5/8/13
Growing up
in South America, I’ve had an interesting perspective on the country of my
nationality for most of my life. I’ve never really felt as though I belong
anywhere. I did not belong in Ecuador (obviously—as if my pasty skin, blonde
hair, and blue eyes didn’t make me painfully conspicuous walking down the
streets of Quito), but when we moved back to a different place the U.S. after
seven years out of the country, I felt like just as much of a foreigner here.
Because after living for such an extended period of time in another country,
and living with a community of other people who are not native to the country,
you come to have a certain comfort in a place, even if you are, in fact, a
foreigner. Tourism and short trips are much different. You do not have the time
to reach that place of comfort and familiarity—the time to meet people and
develop relationships. That is really at the heart of what it means to be a
“foreigner,” in my experience. Once you begin to develop relationships with
people, you begin to accept each other for who you each are, going beyond the
superficiality of nationalities. The people I knew in Ecuador made it feel like
home. The people I’ve known in Indiana make it feel like home. It may be
cliché, and I’m sure others have said it before me, but “home,” to me, is
people.
5/14/13
I continued to pedal, and my quad muscles realized before it
registered visually that the ground under my bike tires had begun to incline. The
wind blasted across my body, hitting me from the right, then whipped around and
charged me head on, wrapping around the bike and adding resistance on top of
the steady incline of the road. Hadn’t this seemed so easy only a few moments
ago? What had I gotten myself into? I love bike rides—I had hoped this would be
so much easier than it was turning out to be. The motion of my legs began to
slow. My thighs smarted and a burning sensation began to course through them. I
tried ignoring it and pushed harder, pressing the pedals under my shoes,
shifting so that only the balls of my feet were creating pressure and
hoping to relieve some of the burn. Unfortunately, the burning increased
exponentially instead, and before long I was moving so slowly that the front tire of my
bike began to wiggle. Desperate, I pressed even harder, pain now searing
through my thighs. I no longer saw the stone fences and the cottages, I didn’t
hear the waves on the shore of the island, and I even stopped feeling the wind smacking
my face—all I could think about were my screaming thighs. And then I realized,
hopelessly, that I was not going to make it up this hill on my bicycle. With a
frustrated outburst, I threw my leg over my bike seat with what felt like my
last ounce of energy and landed with both feet on the pavement. I did not
look forward to walking that bike up the hill. But at least my thighs had
stopped screaming.
5/14/13
Brittany clutched our bag of fish and chips. Devin forged
her way across the street. Volkswagen. Peugeot. Audi. Only person in that car
is in the passenger seat. No no, steering wheel. Crossing the street, heads
bobbed first left, then right. Should have looked the other way first.
Backwards. Everything is backwards. I can smell the fish. I can smell the
warmth. Crossing the street. Where to stop? Gate. Black iron bars. Towering
stone. Cathedral. Inviting? Foreboding? Stern?
Kind? Walking through. Grass. Flagstones. Incline. Eyes light on tables.
Inviting. Crows on iron bars. Foreboding. Grease stains on the table. Good
sign. Grey cloud blanket. Gust of wind rustles the paper wrapping. Steaming
fish swims in warm, yellow chips. Beckoning. Spires watch. Breeze. More paper
rustling. Break off fish. Movements seem to bounce off the walls. Brakes
squeal. Engines roar outside the iron bars. Grab two chips. Bells chime three
quarters of a familiar time-keeping tune.
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