“I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE BACK!” they’ll croon. And hug you. You nod and smile, because that’s what you do. Who are these people? Why are they so glad?
“Was it amazing?” they’ll ask. Yeah, you say. Yes. They’ll nod vigorously, light filling their eyes. They’ll wait for you to carry on. This hummus is excellent, you announce, after some time. They’ll agree. They have to, it’s good hummus.
“How was your trip?” your dentist will ask, jamming metal into your mouth. Uh gruu hehhgh, you grunt. She’ll nod and scrape away. “Must be nice to travel!” You try to blind yourself staring at the big light above.
“Have you changed?” someone will wonder into the phone. You think for a moment. If I have, would I know it? you reply. The line will fall silent. You press: Have I? But no one will answer that. At least not now.
“Tell me everything,” the ambitious will say. “Start to finish.” You admire these ones. And question their sanity. Over how much time? you ask. Ten minutes? Ninety? One must have constraints! “As long as it takes,” they’ll say. So you start from the beginning, moving at whatever pace you must. These evenings are long. They take much out of you.
“What was the best part?” many will inquire. You question their question. “WHAT WAS THE BEST!?” they’ll demand. The $2.50 3-course lunches, you concede. Lunch was the highlight. In a way, it’s true.
Others keep it safe: “Where’d you go?” You’ll list six countries. And two more you commuted through, because you’re pretty sure that’s what they want to hear. You leave out the towns, stores, restaurants, bookshops and bodies of water. You leave out the volcanoes and fortresses, bus stations and airports, pharmacies and cafes. You leave out the cemeteries and parks, guest houses and nightclubs, museums and ruins. You leave out the Panama Canal. You leave out the people. You stick to the countries.
“Will you go back?” some want to know. You have no idea if you’ll go back, so you say: I have no idea if I’ll go back. No one likes this answer.
“What’s the biggest difference you found between people and cultures?” a thoughtful friend might ask over a homemade meal. You chew and you think. The only difference out there is whether or not people see differences, you reply. And the conversation will spin into chaos. You’ve answered too honestly. Which was bad.
“You look thin,” some may observe. “Have you lost weight?” No, you assure them. People just remember me bigger. You stand as straight as you can. And taller. It’s a strange phenomenon, this one.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” a few might dare wonder. You frown. Who said I was looking for something? “I hope you found whatever it was you were looking for,” they’ll conclude. You run from these conversations as quickly as you can.
And in this manner, your shields will be honed. You’ll deflect and deflect, taking few direct shots. Your armor will become chiseled and strong. And you’ll wear it proudly, wherever necessary.
Sometimes, no one will ask a thing. And this will make you quite pleased. The world is big and small and simple, you might offer up. This I’ve learned. They might nod or smile or order more fries. Maybe you tell them about that copy of Death of a Salesman you found at a kiosk, long ago discarded from a prison library at Guantanamo Bay. Or about your first experimental underground haircut, in a city where no one knew your head. “Where to next?” they’ll invariably ask. Africa, you reply. The cradle of humanity. Is there any other answer?
Few ask the right questions. Yourself included, you’re pretty sure. But that’s exactly why you keep on moving. Climbing and crawling. And writing things down.