It was only days after my move from that quiet Phoenix suburb to the ghetto known as Hollywood that I began to notice little changes. Armed with only the deposit for the first month and what could fit into the back of my 94 Corsica, I had a quick lesson about a fast, hard life and what it was like for a teenage child to suddenly inherit very demanding adult responsibilities. As days turned into years, the differences between my chosen life and my original life became increasingly apparent. The people I called friends were still in studies and living in the comfort of their parents homes and checkbooks while I had quickly launched into a completely independent lifestyle far away from the support of my family or the company of people my age. The majority of my friends and family, never having left the sheltered American heartland, could not grasp what I was doing, why I was doing it or why I would want to live in a place that was so “dangerous”. Danger, of course, was being exposed to anything besides white Southern Baptists, bad chain restaurants and Super Wal-Marts. The longer I lived away from home, the less patience I had for those who had never made such a move themselves. They were different. They were stale. On the rare occasion that I returned for visit, I looked at the places I once called home with a little disdain. The people seemed so simple. The clothes they wore there were silly. Their lifestyles were too slow. Their diets were horrifying. Their entertainment was hardly worth getting out for. Their educations were most likely not even worth mentioning. The lucky might have a bachelor’s degree in something irrelevant from State University. Their language was plain. Their ideals were naïve. The cities, themselves, seemed smaller. That was all just after living in California and taking a few small trips out of the country.
Continuing my travels and moving to New York only added to the separation of my world from the world I had once known. I no longer had anything in common with my friends who seemed either stagnant in their lives or years behind my progression. I was definitely no longer able to enjoy my visits back to cities that somehow seemed inferior. The fact that people didn’t know the difference between what they had and what was available to them troubled me. They couldn’t understand why I had changed. I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t want to change. There was no more communication with people I once knew. We were suddenly speaking different languages. I had estranged myself from my own world simply by choosing to live. Deciding to experience my country and all that it had to offer wasn’t easy, I admit. However, where there is struggle, there is reward. The challenges that I faced in my adventure returned to me an invaluable expansion of my mind and a much better understanding of the people who make this such a diverse and amazing planet. The experience was something I was grateful to have. It was also something that created sadness. I knew that the more I continued to live like this, the more I would continue to distance myself from the world I was brought up in and the people I was brought up with. Still, I am grateful that my sadness, no matter how great, has never been larger than my ambition.
This week, my new American friend and I agreed to meet for lunch at Indigo inside the One Aldwych hotel. Before moving to London 14 years ago, he too, had lived in several states. In an accent that he insisted was from Boston, but I would have guessed as being from Northern Texas, he discussed with me the unfavorable condition of the people of our native country.
“They don’t know much.”
“No. They don’t.” I agreed.
“They just stay in one place their entire lives. They never get out. They have no idea what’s out there.”
“In defense”, I said, “it is really a massive country and it isn’t exactly easy to get out. The ability to travel is limited.” I wondered if geography could be blamed for a culture’s repressed knowledge.
He went on.
“But they don’t even travel within the country. They just stay in one place. They have no connection with the rest of the world. I’ve talked to people that think London is in Antarctica. They want to know if people drive cars here or just ride horses.”
I laughed to myself. His statement reminded me of when a girl from California once asked me if in Oklahoma I had ever seen an Indian in a teepee.
“I’m not surprised. Sad, isn’t it? You grow and they shrink. It’s embarrassing to look back and know that’s the mentality you came from.”
I pushed a piece of seared tuna from one side of my plate to the other before continuing,
“Would you ever go back?”
“I might have a place there, but I’d have to keep my apartments outside the states, too. Maybe I’d just visit-stay for a few months and come back. Would you go back?”
I looked at the people in the lobby below the balcony we dined on and tried to answer a question I was unsure of.
“I don’t know. I’m not connected to anything there. There’s so much more of the world to explore. Go back? I really don’t know. “
The fact that I was sitting across a table with a man who so flippantly discuss his homes in multiple countries served as a reminder of how far I’ve come, not just geographically, but socially as well. He is one of several friends whom I’ve discussed global residence with. These conversations were never had during my time in mid-America.
It is this bittersweet medley of emotions that I assume must come with most people who have experienced a similar lifestyle of exploration and travels. While I feel fortunate to be where I’m from, I also feel fortunate to have gotten out. While I feel blessed to have developed a knowledge from traveling that many don’t have the opportunity to receive, I also feel some guilt that my experience has pulled me away from the very people that gave me my founding education. And while I want badly to get in touch with people from my past and exchange stories, I know that, in reality, those conversations simply could not be had with positive results. I am excited to learn and see more. Still, the more I do that, the more I become aware of the unfortunate American condition from which I began. When and if I return to the US, will it still be home? If not sacrifice their natural drive for adventure, then what does the increasingly alienated nomad do when everywhere is welcoming, but nowhere is home?
Every time I step on to a rainy street and see a London cab or red double decker bus go by, I get a little chill of excitement. I’m not just in London. I live here! And when I am home in a state of reflection, I remember moments like that night that I stepped onto the roof of my yellow apartment building off Hollywood Blvd., looked up to the hills and saw the Hollywood sign right in front of me. I was far away from everything and anyone I’d even known, but the promise in those big white letters assured me the my self-uproot was the right thing to do. I remain assured that it was the right thing to do and I will continue to pursue this adventure because nothing satisfies me more. Still, I can not help but feel some sadness at the expense this experience comes at.
VB
Continue reading The American Condition, Nomadic Alienation And The Inevitable Snobbery Of Travelers