Home is what the heart grows accustomed to...

This afternoon I asked myself the question, How the hell do I leave? My flight "home" to California is in exactly 3 months from today. 3 months. Thats just 91 days; 5400 hours. That's just a season, like Spring or Summer; a quarter of a year; only 3 new moons. How do I give this up?

I've tasted independence, adulthood. I've grown a love for this country that I have never experienced anywhere before. And even if I complain daily about the black soot clouds rising from the back of cars that should have been yanked off the road decades ago, there is a charm to Costa Rica that is hard to beat. Where else will I find the warm friendliness that surrounds me in any tico home I may enter? Where else will I become part of a new family, accepted equally by grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, nephrews?

How do I pack up the life I have build in the past two years?

But what makes this life any different? Why is this one so hard to give up?

I remember crying the first time I left Costa Rica in 2007. I cried so hard as the plane took off that the woman beside me asked if I was having a panic attack. I cried so hard my eyes were still red as I walked off the plane at LAX. And that was only after a stay of 5 months. I promised I would come back, and I did. Can I promise the same thing again?

Sitting here now, thinking about the day I'll get on the plane with an 'indefinite goodbye' drying on my lips, my eyes well up. This is my home. This is where my heart is.

A country with the longest lasting tradition of peace and that for centuries hasn't had or needed a military. A country of unprecedented scenic beauty in its mountains and beaches, volcanos and waterfalls. A country with potholes so big an entire car can vanish from sight; where a 4 km drive by car can take up to 15 minutes by bus. A country that after 50 years of planning finally builds a decent highway from its capital city to the closest beach, but then opens only two lanes, when road traffic has more than doubled since the year they began planning. A country where an avocado can cost less than 20 cents and where mangos rot on the ground because people can't eat them fast enough. A country whose local football league plays worse than a pack of monkeys, but whose fans bleed purple, or red and yellow, or red and black. A country where instead of having a Starbucks on every street corner, there is a church... even if its Catholic. A country that wholeheartedly believes in God.

This is my home. And yet part of me is scared I might not even miss it.