beach balls.

Of course, even after my rendezvous downtown, I made it back to the airport with a whopping nine hours to spare.

Here’s the thing about the Singapore airport: you know that quote from Martin Luther King about how you should be the best at whatever you do, even if you’re a street sweeper? I think someone in Singapore took that line to heart. He or she must have said, “You know, a lot of people are only in our airport on a layover. Let’s make it the best place to have a layover in the whole world.”

They have koi ponds, butterfly gardens, free bus tours of the city (during the day only—drat!), a 24-hour free movie theater, gyms, massage parlors, tons of shopping, little craft and game stations throughout the whole place for kids (and me!), and thousands of computers set up everywhere with free internet. And my personal favorite, the transit hotel.

The hotel (there are actually three, one in each terminal) has a few traditional hotel rooms, but I opted for the budget option. You can rent a small room—bed, desk, and television, in six-hour blocks of time. There are also nicer-than-dormitory-style showers and bathrooms.

So I slept for five and a half hours and then took a (hot) shower before having just enough time to get a sausage and bacon croissant sandwich at Burger King and checking in an hour early for my flight. My body was clean, my appetite was sated, and I was decently well rested.

Plane 3: Singapore to Hong Kong (3 hours)

No big deal. Read the entire The Other Boleyn Girl on the trip home. We just stopped in Hong Kong for about two hours to re-fuel, and then we all board the same plane again.

Plane 4: Hong Kong to Chicago (15 hourssssssss)

This is like the marathon of flights, but I’ve been training pretty hard over the past few months. Honestly, people think 15 hours sounds terrible, but I think it’s just a very different mindset than you have on a four-hour flight. You nap, you eat, you watch a couple movies, you read, you listen to podcasts, and eventually you begin your descent.

Unfortunately, our descent began about an hour too late. I started to get nervous as we were all stretching our legs and gathering our bags. I was supposed to arrive in the evening on Christmas Eve, and I was confident that the Universe would not want me to miss that.

It turns out that the Universe did not really care.

I waited, jumping left-foot, right-foot, left-foot, right-foot for my bags to come out of the machine. From landing to take-off, I wound up with fewer than 45 minutes to make my connections, and we all had to take our bags through customs again. A security guard assured that would be plenty of time; he said the nasty weather meant no planes were leaving on time that day, anyway.

Another lesson: security guards are not in charge of when planes leave.

Nearly all of us trying to make connections, we all got on the train together to take us to the domestic terminal. That’s when we felt the wind for the first time. Oh my goodness, winter was colder than I remembered. The guy standing next to me said, “I don’t think it’s ever been this cold before in my life.” I assured him he was right.

I impatiently went through security for the 59^th time before literally running through the airport to catch my plane to Columbus. (The truth is, I have always wanted to have to run to catch my plane. But in my fantasies, I always make it.)

An older woman and I were neck and neck racing through the airport, and it only bothered me a little that she was just as fast as I was. We got to the gate ten minutes before the plane was scheduled to take off.

But the door was closed.

We could see the plane sitting there, but there wasn’t a single person standing outside the door. I banged on it anyway. Nothing.

We later learned that in a rush to beat the winter storms, United was pushing out all flights as soon as they could, even early. I missed it, along with about ten other would-be passengers.

We were instructed to wait in the customer service line, which, luckily, was only about four miles long. We stood and stood and stood. A pretty brazen guy came sauntering up and announced, “Hey, everybody. I just got off a 15-hour flight from Hong Kong, and I sure am beat. Can I just skip to the front of the line?”

I was at once torn: on one hand, who did this creep think he was? And on the other hand, if his plan worked, I wanted to follow him.

Nope. People just turned, looked him up and down, and faced the line again. God bless America.

There is no one casually traveling on Christmas Eve. Everyone wants to get somewhere, and everyone has a heart-wrenching reason for why he or she needs to get there.

One couple (American dad, Malaysian mom) had two really young children who were going to meet their grandfather for the first time. The elderly couple behind me was going to visit their only daughter before she left on a trip to China, and they’d just discovered that all of his credit cards had been stolen.

“Do you have enough money to last until you see your daughter?” I asked.

“Yes, I know! I’m always cold!” the woman with the hearing aid answered. Her husband, though, said they had enough to make it home.

I realized that our situation was exactly like Kevin’s mom’s from Home Alone. Except there were no children left home by themselves, of course. Pretty much, we were stranded at an airport on Christmas Eve.

“Hey, where’s John Candy when you need him, huh?!” I said to the woman from before still standing next to me. At the mention of the words “Home Alone,” though, she burst into tears. Her husband had died two weeks earlier, and she “just didn’t want to be home alone on Christmas.”

Everyone wants to get somewhere, and everyone has a heart-wrenching reason for why they need to get there.

I promised that I would be there, at least, but by then I’m sure I smelled a little and wasn’t much of a consolation prize.

Plane 5: Chicago to Columbus (1.5 hours)

In the end, we made it. I didn’t see the woman again, but she said she was going to try to take an earlier flight into some other Northern Ohio city. I pointed out that her bags would still be heading to Columbus. She said on Christmas, she wanted her people more than she wanted her stuff. Amen.

Other than her, we all boarded the next plane to Columbus that left only a few hours later. We were like a little family; everyone cheered when someone from the original flight made it on stand-by and walked through the little airplane door, weary but victorious.

And I made it home for Christmas. Mom was waiting with my coat, Diet Mountain Dew, and chips and salsa in the car. Four and a half months apart, and she still knows me perfectly.

A little bathroom humor

This follows my last blog perfectly.

Jakarta is definitely the most modern city in Indonesia. In fact, some Indonesian visitors aren’t familiar with the facilities—like the Western toilet. (Usually bathrooms in Jakarta have squat toilets, too, but you can almost always find a Western one around.)

At places like Sea World (more on that later), there are diagrams on how NOT to treat a Western toilet like a squat toilet.