Sorry I haven’t posted pics or updates from MO.
Still here, but I forgot my USB cables for my cameras.
In the meantime, here’s a pic from a fellow J-Schooler’s MO meal (at the ‘berg I believe)…which I definitely had my first night back in the Show-Me State.
While going from town to town in Western Connecticut, we were pleasantly surprised by the people we met. They had a Midwestern-type of friendliness to them. Seriously, they were just crazy nice. People young and old would strike up conversations about our B&B, wine preferences, or where we were from.
We were also surprised by the massive show of American pride. It must be the “Yankee” pride we’d heard about growing up…we were in The Constitution State, after all. And nearly every home had an American flag out in front of their yard or mail box. Many also had yard signs showing support for Obama/Biden or McCain/Palin. (Although the home with an Obama/Biden sign out front, an American flag by the driveway, and a Confederate flag in the backyard was a little curious…)
So, when we spotted this dude in his Old Glory jumpsuit, I had to stop him for a pic. I was half expecting a crazy man, but once I stopped him, I realized he was hardly crazy. He was from Eastern Europe and had come to the U.S. years ago before joining the Marines and fighting for our country. He was simply in love with his “new” country. It was fabulous to hear his story. But to make the picture “better” he ran across the street to his pick-up truck and plucked one of three flags for us to hold behind us. I have to say, I think it turned into a pretty nice pic…
After many earlier complaints about the lack of a permanent bed, I’ve finally been whole-heartedly looking at apartments to rent.
Now on the cusp of actually signing a lease, I’m having a minor panic attack. A lease is a commitment I haven’t made since, oh, about August 2003. Seriously. My LA roomies and I all signed one when we moved into our C by the Sea apartment. After the first year, however, no new lease was needed and everything was month-to-month.
So, the prospect of committing myself to a room for a year or more is a little frightening. My normal commitment phobia (the last time I realized I was in a relationship, I had nightmares for weeks) has only been compounded by the lack of commitments I had to make over the past year. During my travels, everything was wonderfully temporary. My inability to say where I’d be, who I’d be spending time with, or where I’d be earning money from was not only accepted by those I came across, but kind of celebrated. People were actually jealous of my lack of commitments.
But not here.
Everyone wants a commitment from me. They want proof that I’m here to stay.
And here I am debating on how committed I am. Are my travels really over? Am I here in NY for good? Can I live with someone I just met for the next year? I’ve got about 12 hours to really decide.
I think this is the closest I’ve come to a bit of a breakdown since I got back.
One (me) can go through almost a whole year of international travel and not meet the stereo-typical American. But just when you think you’ve made it off Yank-free, there he is…sitting right beside you on the tour company bus.
Before I even met him, I had an inkling of what I might be in store for. The night before he boarded the bus the guide and I had played “guess their nationality” for the three new clients joining the tour. As soon as I saw the name “Larry” I claimed him for my country. Seriously…have you met any Larrys from China? I think not. But Larry from the US? Yep. (but no, the other two clients weren’t his brother Darryl and his other brother Darryl)
Sure enough, the next day, two super-sized middle-aged Americans — Larry and his wife — huffed and puffed their way onto the bus. Barely seated, they began excitedly talking about their hunting safari they’d been on the last few days. When our guide asked where they were from, Larry happily answered “California” and then with a newly placed disgusted look quickly began adding, “but they might as well call it Mexi-fornia the way all the…”
“What part of California?” I cut in, trying to avoid 1) my getting into an angry argument with him and 2) his embarrassment when he realizes that two seats behind him is an American named Ricardo.
Later someone on the tour said they made them think of the people in Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine.
Yes…still alive.
I’m on the tour of Southern Africa and just now have had Internet access. I meant to leave a see-ya-later post, but the other American at my guesthouse ate up all the Internet for the month the day before I left (granted, I probably used a big chunk o’ that access, too…).
I’ve got lots to say and mucho pictures and video to post, but for now, you’ll just have to know that I’m having a fabulous time. And will post once I get back to Jo’Burg in a few days.
Toodles.
Here’s a pic of two Americans. Me (duh), and a kid from the care house named American. Yep. That’s his real name. Not just called that because of where he’s from or because he’s cheap on dates (like a guy in college I knew called Dutch). Yep. An American and American.
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Hopping onto a camel and spending a night sleeping in the desert wasn’t one of my plans when I started this trip. If you knew me then, you’d know I actually had very little planned other than, you know, hopping on a plane to China and figuring I’d see the Great Wall there and then try to keep up with my other pre-purchased flights.
In my last week in China, though, I came across the first American on the trip. We hung out at Jiuzhaigou together that day and swapped a few travel stories. When she heard I was traveling to India at some point, she said I should go on a camel safari in Rajasthan.
I took note in the handy-dandy moleskin notebook I’ve been carrying around with me and almost nine months later I did just that. And LOVED it.
Holy cow…has it already been nine months? Yikes.
