It got me thinking: When does a foreign place feel more comfortable than your birthplace?

Shanah rishonah in Eretz Yisrael, I still mentally converted items to dollars. I remember going to that little makolet on Paran to buy overpriced Gushers and Fruit Roll-Ups, their tangy taste on my tongue a sweet moment when I could close my eyes and pretend that I was in America. I remember the joy I felt opening care packages stuffed with Gap clothes, books, and random things like laptop chargers and stroller attachments and… the list goes on and on. (Does it ever end?)

That first year, I missed buying blueberries every week like I did back home, and still had to use a calculator when the pediatrician asked for my baby’s weight in kilos. And I remember the day Amazon started shipping to Israel. I couldn’t contain my excitement when I saw that box in my living room with Amazon Prime stamped on the side.

But by our third year in Israel, I stopped asking my in-laws to bring things from America when they came to visit, either finding substitutes or making do without. It was getting too exhausting, and besides — you really could get everything in Israel, even if you had to pay a bit more or travel on a bus to get it.

It helped when my friend Ariella shared her philosophy: If we lived in the States, sure, we’d have Target, and Walmart and Amazon 24/7 without having to strategically choose items that met the $49–75 sweet spot. Vanilla extract would be a dollar, and we could return Zappos shoes months later without begging for a refund. But then we’d be living in America — not Israel.

It was a lightbulb moment.

When I finally stopped comparing shekels to dollars, I realized I was getting used to living there — and loving it.

Several years later, on a family visit in the States, I felt more out of place in Los Angeles than I did in Yerushalayim, even though I’d spent two out of three decades in the former. (Had there always been this much grass? I wondered.) It got me thinking: When does a foreign place feel more comfortable than your birthplace? On our return trip, it felt strange coming up that long, beige ramp in Ben Gurion and feeling like I was coming home rather than having left it.

You can adjust to everything, anywhere. I grew to love limonana, shawarma, and silan-and-techinah sandwiches. I loved how my four-year-old spoke fluent Hebrew and rolled the resh — sorry, “ghesh” — and how he sang adorable songs about “Tutim Teumim,” “Pili HaPil,” and the chagim. He could tell me the story of Rivkah and Eliezer in Hebrew, and the projects he brought home — weekly — were first-prize worthy at any Torah fair (shout-out to his morahs: I’ll love you forever). I kept every single one of my son’s projects in a box. I loved that there was school on Sundays, though I initially grumbled about early wake-up and lack of “family time.”

I loved how the silver store owner on Shaulson was also our next-door neighbor, and how he’d come out to greet us each time we passed by his store. Every morning when we’d wait for the elevator, he’d hear us and come say hi. He’d give my son a slice of fresh watermelon, or a small trinket, or a balloon he’d blow up on the spot, and boom: “Hee-lell Akiva! You agh as sveet as vatermel-ohn!”

At first, I couldn’t get over the lack of privacy in apartment-style living — and then I grew used to its advantages. I never ran out of ingredients, or friends, or Shabbos playdates for my kids.

I loved the fruit in Israel, and even appreciated how they’d change with the seasons, a tangible reminder of Hashem’s Hand in the harvest. Pomegranates in Tishrei, persimmons and juicy citrus in the winter. I’d lug a watermelon home every week in the summer, placing it in the basket of my Vista and hoping it wouldn’t roll out when I boarded the bus.

And then we left.