The Expath Chronicles: Conversations with Ghosts

(Sensitive content: grief)

It hit me in the middle of a bustling street in a new city—I was utterly and completely lost.

It was a simple mistake—a wrong turn, a missed landmark—but the feeling went deeper than that. I'd lived in multiple cities, mastered metro systems in foreign languages, crossed continents. Getting lost didn't scare me.

But this time, it stirred something else: a quiet ache.

I missed the kind of place where I couldn't get lost. Where even with my eyes closed, I knew every crack in the pavement. A village tucked between green hills, where my story began.

That night, I sat by the window watching strangers pass by below, and a warmth began to bloom in my chest—a longing I hadn't felt in years. Without fully understanding it, I booked the ticket.

Now I walk the streets of my village after 10 years. I had good reasons to stay away—reasons that felt too heavy to carry back then.

It sits in a valley between hills—anywhere you look, you see hills and green. In the distance, you can make out the mountains and the city where I went for higher school. The first hop in the journey: from a small village to a town, then to a big city.

As I walk the streets, I pass by my grandmother's house where my aunt now lives. It's familiar yet unfamiliar—it was renovated. I remember during the eight years of elementary school, every weekday I would stop by here on my way home from school to visit my grandmother. She always greeted me with a smile, and I always asked her how she was. I remember once a neighbor told me how much it meant to her when people asked about her day, so I made sure after that to ask every older person how they were, how their day had been. It was a small act of kindness that didn't cost me anything.

My grandma's house is now renovated and looks different, but there are hints of the past, how I remember it: the old veranda, the grape vine climbing the house that provides shade and privacy.

I smile as I greet these memories.

I walk some more, arriving at the center of the village. Here is a crossroad—one path leading up one of the hills, another continuing toward my school along the main road. This is where another aunt of mine lived. She was one of the kindest and most generous people I've known. She had nothing but smiles for everyone, even though she herself was facing a lot of hardship in her life. She was very strong—whatever life threw at her, she greeted with a smile.

I remember her with warmth, and sadness creeps in as guilt: I couldn't visit her when she fell sick, and I couldn't come to her funeral. Probably I could have managed physically to come, but psychologically I couldn't handle funerals. The last time I was home—and the reason why I didn't visit for a long time—was when a close friend of mine suddenly passed away. I got the news through a text message, alone in a foreign apartment. Back home, everyone was gathering, sharing memories, supporting each other. But I was thousands of miles away, mourning in isolation. I didn't know how to handle grief without my family, without the rituals, without anyone to hold me. It affected how I dealt with any news after—every phone call from home became something to dread. But now it was healing time.

The tears start to flow before I can stop them. I stand there for a few minutes, letting them come, then wipe my face with the back of my hand. I could knock on the door, talk to my uncle, share the grief properly. But I'm not ready for that conversation yet—not ready to see his pain reflected back at me. Some healing has to happen in small steps.

I hope my aunt knows how much she meant to me, and I will honor her memory by trying to be a bit more like her, letting her generosity and kindness live through me.

This gives me peace as I move on.

I pass by a church, then a house that brings back memories—not because of the people who lived in it, but because of a big German shepherd that used to sleep in front of the gate when I was in school. It was a big dog, and most people were afraid of him, but I passed him each day and eventually started petting him. Of course, it took time to get to this stage: first I was also afraid and reluctant, but I started giving him the leftovers from my lunch, so over time I bribed my way into acceptance. After a while, I didn't need the bribe—we were friends.

Of course, he's not there anymore. Just another ghost of the past.

I continue my journey and end up in front of my old school. I stop here—I'll need more time here. I spent eight years of my life in this place. This has changed as well, since I last visited it years ago. Of course, in my sleep I still visit it sometimes, but either I'm not prepared or I forgot my books at home. Isn't it ironic that 30+ years later this still randomly stresses me during the night? I smile at this old, changed friend. Since then, other lives have been changed here as well—hundreds of paths started their way here and scattered around the world. It feels like tracing a river back to its roots.

This was my root as well: I was shy but noisy, weak but strong when needed, rule-abiding but secretly wanting to be a badass, and over everything else, I wanted to be unique and different. What's the purpose if you follow in everyone's footsteps, or if you are like everyone else?

And I realized that I achieved that. I carved out my own path, I made brave decisions along the way, I traveled, saw things I couldn't imagine, met colorful people, experienced the world. But it had its price. Now I understand.

I feel at peace: I found what I was looking for. I finally feel whole again. I feel like my other half, my child self that was left in the village and forgotten for a long time, is finally merging with me. She'll help me appreciate everything I have, she'll help me remember where I started and how strong I am, and she'll help me remember the happy times and people I knew here. I'll nourish her and take her places she couldn't dream about, and be brave for her and unique and wonderful, and kind and generous for my aunt.

I take a small pebble from in front of the school—this is a small ritual I do everywhere I travel—and put it in my pocket. I'll remember.

Back in my apartment in the new city, I opened the wooden box on the shelf. Inside were dozens of pebbles from places that shaped me—cities, trails, faraway coastlines.

I added this one to the collection.

It wasn't the first pebble I'd gathered.

But somehow, it was the most important.