Right now I’m reading a book called French Women for All Seasons by Mireille Guilliand, author of French Women Don’t Get Fat. And she had a whole section on bananas. And all it took was one sentence to shoot me flying back to Bangladesh. The sentence was remarking on the size of bananas in America and how they are so much larger than the bananas of her youth.
I give you…the bananas of Bangladesh. Tara and I had these for breakfast multiple times while we were Barisal and they were the most delicious bananas I’ve ever had. Sweet, simple and the perfect mix of firm and sort of slushy. Not like the chaulky, thick bananas of America.
But before I get into a rant about American bananas…
Everyday something reminds me of Bangladesh. Yesterday I was browsing Instagram and looked at my photo map and I had pictures in Bangladesh and the U.A.E. And I zoomed in enough to see the outlines of the streets in Gulshan…seeing Gulshan 2 circle, seeing the street where the market was…and I missed it immensely. Was it only two weeks ago that I left?
Two weeks ago I stood in a ridiculously long line to check my bag and hoped against hope that I wasn’t going to miss boarding my flight. I didn’t, obviously, because 5 hours later I was in Dubai again. I miss the crazy traffic…driving here isn’t half as fun, even if driving in Dhaka was frustrating.
I miss Mr. Rahman and his veggie lasagna. That was incredible lasagna. And Linus and Micah and cuddling with those two adorable kiddos. And seeing that sweet dog that hung out in Gulshan 2 all the time. She was a darling. And I miss worshiping with believers from all over the world.
But I am glad to be home too. How strange it is to have your heart torn between multiple places, to feel like you belong in more than one world. Re-acclimating is hard; the suspension is like losing where your roots are…or being replanted.