Everything is the same. Everything is different.

Flying away is the same. We drive away from Riverside; 91, 605, 105 and park at LAX. We check in at the Tom Bradley terminal; number 4. Lufthansa is the same, the stewardess are the same in navy blue suits and pops of yellow scarfs. The airplan food is the same. Take off, sleeping, movies, engines droning, landing; they are all the same.

Leaving is different. We aren’t coming back right away; we aren’t staying long when we do. My mother weeps, my father is cracked. My niece asks why we are going so far away. Paul’s parents are brave and I know his dad is paying for it later. Friends wish us well, Paul and I sometimes wonder if we’re attending our own funeral. I sit in my seat on the plane and I’m not sure if I want to throw up, cry or just sleep it all away. Excitement boils with angst of what comes next.

The welcoming is the same. We arrive and are delivered to the Bätcke’s home. They are happy to see us and a table is laid out with sandwiches. We are offered whatever we want to eat or drink; the children fawn over Sabine. They keep insisting that we tell them if we need something; suspicious we are holding out on them a need they can fill.

The people are different. They are new but they are not strangers. Birger sits with a perpetual grin on his face, Evelyn translates for her daughter Carla who wants Sabine to sleep in her bed. Johannes, who speaks very good english for an 11 year old boy, asks about funny idioms and if they translate directly from German into English. Things like rooster water and atom mushroom. Carla wants to know if I watch the OC.

The streets are the same. Interlocking pavers give way to square stones and my feet fall in the same rythem they always do. Houses sit along the sidewalks with small gardens full of things which will grow even when you don’t want them to. Moss taints tree bark and the liter of leaves from oaks and wild berry bushes contrast yellow with grey. Rain drops fall on my head as traffic speeds past me.

The way is different. I walk into a city I don’t know and I get lost. I wander until I find the Rhein, flowing towards me lazy, green and massive to my desert eyes. I follow it until I see something familiar and then I stop to ask for directions. I am on my way again but unsure of these new streets which seem to shift when I’m not looking. The ease of walking in Trier is gone.

God is the same.

I am different. I’m on an adventure.