I miss home. Not that I know where that is, exactly. For me "home" is a pretty abstract collection of places, experiences and people: 18 years growing up in sunnyhumidhot Cameroon, the mountains of North Carolina (where I almost felt like I did have a home), Ben's parents' basement and whole wheat waffles and our vegetable garden, my sister, my bicycle and our tent (4 months is, after all, almost as long as I've lived anywhere else since college), my parents' couch in Waxhaw, a beat-up 1990 Toyota Corolla plus bumper stickers (whose ownership has been transferred to Laura). Home is Ben, too. But he's working and traveling and I still haven't started my job. So far home is not Haiti.
My solution to this is: We need to find an apartment! I need to unpack my suitcases and start growing things on a windowsill and be able to hang out in my underwear. I need to learn my way around what will be our neighborhood: to meet neighbors and make friends and figure out how to get to the market. I need to feel like somehow I belong here. Because right now it would be easier to buy a ticket to North Carolina and my parents' couch than to spend another homeless jobless week in Port Au Prince.