North American Wandering
I’m sitting in the airport of Santo Domingo about to board my third flight to the US. (Aside: It’s surprising how robotic and unrushed I’ve become in airports. Weigh luggage. Show passport. Remove shoes and belt. Flash green card and smile.) This trip is a perk of extending service for a year. Peace Corps paid for a plane ticket, gave me a per diem, assigned me 30 free vacation days, and wished me well. I imagine, reading between the lines of the “special leave” policy, the message: “Get out, please, just for a bit. Look after yourself. See your friends. We don’t want you if you’re going to go crazy here.” Or maybe that’s just me.
One month in the US. (I’ve been making a conscious effort to refer to my país natal that way in response to a Venezuelan friend’s constant reminder that “We are BOTH Americans. It’s a big continent.”) I’m excited for a number of things — most of them edible, let’s be real — and nervous for others. I’m looking forward to spending time with friends and family. I’m going to see a new part of the country when I head to Portland in two weeks. I’m going to visit grad schools and be vago in New York City. I’ll probably speak in horrible Spanglish for a bit and throw my toilet paper in the trash can at least twice. I’m unreasonably worried about complimenting babies by calling them fat, which I imagine most Americans parents wouldn’t like. Cultural readjustment, they call it. Should be a fun ride.
(I’ll try to keep up this blog with short updates during my travels. Recently I haven’t been feeling the behemoth posts that attempt to summarize everything I’ve been doing in the past however many weeks. Bear with me as I try something new.)
Santo Domingo, nos chequeamos.