The Journey Home . . . All
ways lead into one.
This post has been the better
part of three weeks in the making. It has
been a month of revelations and sorrows, neither of which played out as I had
expected. I began this post on the flight back to the States
and I regret that our social schedule prevented me from jotting down those
contemplations that I found myself so burdened with over the last few weeks of
our journey. I now prefer to refer to
this project as a journey rather than an adventure as I believe the latter
infers a randomness to the order of things.
A journey has an end, a contemplated destination, and in turn a
reason. For many months now I have been
haunted by an underlying thought that has ultimately led to the content of this
summary post. For those that shared the
holidays with me, you are now aware that while my online writings were not
updated regularly toward the end of this year, I was still hard at work. What started as a simple keepsake for my
children has become something more than I would have imagined and led me to a
startling conclusion. Drawn to it like
the North star, I have thrown my compass into the river and let my soul burn a
path into the future.
For
the longest time I labored under the assumption that this project would
continue until I grew weary of it. I
have come to realize that this journey has a very definite end and its
beginnings seem less happenstance than it first appeared. I wish I could put this in more poetic terms
than I have thus far and at this point am very tempted to erase it all and
start again. The best that can be said
is that this is the road I must travel and I wish you to be my guide. Confused?
I wouldn’t blame you if you were.
There are a few of you that will soon understand the meaning of the
statement and for those that will remain in the dark, please bear with me. I will now attempt to share with you all that
I have learned and experienced over the past several weeks. I will do so in chronological order in an
effort to give meaning to the enlightenment that has followed. This too will serve as the capstone to the
first year of our journey and perhaps the turning point in this series of
writings. Some of this you will
understand and some of it may well seem like it was scribed on the wall of a
madman’s cell. Perhaps these thoughts
are truly leading me toward madness or perhaps it will end in the enlightenment
that I seek. Only time will tell. Upon the completion of our thanksgiving feast
I found myself a Pilgrim once more. See
you in Santiago . . .
Blogging at 36,000 feet. Welcome to the mile high club. Only a few trying hours into our journey and
I realized that acclimation to the life I used to have was going to be more
difficult than I anticipated. It seems
that somehow I have lost touch with the pleasantries of my native tongue, but
we will get to that soon enough. We went
to bed early in anticipation of an equally early rise. We stuck with that plan to a fault. Bedtime was 2 a.m. with an alarm set for
3:30. With around an hour of sleep under
our belts, the wife and I woke with a start realizing that we had
overslept. We quickly gathered ourselves
and hit the streets. Turns out that all
the luggage shuffling of the wee hours of the morning was not in vain. At weigh-in, only one tipped the scales. A pair of pants here and a sweater there soon
had the load fully compliant. The
optimist in me decided not to take this as an omen. I should have listened to my pessimist. Traveling with two smallish children is
challenging enough without additional hurdles to cross. Unfortunately, we would be doing our best
Edwin Moses this particular morning as we navigated the Paris airport with our
young brood in tow. You see, our trip
home had been over a year in the making.
We have been scheduled to come back for Christmas since even before we
moved to France, so imagine our surprise to be pulled out of line by security
and advised that they didn’t show us on our appointed flight. From counter to counter we bounced in an
effort to sort out the details.
Apparently someone saw fit to cancel our tickets just two days prior to
our arrival in Paris. No matter, we are
a persistent lot if anything and after four hours of waiting in one line or
another we soon had boarding passes in hand.
We felt thankful for the 4 hour layover that at first seemed an
inconvenience. It allowed just enough
time for the ticketing disaster as well as the gathering and re-check of our
weighty bags . . . unusual and a complete pain in the ass. The original round trip flight that we were
completing (now a year removed) ended in Paris and we drove to BDX, so we had to book a one way
ticket back to Paris on our flight home. This meant we had to check our
baggage twice.
This dragging of our luggage while tracking two small children was stressful enough, but we soon found ourselves in the
crossfire of an airport strike that was beginning to spool up to an
uncomfortable crescendo. When we made
our last escalator, it was clear that the heavily armed SWAT type police types
were none too keen about this family being so close to the pending riot. Apparently nothing dramatic occurred, but the
tension was palpable and I would have sworn that these men were on the verge of
what would be a very bloody battle. Nothing
says preparedness like a good riot shield and helmet. We have seen strikes with some frequency here in France, but
this was the first that felt like a powder keg.
I was glad to hear the shouting fade behind us as we made our way deeper
into the airport. Soon, safely aboard
the good ship lollipop, I found mental distraction in the form of my first
transformational awakening of the trip.
This was an “American” plane. It
had come from the States and we would be aboard its return flight. The importance of this was simple enough yet
somehow lost on me for the duration of our flight. The flight crew was American and all
passengers were greeted in English. The
foreign nature of this experience had me lost for words . . . well, lost for
words in English anyway. This virus
seemed to be catching as there wasn’t a single member of my merry little band
that could break the habit of responding to every inquiry in French. I thought to myself how absurd it must be to
have to re-learn your own language or at the very least a re-learn a certain comfort level when using it in common conversation.
Amazingly, the profoundness of this folly played out in the grandest
fashion with our youngest child who seemed to find his French quite useful
during our vacation, much to the dismay of almost every waiter we
encountered. The flight over the pond
was relatively uneventful, but there was a nagging suspicion that things were
not going to play out as smoothly as we had hoped. There was turbulence on the horizon and it
seemed a formidable opponent.
In Paris we had noted that
below our flight information there was a small asterisk which read “Fuel Stop
Bangor”. Now I have by no means crossed
the ocean with as much regularity as the wife, but neither of us had ever
experienced such a caveat before. Once
aboard the plane we discovered that we would be flying in a fairly small craft
for an international flight and when paired with an unusually strong headwind,
it meant that our flight would not reach Washington DC without having to refuel
in Bangor, Maine. We already had a
fairly tight connection to catch and somewhere in between we had to clear
customs. The fuel stop and a burdensome
line at customs meant that we wouldn’t be making our next flight. We were greeted at baggage claim by an agent
that advised that we had been re-booked on a flight out the next evening . . .
“Merci, Madame . . . shit, Thank You”.
We were advised that we were entitled to a hotel voucher and it would be
waiting for us at the customer service desk upstairs. In addition, if we didn’t need our luggage, it
could simply be re-checked and would be waiting for us at home upon our
eventual arrival. We decided to sleep in
our clothes and borrow some sundries from the hotel so as to not have to deal
with the baggage along the way.
Upon our arrival at the
customer service desk we realized we were not alone in our plight. Not alone indeed. The serpentine line of international
travelers stretched on for what seemed like miles. Doing what we do best, we split our
forces. The wife patiently waited in
line while I tended to the boys and connected portable electronic devices to
the airports WiFi service. Using the
eldest boy as a go between we quickly formulated a battle plan. Having fairly educated and well-traveled
parents meant that the boys would not be forced to wait around for the hours
that it would take to reach the front of the line. We bid farewell to the free hotel voucher and
promise of a flight the next evening.
Instead, I located a hotel with airport shuttle while the wife called
the airline and booked us on a flight first thing in the morning to an
undisclosed location in the Midwest. We
had a social affair to get to the following evening and the next available
flight to our intended destination was not going to cut it. We found an alternative travel destination
that was within striking distance by car and would have a family member drive a
couple of hours to our rescue. The plan
was well executed and soon we were on our way. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but
our attitude toward our difficulties in travel speak volumes about our little
clan. When adversity is thrown in one’s
face, you have several options. One is
to accept the hand that is dealt with a demoralized heart while cursing your bloody misfortune. Another is to simply throw
your hands in the air and retreat from the challenge with tears in your
eyes. Our path is neither. Our path is one of determination and perseverance. We choose to be active participants in our
own lives while never giving in to the intense desire to throw in the
proverbial towel. No tears were shed and
we never felt the least bit of sorrow for ourselves and our unfortunate plight.
I marveled at this thought as
I watched a twenty-something girl fall to pieces as she advised the party waiting
for her at her intended destination that she wouldn’t be on the expected
flight. I don’t presume to know the
entirety of her story and the variety of reasons for her despair seem to
endless to contemplate. Regardles of her back story, however, one thing was certain . . . her expectations had been
shattered. It is these expectations that
often make us their master and color our perception of the world. Our time here in France has tempered our
philosophical steel to the point that we, as a family, are no longer bound by
expectations. We take life as it is
offered and truly play the hand that is dealt.
We don’t just accept cards and hope the dealer busts, nor do we fold
when the hand doesn’t look so fair. We
keep playing. We have learned through
life that one road leads to the next and the only way to arrive at our desired
destination is to keep on walking. Our
life is our journey . . . our path, and walk it we shall.
The remainder of our trip was
spent re-kindling old friendships and leading a gypsy caravan across the
midwest in a fashion that wears like an old pair of shoes. Social engagements were kept and kinships were observed. By the end of our trip, we had
once more become comfortable in our old skin . . . most of us anyway. The youngest continued to keep us rooted in our trans-continental lifestyle by continually speaking to people in French and
demanding baguette when none could be proferred. It was a joyful trip that I think we were
each sad to watch slip away. I being the
most introspective of our group, spent my quiet time (little though there was)
lost in thought regarding where we were, where we had been, and where we were
going. Surprised? Didn’t think so. Once comfortable in my American skin again, I
marveled at how seemingly friendly Americans seemed when compared to the
French. For the briefest moment I puffed
up my American chest and took pride in my countrymen. Like a slap across the face, I had a
realization. My countryman are not
friendlier than the French. Not by a
long shot. The difference? It was I who was friendlier to them and my
zeal was infectious. I had spent the
last year in relative solitary. Living
life as an essential mute. The ability
to speak in my native language had freed me.
I felt pardoned. Leaving an
imprisonment that had locked me away from the rest of the world. For this I was greatful, not saddened. Greatful not for the freedom, but for the
imprisonment. I realized that I had wasted this
freedom in a previous life. Hateful and
cold. Keeping people at a distance and
unwilling to learn lessons that others had to teach. My solitude has taught me to relish in truly
getting to know others, whether they be French or American or somewhere in between. Becoming French has made me a better
American. This was not the lesson I
expected to learn.
I expected to be offended by
the obesity and the boorishness of the American culture that I have drifted
away from in the past year. And yes, we
are a fat and lazy lot, no better and no worse than the rest of the world . . .
just different. I could not help but
wonder what had made us so different and why we had become the type of people I
had detested in my mind. I believe the
truth is in our age. We are young. Well fed, as infants are. Never denied anything for the sake of the family
and given enough of mother’s milk to keep our cheeks fattened and rosey. American’s live as children do. Little care for the realities of life with no
desire for the responsibilities that our parents have had to bear. We are an immigrant lot and our parents are
growing old overseas. They have learned
lessons we have not yet faced and adapted their aging ways to meet the demands
of growing older still. We are fat
because we are wealthy and well nurtured.
The realities our parents have faced are just now furrowing our brow. Our parents were fat once too. It was a historical sign of wealth and
prosperity. If you question this at all, please refer to the great masters’ works at your local art museum. Perhaps Rubens did it best, but there is a
theme across centuries and styles that cannot be denied. Our obesity is not an illness, but a symptom
of an all-together different disease.
Our youth and this disease contributes not only to our physical
appearance but our personalities and social decorum as well.
Again, like children, we are
brash and senseless . . . leaping before we look. Our emotional outbursts filling the school
yard with both joy and strife. A cacophony
of noise that the elders find distasteful.
They were young once too, but how soon the mind forgets the follies of
childhood. Yet, like children we are a
magnet. Something to behold. Something to gravitate toward if only for a
moment. Visit a park and see where you
are drawn. To the sandbox with the
snotty nosed toddler or to the park bench next to the old man reading his
newspaper? Most would choose the
sandbox, at least until one of the little bastards wiped his snot on your
sleeve. Yet the seat next to the old man
deserves some wear. He deserves our
time. Some children know this. It is where wisdom lies. When all others ignore his angry appearance
and walk hurriedly on their way to avoid his steely gaze, one child will
inevitably fill the seat next to him.
One child will not be afraid or intimidated. Like bookends they will sit in silence, aware
of each other’s presence and giving each other a great deal of thought. The brightest of the two will eventually
break this silence, both their lives bettered for the exchange. I wish to be this child, and I wish to break
this silence. I want to learn from the
elders and then return to them the passion of my youth. And so, by the end of our trip, exhausted
from my travels with my belly well-tended, I (of our four) was the only one ready
to return. Perhaps I have an old soul,
but a great part of me missed the old man on the park bench. And though I know he grows tired of my presence
and a part of me desires to rejoin my friends in the sandbox, I feel the need
to learn the lessons yet taught and share my youthful ardor.
So what of this disease? What is it that keeps us fat? It is, after all, the reason so many of us stay
in the sandbox in fear of that old man.
In truth, it is the same reason the old man chooses to hide behind the
daily news and yells at the kids to stay off his lawn. The disease is PRIDE. Our inability to learn from others,
regardless of their stage in life will always be our undoing. Believing as both sides do, that their way is
in fact the better, will leave the child a fat little scourge and the old man
alone in his death bed. And so it is
this that I leave you with after one year in the trenches. Living a life on both sides of the pond has
found me for the better. I choose to
live my life as I tell my kids, taking the best from my own parents. And that which is not for hand-me-downs, I
choose to toss in the garbage. I know
now that there is a truth I must find on this journey that we now travel. An intense desire for inspiration and some enlightenment
pushes me forward with certain omens as my guide.
I have a hint there is God in this and it is he that I must find. I seek life’s lessons and universal truths,
but know that I can never learn them all.
And so, I will journey as all Pilgrims have, forever walking
forward. It is this reason and this
reason alone that I will see you in Santiago.
R.
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