“You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right.”
~Maya Angelou
Given the culture shock most returned expats face, disembarking on the white plastic castle of hassle after being gone more than two years should be excruciatingly shocking. After all, the last two times I’ve returned from living abroad were quite a struggle; the second being a lot harder than the first. When I returned from Japan in late 2002, I found my own people to be ruder, louder and more abrupt than what I had left them. I couldn’t keep down a hamburger, I suffered hopelessness in daily identity crises, and the soul-strangling strip malls and lonely asphalt fields depressed one into a dull, three-month-long funk. I suppose this is perhaps what living in an East Asian society will do to the sensitivities of an impressionable American.
But this wasn’t the case this time around, although admittedly the fluorescent lights, the strip malls, the parking lots and the over-wide boulevards still take their toll on optical pleasure. Returning from Eastern Europe to the American East Coast, in the first month home it was easy to marvel in the everyday friendliness and happiness of the population, to discover joy in the re-invigoration of intellectual debate on the airwaves and a tangible positive change in the substance of human relations; to leap from county to county, from state to state, with a bewildered, reconstructed reverence for homeland and countrymen.
I first landed in Washington D.C. late on July 4th via Amsterdam, Dublin, Shannon and Boston. I had never been through US immigration before in a country other than the USA. But, apparently there is some new US government program to check visitors and citizens INTO the USA, when they’re not even in the country yet. After a short hop from Dublin to Shannon, we were all directed to deplane and check into the USA… …in Ireland. I wonder when Russian immigration officers will take up residency in O’Hare?
Once back, I relaxed little at first, trying hard as much as possible to “hit the ground running” with respect to my job hunt. Even when I was supposed to be relaxing, or seemed to be, I was restless with the consciousness of desire in my next step in life to be spelled out in black and white, signed, sealed and delivered. But movement towards big life steps is not that way, and, except in instance of global war or fast food, nor is employment ever an easy affair, least of all now.
After a few nights of steak in Kennett Square, my first week back was spent at Chicoteaque, Virginia at a house on an inlet. I fished with the Imlers and caught myself a 22 inch flounder which was soon to become a delicious fried fish sandwich.
The next week I took down wallpaper in Hanover, Pennsylvania and ate the following world-famous food items of my hometown; 1.) a “Fat Boy” cheeseburger (secret sauce-French dressing?) from the Tropical Treat with Texas Fries, 2.) a hot dog with everything (including one metric ton of chili) from the Famous Hot Weiner, 3.) an Apple Crumb donut and a French Crueller from Dunkin Donuts, 4.) a Caesar Salad (must have something healthy!) from Panera Bread and 5.) Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and coleslaw from Claire’s Restaurant. After two+ years of deplorable restaurant food, I finally caught up.
I also drove my first golf cart, and returned to my favorite happy hometown bar, Kclinger’s to find it smoke free and sadly abandoned by its drinking public in favor of sad, nicotine-infused crap holes serving as alternatives to the cigarette-crazed.
It’s hilariously ironic that the Winner’s Circle is for winning… …not for anything but maybe lung cancer.
The following week I applied to approximately fourteen jobs in the public, private and non-profit sectors. My mom cooked perfect eggs over easy and my stepdad Tom grilled to perfection fillet mignon. Also of note was that after ravenously craving CNN for two years, I got sick of it and turned it off due to reckless broadcasting of “viewer comments.” If I wanted to hear unqualified people give their opinions on subject matters they have no expertise or competency in, I would have asked Ukrainian restaurant managers to weigh in on the merits of providing high-level food quality and good customer service. Perhaps we ought to ask North Carolina Senators who espouse isolationism and don’t know what the capital of Canada is to lend voice on America’s future role in emerging economies of developing nations?
Oh wait… …we already did that one time. Garbage in, garbage out.
Then I flew to Alabama; a place, which, interestingly enough knows more about BOTH great quality food and excellent quality service than most places on our fair planet. Go figure. Of course, my opinion is more than slightly imbalanced since my brother works at one of the best restaurants in the country: the Highlands of Birmingham. I may be biased, but as usual I am right. I spent a few days with Matt and his wife Meg in steamy Birmingham, consuming venison harvested from the local forest, fresh New England oysters in the half shell, spicy fish sandwiches, superior sushi, authentic tika masala and high-brow seafood fettuccini at a bevy of fine culinary establishments in the area. After such a week of feasting, I feel like the esteemed Tony Bourdain ought to get his sea-urchin invested ass in gear and make a visit back down to the Deep South.
After two weeks of fattening up off of blue collar fast food and steaks in the Northeast, and a week of fattening up off of white-collar quality food in the South, I flew to Phoenix to sweat it all off. My SWA 737 traveled via a stop Houston; a massive curb-side parking lot paved haphazardly over a coastal swamp as a practice target for and a monument to hurricanes, floods and other natural and man-made ecological disasters.
Traveling west in the USA by plane always make me happy. Watching the landscape change below is spectacular – the steppes, crevices, craggy mountains and stretching desert on a clear blue-skied day always seem to obscure true distances and twist perspective all to fool one into believing could just stick his hand out of the window and caress the flesh of the entire horizon at one time.
Phoenix was hot. But it was also spicy. My stepmom Faye’s margaritas cooled down the backyard evening under the hum of misters while tortilla chips swam in citrus salsa. Geckos played on the stucco walls, swarms of hummingbirds crazed on sugar water feeders and the ballpark bat cracks of Dad’s Cubbies echoed off of speakers above the tepid pool. When finally the Arizonan heat got too much, we drove through the desert, past DHS Border Patrol checkpoints to my stepbro Tim’s place in the Gaslamp District of San Diego and to the climatic relief of the Pacific Coast. There, we went to San Diego Padres baseball games, the doggie beach and ate Californian omelets or giant strawberry waffles like way back in the early 90’s when the three of us lived in Santa Barbara.
After two weeks in the desert, I was ready to cool off at home in Colorado. Getting back on America’s very best air carrier, Frontier Airlines was pleasing enough. Yet coasting northeast over the Four Corners and then above all the best easily-recognizable geological sites through which I had spent four years of my life exploring: Telluride, Ouray, Black Canyon of the Gunnison and Mount Evans – this was supreme. Coasting down over the Front Range, over southern Denver - within view of the University of Denver... …I was back at DIA before I knew what hit me.
Need I go in so much to what I actually did in Denver? I think I’ll keep a good bit to myself, as it was so nice to arrive and so hard to leave what I have come to know as one of Gilpin’s favorite spots on the Globe (after all I have a whole rural mountain county here!) – the reticent space where I keep mile high preserved is truly “read-only.” For six days, I did what I often craved from afar – burgers at My Brother’s Bar, beers at Mountain Sun in Boulder, margaritas at the Rio Grande, hiking in the Flatirons, and of course A BURRITO FROM CHIPOLTLE. It was nice to see some old friends and thank some of the mentors who have been so supportive of me in the past couple of years. More than that, I won’t squander away any more words on Colorado of August, since any more words would not give away anymore anyway.
I returned to Washington to interview, network, to happy hour and to apartment hunt. Only two of the four were successful initiatives that week, although I quickly learned that in the District of Columbia, the two are one in the same.
I took Amtrak back to Wilmington, Delaware to pick up my mom’s car and drive it to Florida after quick overnights in Marietta, PA (with the Kitchen clan), Hanover again (thank you Imlers) and back to DC for yet another interview. Then I drove the Jeep to Lorton, Virginia where I put it on Amtrak’s Auto Train.
Strange that last year I was on a Ukrainian train southbound seventeen hours from Kyiv to Sevastopol – comfortable flat bed, BYO-food and booze and abrupt service. Now I was on an American train southbound seventeen hours from D.C. to Orlando, no bed, but complimentary catered fare served at an actual table including free wine and wonderful, genuinely friendly service. Of course, this being America and all, I brought a car along for the ride.
After delivering the Jeep to my aunt’s extraordinary renovated turn-of-century house in St. Petersburg, I flew the next day to Miami’s horrific airport and took the inaptly named TriRail to Boca Raton to visit my friends Zack and Kristina and their terrific newly-minted Cooke, Oliver. After a day at the beach and a night of film and fish dip, I flew back to Washington to seek out employment and a place to unpack and finally hang my hat, if only for a while.
