Where the hell is my suitcase?!: What ex-pats don't tell you.

When I left the U.S., I packed two bags. In one, I put all the stuff necessary for living abroad—sentimentalities, such as family photos and a stuffed animal; clothing, practical and prim; and must-have hygiene items (what if they don't have Q-tips in Nepal?!).  And after, I put all the things that make me me—my slights of language, my relationships, my hobbies, my consumer fashion—in another suitcase, and flinging myself on top of it, just barely zipped it shut.

But when I arrived in the Kathmandu airport, only one suitcase circled around the carousel. My stomach dipped in frustration. A simple mistake, a hiccup in the system of terminals and timetables, I told myself.

“Sir, my bag didn’t arrive?” I inquired at the lost baggage counter.

He pecked the keyboard in front of him. “It appears your luggage is still in the United States and…it’s not coming here.”

“But, sir,” I spluttered, anxiety ferreting its way under my ribs. “That can’t be right. Everything I am is in that suitcase.” I tried to protest, but the man had dismissed me, already hashing in the tracking number for bad-tempered tourist behind me.

For a while, I didn’t notice the absence of my suitcase.  Similar to realizing your hair will eventually cease to be wet despite a blow-dryer, one can live without their hobbies and friends and self- expressions. The excitement of a new task, a new culture, and new people fueled me.  After all, I’ve got to admit, fieldwork is pretty sexy. But as the gloss of novelty wore away, as the absence of my suitcase became a rabbit hole in my heart, as I spent a lot of quality time with myself, staring—shell-shocked and a little bit peeved—inward, I realized that suitcase was packed full of distractions.

Those descriptions of who I am, my hobbies, my style, the amalgamation of intangibles that are uniquely me, are really just diversions from the self. Stripped of these things, I’ve realized that my 30 second elevator introduction or my OK Cupid profile doesn't exist in its own right. It needs context; it needs other people to say, “I’m pickin’ up what you’re throwin’ down.” Without other people who recognize the meanings behinds my self-definitions, I’m just a mouse, roaring absurdly, trying to convince everyone I’m a lioness.  

In the absence of these comfortable trappings of the ego, I feel a little cold and exposed and lonely, angrily demanding “Who is this person?” and after, more clinically, “And do I like her or not?” That, there, is a very unsettling place to be.