I landed in Guatemala City after midnight. My hotel canceled my reservation, my phone had no data to make calls, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I was pissed, and I felt tired from landing in a difficult situation after a long travel day. Part of me wanted to be elsewhere. Yet, in the back of my mind, I felt a tinge of calmness and resolution. This was possibly my last inbound flight to Guatemala in my long adventure here.

I feel as rooted in the Guatemala City airport as I do in my hometown airport in the States. It’s the place I go before my flights to America and the place I land before I go to Santiago Atitlán, where I live. I know the layout of the airport, I know where to go when I leave the airport (when my phone has data), and I understand the language that people speak.

I know the way back to Santiago Atitlán well, too. It’s the road that winds just enough to make you question what you ate for the last three days. I recognize the small villages, the transition between ladino and indigenous Guatemala, and the first bend in the road by Los Encuentros where you can see Lake Atitlán.

I know where to catch a boat to return to Santiago Atitlán from across the lake. I’ve spent hours at the docks negotiating prices, smiling at empty threats, and shaking a couple hands when my conversations with the boat captains were fruitful. I can almost picture the panoramic view of the lake with my eyes closed. But my eyes are never closed when I’m on the lake; they’re watching the volcanoes, the mountains, the ripples in the water, and the reflection of the sun.

Santiago Atitlán is where the Peace Corps sent me. It’s where I continued living after I left the Peace Corps, and it’s the place I will call home until I move back to America in 6 months. This place has given me the greatest joy at some moments and left me confused, depressed, and feeling trapped at other moments. I’ve woken up here on several occasions asking myself and my patient girlfriend, “What the fuck am I doing here?”

What am I doing here? I’m eating, sleeping, working, reading, and playing music. I’m creating friendships and traveling to nearby places. I’m doing what any person does in their home. So I guess I’m home? I cannot deny that this place has some semblance of home. The volcanoes, the lake, and the people seem familiar. Even the things I hate — barking dogs at 2 a.m., conspicuous stares, and bland food has become familiar.

At the same time, I don’t speak the local indigenous language. I’m hardly integrated, and certain things here don’t click with me. I’m ready to leave soon. It’s clear that Santiago Atitlán isn’t where I’m the happiest or most comfortable. But suddenly the thought of leaving this place is making me as sad as my worst days here.

Why am I so sad to leave? I think this place has challenged me in ways I needed to feel challenged. It has pushed me forward, even if it wasn’t in the direction I thought I’d go. It showed me the value of community, even if I never felt part of the community here. It taught me where I wanted to go, even if it didn’t help me get there. Or did it?

If I spend much more time here, I’ll go crazy. Yet, I feel like I’m on a roller coaster, and when I get off, I’ll want to ride again. Not for a while, though. But I’m grateful, and for a few reasons, a couple of which I probably won’t know soon, I know that I’ll have a tough time leaving here. I know that when I leave — no matter how difficult this place has been for me — I’ll be leaving my home.