Why Overseas Senses Never Really Leaves You

It started with a simple question this week in the community…What’s the first meal you eat when you get home from overseas?

Whether it’s mom’s cooking or some local spot you’ve been dreaming about for ten months, everyone’s got that one go-to, I’m back meal.

That convo stuck with me longer than I expected and had me thinking about my own first-day lineup:

A custom Wawa hoagie.

A cheesesteak from Chick’s Deli in Cherry Hill.

Wings from PJ Whelihan’s.

And a Frosty from Wendy’s.

That last one actually led to my wife and I stopping for Frostys this weekend. I honestly hadn’t had one in years…mostly because I’ve learned that eating like shit and not working out like a pro athlete don’t exactly mix.

But that first spoonful brought me back.

Suddenly I was in my mom’s kitchen, fresh off the plane from some foreign country, Frosty in hand, smelling like airplane funk. That first bite tasted like home. 

And in that one moment I kicked open the door to everything I thought I left behind.

There’s this thing that happens when you’ve been overseas for a while and then come home. You start to think you’ve moved on. Like you’ve finally broken up with that chaotic, beautiful, unpredictable relationship.

But then it creeps in.

Not through a passport stamp or a contract offer, but through a smell. A taste. A feeling.

It sneaks in through the back door of your mind and taps you on the shoulder like, “Hey…remember me?”

The Taste of Burek and Lost in Kosovo

It happened earlier this year. I was back home, running errands, and finally stopped at a local Mediterranean restaurant I drive past almost every day. I had zero expectations. Maybe I’d find a good kebab, something that reminded me of the spot in Mulhouse, France.

Then I saw it. Burek largely written on the specials board. I nearly excitement-blacked-out.

I pulled it together just enough so my debit card didn’t slice open the cashier’s  jugular when I excitedly fired it at him and placed the order. It looked different. More like a pie than the long greasy sticks I was used to.

But the second I took a bite…I was gone. Not “oh, this kinda reminds me of overseas” gone…full-body transported.

That flaky dough. The ground beef. The burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth heat.

Instant Kosovo.

And with it came a memory I wrote about in Overseas Famous…The day I got lost in Kosovo trying to find burek after my regular spot was closed. 

Back then, I was developing a bit of a burek problem. It was what I ate for breakfast every morning, specifically from a little spot under my apartment run by a sweet old man named Ajola who barely spoke English but hugged me like I was his grandson. Then one morning…his shop was closed. No warning, just a note taped to the door in Albanian.

Starving, I waved down a cab and mumbled something about “Raki Street,” hoping for a backup spot. The driver shrugged and said he knew a better place. I was too hungry to care, so I nodded and let this wispy-haired stranger drive me further and further into unknown territory.

Next thing I know, I’m standing in a strange makeshift cafeteria, getting screamed at in Albanian while I try to order burek like a fucking toddler. I finally sat down with a tray full of flaky meat pastries…and that’s when it hit me.

I had no idea where I was. I didn’t know the name of my practice gym. I don’t know how to get back. I don’t even have a landmark to give a cab driver.

Eventually, after trying to mime basketball at a dude with a weird-shaped hat, then stealing his phone and frantically screaming “NEWBORN” into it when I remembered the monument near the gym.

I made it back…barely.

And yes…I made it to practice on time.

That’s what that lunch back home reminded me of. One bite and I was 28 again. Completely lost but completely alive.

The Feel of the Molten Ball

I was at the gym last week, catching up with a player I used to coach in high school. He’s overseas now, playing pro. We were talking by the bleachers when he reached into his bag and pulled out a Molten ball.

I had not seen one since I stopped playing.

But you don’t forget the first feel of a Molten ball again. It’s like finding your old passport with the stamp that started it all…flipping it open and feeling that moment all over again.

For anyone who’s never played overseas, a Molten ball is the official FIBA basketball. It’s the one used in most international leagues. You can spot it instantly…orange and beige with smooth panels, doesn’t always bounce right, and feels heavier.

But the second I had it in my hands…I was back. Back in Poland. Back in France.

It’s wild how your fingers remember things your brain forgets. Back then, I didn’t even notice the ball. It was just part of the job. Now? It feels like a relic from a former life. 

The Smell of Soap and Suffering

There’s a very specific smell that only exists in overseas locker rooms.

It’s a mix of mildew, so many expired products and menthol which could be from Icy Hot or cigarettes, honestly there is no way to tell. 

My neighbor had mold growing on his AC earlier this summer. I went into his basement to smell the damage. One sniff and my white blood cells mobilized straight to my toes…back to some freezing-ass gym in Wroclawek where the arenas were cold and filled with athlete’s foot.

I don’t remember what injury I had that season. Could’ve been my ankle…probably my soul.

But I remember that smell.

The sting of that gross soap that somehow made you dirtier. The way the air in the locker room felt thick…like it had texture. Like breathing through an old sock that’s been marinating in defeat since ’98.

That smell doesn’t just trigger a memory. It brings back your body.

And sometimes…your trauma.

Epcot: The Fake Overseas That Still Feels Like Happiness

This one caught me by surprise.

I wasn’t in a gym or holding a basketball. I wasn’t scrolling through old footage or smelling my neighbors gross basement.

I was at Disney World. More specifically, Epcot.

We were walking through the World Showcase, which, for the uninitiated, is basically eleven countries smushed into one big circle. It feels like culture speed dating…you get a taste of each one, just enough to feel worldly before grabbing a churro and heading to space.

But the craziest part? It worked.

One second I’m in “France,” where a fake accordion player is butchering La Vie en Rose, and suddenly I’m 25 again, walking past a café in Mulhouse, trying to figure out why every French person looks like they hate me.

Then I’m in “Germany,” where everyone’s wearing lederhosen and selling bratwurst that costs way more than the Costco brats, and I’m instantly back to the markets and castles of Freiberg where I got very drunk and walked through an enclosure filled with monkeys, like Johnny Drama.

Japan hit too. Norway hit harder. I was walking through each country like I had unfinished business there.

Even my wife noticed. She goes, “Are you okay? You look…spaced out.”

I wanted to say, “Yeah, I just accidentally walked through the last decade of my life in 45 minutes while our daughters kept asking for  churros and bubble wands.”

Epcot didn’t remind me of one place. It reminded me of all of them. It was the bootleg version of my past lives. The food was wrong. The accents were wrong. The music was from a Spotify playlist.

But somehow…the feeling was right. And that’s what got me.

The Pain That Time Forgot

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you, pain is a terrible souvenir.

It doesn’t sit on your shelf. It hides in your joints.

There’s a ligament in my left foot that still flares up when it rains. Every time it does, I get flashbacks to winter in Estonia, limping through the snow, trying to convince the coach I was fine when I could barely walk.

Icy sidewalks. Long-ass practices. Games where you play hurt because the team needs you and the paycheck needs the team.

I’m not saying I miss it, but when that pain hits, I remember all of it. And part of me oddly appreciates it.

It’s like my body reminding me how we’ve been through some shit.

Overseas Doesn’t Leave You. It Just Waits.

You think you’ve moved on.

You think you’ve settled into this new phase…coaching, parenting, building businesses, figuring out what dinner costs without a per diem.

But it’s all still in there.

One smell. One sound. One overpriced pastry. And you’re right back in it.

The game moves on. So do you.

But the version of you who played hurt, got lost in a foreign country, made friends without knowing the language, and found peace eating street food alone in the cold…

That version doesn’t die.

It just waits quietly until you’re ready to remember.

–Kevin, Overseas X