The Adjustment

First, it's the little things. The bigness of the little things for example, like the distance required to go anywhere, the ginormity of supermarkets, the large quantities of everything on their shelves, or the sprawling black sea of a parking lot outside, temporarily housing its typically over-sized American vehicles. Things such as the divine gift of a hot shower (still hasn't gotten old), service at restaurants, lots of waste, American brusqueness, flushing toilets, and public restrooms. Shaking hands, for me, feels like an effort to push someone away to a safe, controllable distance; I miss hugs, I miss kisses, and I miss contact. Then there is the order of things, like the freeway with its slow-paced, well-behaved drivers driving in its well-defined lanes, or smooth sidewalks with color coded curbs, the people walking when it says walk, stopping when it says stop.

Even the fact that a designated lane for pedestrians exists, equipped with with coordinated signs, is a peculiar concept. While you cross 4 lanes of traffic to get to the other side of the street, you wonder at the rules to that peculiar, slow-motion game of chicken the people play between the two thick, white lines as soon as the red hand turns into a green man. They can't just simply be crossing the street, no, because that would require them to always walk to one end of the block rather than taking the easier and more direct route that you have elected. Besides, the cars of this country seem to have an odd aversion to humans being in the street; they all just kind of come to a stop.

People are an incredibly array of colors, but the amount of whiteness strikes you, perhaps slightly more so than the blackness, but the serious reduction of brownness is probably the most conspicuous. That probably depends on what U.S. city you showed up in, however, or in what neighborhood you were making your rounds. Wherever you are, however, you can be assured to be lost in the crowd, no longer a curious anomaly. That is, at least, when you ditch the excess baggage or the judgmental eyes don't catch your shabby traveler threads.

Unconcerned with their color, English comes roaring out of every mouth. The syllables engulf whatever environment you find yourself in. Contrary to desire, the sound breaches your hearing, and without even the slightest amount of effort, the words penetrate your understanding. Whereas before the chatter was simply in the background, only intelligible by active choice, now side conversations barrage your senses. The noise, to borrow a term from a friend, is deafening. Inversely, the silence of the now nonexistent Spanish in your life feels debilitating.

You get a sense of what it must be like to come to America for the first time from an "undeveloped nation" (read: not as developed as America...in some ways), especially when you fly on a Virgin America flight. You are bombarded from the get-go. Your flight is from LAX, so the amount of people and spiffy airport terminals takes you aback. The check-in set up is like nothing you have ever seen before, almost like you should be ordering a drink at a downtown bar instead of getting your seat assignment. Then it is off to cue in the always joyful, never tedious process of airport security. When you board the plane, the hiply dressed attendant (no tacky skirts and bandanna tie things) takes your boarding pass, and you go down the ramp and into a plane whose interior is lit by black lights. That's right. Black lights. You find your seat, and notice it is equipped, like all the others, with a video screen. An entertaining movie comes on as you taxi from the gate, explaining the safety features of the aircraft, and even manages to infuse a little humor into it. Well played. THEN, you learn it isn't just a movie screen. It is a touch-pad screen, where you can order drinks, movies, or TV shows. Don't feel like spending money? Ok, put on some of your favorite music to the headphone jack on your seat, play some games, or chat with another person on the plane. Impressed? Yeah you are. And you didn't come from the old school buses resurrected as latin america's "chicken busses," which only came with uncomfortable seats, lots of people, maybe a sound system blasting rancheros or reggaeton, and of course, chickens. Bu-cawwww!!!!

Thankfully, the good things shine bright. It easy to forget that abroad; where the open wounds of a country wreak with our presence; where destitution jumps off the inanimate page of a dictionary and personifies itself in a living person, in a human being; where all our sins as a nation stare you back in the face, ugly and painful and undeniable. Their memory hasn't died since you crossed back into the land of the Stars and Stripes, but our other side, our better side, gently reintroduces itself through others. The values and ideals you were taught to cherish with pride because it was your country who stood for them, it was your country that protected them, don't seem so distant anymore. Through the lives of friends - their stories, their efforts, and their love - you regain what you thought was lost or perhaps hadn't even existed at all in the first place; hope is renewed with every story of those going out to be intstruments of peace, who love in defiance of despair, and who refuse to sit by and do nothing while others suffer. Where the bitter taste of shame once led you to condemn, it now slowly fades, yielding slowly with time to understanding. Perhaps most valuable is the ability to more readily recognize this change in yourself, helping you to refuse to give into the aspects of your culture that seek to pull you back to what you were, and to strive more earnestly to be the change you wish to see. You realize that it is near-sighted ignorance, and not callous indifference, that leads to inaction; the former perhaps reprimandable, the latter most certainly condemnable. Absolution and exhortation, rather than accusation, lead to forgiveness and inspire change, and because you can see better how and why things are, you are now empowered to shape what they will become.

Slowly you come to terms with it all, but you still find yourself staring at things too much. Scenarios, situations, people, conversations. Nothing is unfamiliar; you know the rules, social or otherwise, because you have lived them. Yet you feel as if you don't belong...like you have been removed and are now viewing the situation from afar. Until you get caught watching, and awkwardness yanks you harshly back into reality.

When and where does it all end? I don't know. I am still caught by surprise at random instances, but I am slowly adjusting. In some ways, my assimilation has simply followed a natural course of time, but in other ways I find myself resisting. All the little things can go, but in many ways, I hope to affect my culture rather than be effected. There are just some things I don't want to lose, others that I don't want to go back to, because it is in those areas that I feel I have been bettered. I guess in many ways I am still changing as I process my long trip and now have a medium of comparison.

I am happy to be back amongst family and friends, but I also feel myself missing my friends made the world over. There are parts of the world I still carry with me in my heart, and I will always feel a little torn between them, because I can never be in all of them at once. I guess one solution would be to go on another epic journey...but I guess for now it would be more practical, at least on my end of the bargain, for you all to come on over to my place for a potluck you ain't never seen before. Brazilians, you're in charge of arroz e feijão and Guaraná, Paraguayans the chorizos, Argentinians bring the asado, Chileans bring the wine. Bolivia you got the llama, Peru all your potatoes, and I expect some of that street food from Colombia. Nicaraguans are in charge of the gallo pinto, los Guanacos (El Salvador) better hook us up with some pupusas, Guatemaltecos with some beans and tortillas, while the mole, enchiladas, and guacamole will be supplied authentically Mexican, and the Yanquis are in charge of planning: big park, lots of space, a typically American setting. Light the firecrackers, bust out the music, clear out the dance floor, and you better be ready to go all night long. Grab your party hats y'all, we're going to have ourselves a fiesta. At least, that is how I envision it while lost in my nostalgia...