It’s called derealisation, and I’ve had it for the past couple of months. It’s a dissociative disorder that lets tired minds take a step back from reality, and peek at the world through a comfortable haze. It kicks in because of stress or anxiety, but in my case the culprit was geography.
Larnaca is lovely this time of year; I know this because I picked up a wedding ring there – and got married – not too long ago. The weather is cool, the sun is lazy and the beach is just a bit too rough for my taste, but very poetic, or whatnot. Guangzhou isn’t as warm, and the pollution is tiring; but then Cantonese cuisine is not to be missed, and the steamed vegetable buns alone make the trip worthwhile. I’d completely avoid the chicken feet though.
There’s also a little ice cream store in Amsterdam that hasn’t changed its recipe for decades. It sells one thing, in one flavour – vanilla – and it is the best ice cream you will ever try. That same street has a stall that sells fries in a paper cone, smothered in phenomenal mayonnaise that has no business being that cheap. It reminds me of a stall in Damascus that sells fries, but I’ve learned to avoid street food in Syria, the very hard way.
My shisha of the year? Easy, that’s in Zamalek, Cairo, in a little cafe next to that hotel I stayed in recently; and if you’ve not mixed coconut, guava and lemon in a shisha before, you haven’t lived. Best zaatar manoushe? Beirut, hands down, and you should never pay more than a dollar for it.
I know these things because I’ve spent the last few months travelling, and while all these places are laid out nicely on the page, in my mind they built a proper fog of war.
I got a lot out of it: culture, exercise, phenomenal and bizarre food, entertainment, strange souvenirs, and prettier sights than I’d imagined even existed; but what I lost is my home.
We’re not built for sudden changes. When my ancestors travelled they spent weeks preparing ropes and mounts, cargo, caravan formations, and companions. They planned it to perfection, gauging heat and weather, mapping paths and setting up camp; if they were lucky, they’d get 30km in before bedtime. I packed clean shorts into a small bag and walked through metal detector after detector. My head couldn’t buy that.
It’s called derealisation, and Abu Dhabi has absolutely cured it. Home isn’t a broken-in couch, large-screen TV and perfectly calibrated air conditioner – although those certainly help. Home is your favourite cause, your favourite restaurant, film, mall, gym or public space. Home is the corner store that carries your favourite brand of chocolate, and the only shampoo your wife will ever use.
And it takes months, maybe years to discover all these places; unless you land a job editing a Time Out magazine, and then get instant access to the pulse of the area. So hello, my name is Karl, and I’m the latest addition to your wonderful city. And I can’t wait to meet you all.
