Oftentimes I couldn’t help but feel out of place in the US. I lived in beautiful places and went to fancy private schools all my life but nothing could compare to the feeling of being able to look around you and beunderstood. To be around people who spoke your language and ate the same kind of food at home as you did, that was irreplaceable.
Sometimes I got homesick. Not the kind that could be cured by simply ringing home to speak to a relative and looking back at photo albums. But the kind that left me bedridden for days on end.
This had been happening since I was a child; my father used to shrug it off as dramatics and stubbornness but I knew it was much more severe than that. It was a yearning for what was inlikenessto me. It was like being stuck on a holiday trip abroad, a vacation that just never seemed to end.
I was supposed to have been practicing for our monthly assessments, each of the ballerinas would then be ranked in terms of ability like something straight out of dance moms. It was a lot of pressure, and usually I could handle it. But every time I closed my eyes I would return to my childhood, I’d be surrounded by white sand beaches and my family was together again. It was a tedious cycle, my own personal time loop of hell that I was trapped in.
Just when I thought I’d be stuck forever, something changed.
I found a note left on my pillow in neat handwriting that I recognized as Sydney’s.“Tonight. 6 p.m. Wear something thatmakes you feel like you.”No explanation, no clues, just the signature heart she added to everything.
Sydney St James was truly an enigma, but I loved that complexity to her.
By the time 6 p.m. came around, I was a mix of nerves and excitement. It had been a rough couple of weeks—classes piling up, my body aching from rehearsal, and an ache in my heart that I couldn’t seem to shake. It was that quiet, constant longing for Jakarta, for the sounds and smells of home. So I threw on my favorite batik blouse, the one Mama had sent from home, and waited, hoping tonight would be the break I needed.
The door swung open, and there was Cahya with a grin that looked suspiciously mischievous. Behind him was Sydney, holding out a blindfold. “No peeking, Yesoh. You have to trust us.”
“Am I about to be recruited to join a cult?” I anticipated, feeling rather confused.
“Not today, that’s tomorrow's side quest, silly,” Sydney teased, and I rolled my eyes.
“Dude, come on, just trust us,” Cahya insisted.
I laughed but let them tie the blindfold around my head, feeling them guide me by the shoulders down the hallway and out into the crisp evening air. Cahya kept his hand on my shoulder, Sydney steering from the front, both whispering as if this was some top-secret mission. I could feel the buzz of the city around us, hear the sound of cars and chatter, the distant clanging of metal signs. It was calming and overwhelming at once, like the pulse of the city was trying to drown out my homesickness.
After what felt like forever, they finally stopped, the sound of chattering voices and clinking dishes filling the air around me. I smelled something that was achingly familiar—ginger, lemongrass, and that sweet, rich scent that reminded me of mygrandmother’s kitchen. My heart skipped a beat. I could barely hold back my excitement as they untied the blindfold, and there it was—a cozy Indonesian restaurant, its small windows glowing softly in the dusk.
“Surprise!” Sydney said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Cahya grinned, watching my face for a reaction. “We know you’ve been missing home, so…here we are. Thought we’d bring a piece of Jakarta to New York.”
My eyes welled up as I looked around the small restaurant. There were Indonesian decorations on the walls—batik cloths, framed images of temples, and beautiful wooden carvings. The music playing softly in the background was an Indonesian folk song that grandma used to hum when she cooked. It was like stepping through a portal, like someone had carefully picked up a tiny piece of Jakarta and tucked it here in the middle of the city just for me.
“Guys…” I whispered, unable to find the words, and Sydney pulled me into a hug.
“Come on,” Cahya said, gesturing toward a cozy booth in the corner. “We even ordered ahead.”
The table was already set with some of my favorite dishes. There was nasi goreng, the rice fried with garlic, chili, and shrimp, just like Grandma used to make. There was gado-gado, the vibrant salad with fresh vegetables, tofu, and peanut sauce that smelled so rich and nutty I could practically taste it. And, best of all, there was sate ayam, the skewers of marinated chicken that Cahya would beg for as a kid whenever we’d go out to eat.
As we started to eat, the familiar flavors filled me with a warmth I hadn’t realized I was missing. Cahya watched with a satisfied smile as I took my first bite of nasi goreng, Sydney leaning in with a grin, eagerly asking, “Is it as good as the real thing?”
“It’s…pretty close,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You guys have no idea how much I needed this.”
“Oh, we do,” Cahya replied, laughing. “We could tell. You’ve been walking around with that homesick face for weeks.”
Sydney leaned closer, nudging me. “So, what’s the secret? What’s something from home you wish you could share with me?”
I thought for a moment, trying to find the words. “It’s hard to explain,” I said slowly. “It’s not just the food. It’s the feeling of being there—Jakarta’s noise and warmth, the way people talk, the energy that’s always buzzing around. It’s like…feeling connected to everything, even if you’re just one tiny part of it.”
Sydney nodded, thoughtful. “You’re not just a tiny part of it, though. You carry it with you, you know? I have grown to love Jakarta because I love you.”
We spent the rest of the night sharing stories and laughter, passing dishes around, trying everything. Cahya even attempted to teach Sydney some Indonesian words, which ended in both of them practically crying with laughter.
“It’s pronounced jombolo, but it’s more so slang,” Cahya told her.
Her eyebrows pulled together. “What does it mean again?”
“Single, mostly unwillingly, you know.”
“Oh, so like, Yesoh!” She glanced back at me with a guilty apologetic smile, “Sorry my bad.”
