Hi Mexico,
I wrote and told you that I wasn't coming, but I didn't tell you a couple weeks later when I was offered the chance to come down again. Why? Well, because all of a sudden I was uncertain. All of a sudden, I thought of a lot of other things I could be doing instead. All of a sudden, I wasn't so sure I needed you anymore.
But who was I kidding? I do need you, or someone like you. I need a place to go to recharge my batteries, and to remember those things that are really important to me and my life. For whatever reason, I have a hard time remembering these things when immersed in my life up here. Until I can learn how to incorporate how alive I feel when I'm with you into the life I have without you, I have to come back to you.
So, I'll be there sometime around the end of April. And guess what? I'm bringing a friend. She's amazing, and I'm sure you two will get along just fine. I just hope that you can offer her as much comfort and insight as you offered me.
Oh yeah, her name's Terri. :)
Love and spicy humid hot Mexican kisses
Morgan
Showing posts with label culture shock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture shock. Show all posts
Friday, December 10, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Where Has the Flavor Gone?
Mexican oranges are not orange. They’re more of a mottled, green-orange that does not exactly inspire confidence in the first-time buyer. They’re also a little small. Basically, Mexican oranges have very little in common with the very same fruit sold in the U.S. that is, actually, orange.
However, looks are not everything. As much as the oranges look pretty in the U.S. – being huge and perfectly round and orange – they are nothing compared to the juicy, dripping-with-flavor sweetness of the unorange oranges found here.
The same is true for limes. And mangoes. And papayas. And avocadoes. It is not simply that I have more time to savor the flavors here in Mexico; the truth of the matter is that there is more flavor here, even if it comes in an imperfect package.
Among many orchardists in the States, the Red Delicious is considered the potato of apples. This is because – according to my father the orchardist – there was a point where they began marketing Red Delicious for their color: for having a perfectly red exterior. Soon, demand began to reflect this genius of marketing, and consumers were buying the biggest apples with the best-looking exterior. In turn, tree growers began selling strains of trees that grew this perfect fruit, and growers began to buy these trees to grow the apples that were in such high demand. The apple’s taste was secondary to how it looked.
Obviously this was not the first or the last fruit or vegetable that this has happened to. The oranges are a perfect example. Unfortunately, in the land of the grocery store, where there are no seasons and the fruit and vegetables are bought and sold based on their looks, much of the flavor goes by the wayside.
It’s not just our food, however. The States has become so involved in how something looks that all the flavor has been leeched out for the sake of the image. Yes, we drive nice cars and live in nice houses, but we also work weekends and are always attached to our work email. We are so exhausted making the money to fund our images as successful fun-loving people that we don’t actually have time to be those people. We are so caught up in having that beautiful shiny exterior that our insides suffer, our souls shrivel, and we live for the two-week vacation where we can forget that the rest of our lives are all about work.
Obviously there are people out there who use their credit cards because they can’t afford food and diapers, but there are many more whose debts come from buying non-essentials because everyone else has or wants them. For myself, it has always been eating out: I love to do it, even when I can’t necessarily afford it, and I love to cook; I certainly don’t need to eat out. How much debt would we have if we just bought what we needed?
Mexico has holidays all the time. They work hard, make much less money, yet are much more likely to smile at you on the street. Their lives seem even more full of life than ours, despite all we do to fill them. As for us, we are perfectly round and perfectly colored, but how much flavor do we have inside?
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However, looks are not everything. As much as the oranges look pretty in the U.S. – being huge and perfectly round and orange – they are nothing compared to the juicy, dripping-with-flavor sweetness of the unorange oranges found here.
The same is true for limes. And mangoes. And papayas. And avocadoes. It is not simply that I have more time to savor the flavors here in Mexico; the truth of the matter is that there is more flavor here, even if it comes in an imperfect package.
Among many orchardists in the States, the Red Delicious is considered the potato of apples. This is because – according to my father the orchardist – there was a point where they began marketing Red Delicious for their color: for having a perfectly red exterior. Soon, demand began to reflect this genius of marketing, and consumers were buying the biggest apples with the best-looking exterior. In turn, tree growers began selling strains of trees that grew this perfect fruit, and growers began to buy these trees to grow the apples that were in such high demand. The apple’s taste was secondary to how it looked.
Obviously this was not the first or the last fruit or vegetable that this has happened to. The oranges are a perfect example. Unfortunately, in the land of the grocery store, where there are no seasons and the fruit and vegetables are bought and sold based on their looks, much of the flavor goes by the wayside.
It’s not just our food, however. The States has become so involved in how something looks that all the flavor has been leeched out for the sake of the image. Yes, we drive nice cars and live in nice houses, but we also work weekends and are always attached to our work email. We are so exhausted making the money to fund our images as successful fun-loving people that we don’t actually have time to be those people. We are so caught up in having that beautiful shiny exterior that our insides suffer, our souls shrivel, and we live for the two-week vacation where we can forget that the rest of our lives are all about work.
Obviously there are people out there who use their credit cards because they can’t afford food and diapers, but there are many more whose debts come from buying non-essentials because everyone else has or wants them. For myself, it has always been eating out: I love to do it, even when I can’t necessarily afford it, and I love to cook; I certainly don’t need to eat out. How much debt would we have if we just bought what we needed?
Mexico has holidays all the time. They work hard, make much less money, yet are much more likely to smile at you on the street. Their lives seem even more full of life than ours, despite all we do to fill them. As for us, we are perfectly round and perfectly colored, but how much flavor do we have inside?
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Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Gringa Faux Pas Part 3
The maid tells me I am very brave for staying out at this house by myself. She is not the first person to tell me this, and I'm sure she won't be the last. Americans and Mexicans alike have said the same thing, although truth be told I'm not sure why. I am living in a beautiful house surrounded by an (almost) invincible wall, with my own guard dog with a deep ferocious bark but cheery disposition, a night watchman, and, for good measure, a big ass machete next to the bed. (The machete was already there, mind you...I would never actually pick a machete as my weapon of choice).
So anyway, she tells me how "valiente" I am, and I tell her all the things stated here about how I really don't feel that brave, and then this supposedly kind-hearted woman throws it in my face: "Bueno, valiente, sí, pero con miedo de arañas."
So okay, it wasn't that big of a spider...but it was a pretty f*ing big spider just the same. I mean, as far as big spiders go, this one was not that big...but if it attacked me, say, it could have easily gotten ahold of and bitten into my big toe.
So what if I'm bad with spiders? So what if, when the maid came in after I'd scaled the wall, the first thing she saw was a tupperware container on the stairs, upside down, with four cans of tuna fish stacked on top so the wily creature couldn't escape to find its way onto my face in the middle of the night? So what if I was going to leave it trapped there all day until the night watchman came back and took care of it? SO WHAT, PEOPLE? WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE I'M CRAZY?
So anyway, she tells me how "valiente" I am, and I tell her all the things stated here about how I really don't feel that brave, and then this supposedly kind-hearted woman throws it in my face: "Bueno, valiente, sí, pero con miedo de arañas."
So okay, it wasn't that big of a spider...but it was a pretty f*ing big spider just the same. I mean, as far as big spiders go, this one was not that big...but if it attacked me, say, it could have easily gotten ahold of and bitten into my big toe.
So what if I'm bad with spiders? So what if, when the maid came in after I'd scaled the wall, the first thing she saw was a tupperware container on the stairs, upside down, with four cans of tuna fish stacked on top so the wily creature couldn't escape to find its way onto my face in the middle of the night? So what if I was going to leave it trapped there all day until the night watchman came back and took care of it? SO WHAT, PEOPLE? WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE I'M CRAZY?
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Brighter Side of Spanish Vocabulary
After much smoking, we decided to make Mexican food for dinner. Since I was the only one who had ever been to Mexico and had in fact lived there, I was elected to cook. I threw some onions and peppers in with some hamburger meat, made fresh salsa and guacamole and heated some tortillas on the stove one by one, like my Mexican friends had taught me. We had a jar of jalapeños, of which only four of the ten of us were even brave enough to try, and I was the only one who could actually chew one of the dime-sized wheels up without crying. Just to prove my worth, I fished out two of the bigger wheels with a little juice and a lot of seeds, and popped them in my mouth without blinking an eye. My friends went nuts. You’d have thought I tried to slit my own throat, and their swearing fits became extra colorful as they exclaimed over my guts. Although a direct translation holds little light to the actual meaning, it is nevertheless hilarious to share some of the spicy remarks that make up the Andalucian language hurtled at me as their mouths burned at the thought of the sacrilege I had just committed on my own tongue.
“Fuck, aunt, you’re crazy.”
“I shit on the milk, uncle, this gringa’s gonna kill herself.”
“It’s going to hurt like the Host tomorrow, uncle.”
“To take it in the ass, that’s why she did it!”
“Fuck, aunt, you’re crazy.”
“I shit on the milk, uncle, this gringa’s gonna kill herself.”
“It’s going to hurt like the Host tomorrow, uncle.”
“To take it in the ass, that’s why she did it!”
Monday, July 13, 2009
Calamities With Stripes
Though it didn't seem like it until I looked back on the past few weeks that I had been living in Mexico, really I had been through a series of calamities that were trying, but nonetheless must have made me stronger. Otherwise, there is absolutely no reason to suffer through them.
Calamity number one: Montezuma’s revenge hit me upside the head with a double-edged ax. Well, actually, it was in the stomach, and for those that don’t know what Montezuma’s revenge is, you've had the luck of never having it. Basically, there are all sorts of very enthusiastic stomach bugs that the Mexicans put in the food here to slowly but surely kill off the gringos that have infiltrated their country. Symptoms include diarrhea, lack of appetite, the urge to vomit, and doubling over in pain and whining for mommy, all in the middle of watching the dubbed version of Bad Boys in a movie theater. Treatment is finding a Mexican doctor that does not have his own office but will meet you at the nearest hospital, where he'll examine you in an extra examination room, give you a shot of antibiotics in the ass, charge you $40, give you a prescription and a list of foods you can't eat, including chocolate even though it's your birthday, and send you on your way.
Calamity number two: the rain. It does not rain. It waterfalls on top of you. It does. Constantly. It never stops. Actually, it does. The rain stops long enough for you to go outside, look carefully around as if trying to spot a waiting predator, get through the front gate and make it a couple of blocks. BAM! Thunder, lightning and dark clouds scoot in at ¨lightning speed¨ and you're drenched and stepping in puddles up to your neck.
Calamity number three: I am being sucked bloodless by the mosquitoes. The house I live in has a back garden with a fountain that is never on but has plenty of standing water where the little bloodsuckers breed. They somehow make it from there upstairs into my room and are slowly killing me while I sleep, which is the only time I wear shorts. My legs look like a minefield. It doesn't help that Mexican mosquitoes don't have the whining approach like their U.S. relatives, so they can sneak up on you undetected. It also doesn't help that when I am asleep, I don't notice that I am scratching my legs until I awake in a bloody frenzy. I showed my landlord my wounds, and she looked genuinely confused. How strange, she said, standing in front of the open sliding glass door that leads out to the garden and waving away some bug that flew too close to her. Because the mosquitoes rarely come in the house, and we never leave the doors open. I stood there in front of her, my legs trickling blood, and thought of all the days I had come home and found the sliding doors open. Actually, I didn't even have to think of all the days, because it was every day! Then she gave me a real zinger: maybe it's just your exotic blood. Ha! She just called a white, redheaded freckled girl from Washington exotic! THAT is a calamity! What an insult the really exotic people of the world!
Calamity number four: my job. I knew this was going to happen, but that didn't stop it from happening. As part of my job as an intern for an English language newspaper, I wrote a story about all the nasty things you can find in the tap water here and why you shouldn't drink it. I gave it to the editor on a Tuesday (the paper is finished on Thursdays) and asked him to look it over to see what else it needed. He lost it and didn't ask for it again until Thursday morning. I gave it back, he told me to change the lead, then I had it proofed by the copy editor and turned it in. It didn't come out in the paper that week. He called me in on the next Tuesday and gave me something that I am sure was once my article, but it was really impossible to tell because it was covered in teal and black ink. He went through it with me, telling me things I needed to change, some of which made a lot of sense, and others that I think changed the whole meaning of the damn thing. This, I have discovered, is because when I talk to the editor about an article, he has already decided what's going to be in it before he sees it. I could tell him I'm writing a story about the zoo, and if he decides he wants to hear about the monkeys and I write about the zebras, he'll tell me I am all wrong in saying the monkeys have stripes.
Anyway, I make the corrections, and hand it over to the copy editor, who gives me back a paper that, as he fondly put it, was a bloodbath (he uses a red pen). By this point I am fed up. He too thinks I am trying to paint stripes on the monkeys and refuses to listen when I try to explain that they are ZEBRAS. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried angry bitter tears and was afraid to wash my face afterward for fear that I would inhale something dangerous from the tap water. I finished all the corrections and turned the thing in yet again. Once again, it doesn't come out in the paper. Moreover, I find another article that I had originally written where the editor took all the information I gave him and wrote his own article. So I decided to talk to him about this. As I sat there trying my best to keep from acting like a leaky faucet, he told me in no uncertain terms that he was usually being nice to me just because I was an intern, that I obviously didn't know enough about water quality or how the water gets through the pipes to write a story about it, that he has the right to change my articles without telling me, especially when I turn them in 20 minutes before deadline (which, by the way, I have NEVER done unless it's given to me right before deadline. I turn most of them in a day early.) He also said that I am not good enough at translating to get the full context of a conversation and write it again in perfect English, and oh, by the way, don't get discouraged, because you're by far the best intern we've ever had. Apparently the others were trying to paint stripes on buildings or something.
In response, I went home, waved away the buzzing mosquitoes, and consoled myself by eating my way through the rest of a chocolate pudding pie.
The lesson? They are monkeys, regardless of the stripes, and chocolate really is a cure-all.
Calamity number one: Montezuma’s revenge hit me upside the head with a double-edged ax. Well, actually, it was in the stomach, and for those that don’t know what Montezuma’s revenge is, you've had the luck of never having it. Basically, there are all sorts of very enthusiastic stomach bugs that the Mexicans put in the food here to slowly but surely kill off the gringos that have infiltrated their country. Symptoms include diarrhea, lack of appetite, the urge to vomit, and doubling over in pain and whining for mommy, all in the middle of watching the dubbed version of Bad Boys in a movie theater. Treatment is finding a Mexican doctor that does not have his own office but will meet you at the nearest hospital, where he'll examine you in an extra examination room, give you a shot of antibiotics in the ass, charge you $40, give you a prescription and a list of foods you can't eat, including chocolate even though it's your birthday, and send you on your way.
Calamity number two: the rain. It does not rain. It waterfalls on top of you. It does. Constantly. It never stops. Actually, it does. The rain stops long enough for you to go outside, look carefully around as if trying to spot a waiting predator, get through the front gate and make it a couple of blocks. BAM! Thunder, lightning and dark clouds scoot in at ¨lightning speed¨ and you're drenched and stepping in puddles up to your neck.
Calamity number three: I am being sucked bloodless by the mosquitoes. The house I live in has a back garden with a fountain that is never on but has plenty of standing water where the little bloodsuckers breed. They somehow make it from there upstairs into my room and are slowly killing me while I sleep, which is the only time I wear shorts. My legs look like a minefield. It doesn't help that Mexican mosquitoes don't have the whining approach like their U.S. relatives, so they can sneak up on you undetected. It also doesn't help that when I am asleep, I don't notice that I am scratching my legs until I awake in a bloody frenzy. I showed my landlord my wounds, and she looked genuinely confused. How strange, she said, standing in front of the open sliding glass door that leads out to the garden and waving away some bug that flew too close to her. Because the mosquitoes rarely come in the house, and we never leave the doors open. I stood there in front of her, my legs trickling blood, and thought of all the days I had come home and found the sliding doors open. Actually, I didn't even have to think of all the days, because it was every day! Then she gave me a real zinger: maybe it's just your exotic blood. Ha! She just called a white, redheaded freckled girl from Washington exotic! THAT is a calamity! What an insult the really exotic people of the world!
Calamity number four: my job. I knew this was going to happen, but that didn't stop it from happening. As part of my job as an intern for an English language newspaper, I wrote a story about all the nasty things you can find in the tap water here and why you shouldn't drink it. I gave it to the editor on a Tuesday (the paper is finished on Thursdays) and asked him to look it over to see what else it needed. He lost it and didn't ask for it again until Thursday morning. I gave it back, he told me to change the lead, then I had it proofed by the copy editor and turned it in. It didn't come out in the paper that week. He called me in on the next Tuesday and gave me something that I am sure was once my article, but it was really impossible to tell because it was covered in teal and black ink. He went through it with me, telling me things I needed to change, some of which made a lot of sense, and others that I think changed the whole meaning of the damn thing. This, I have discovered, is because when I talk to the editor about an article, he has already decided what's going to be in it before he sees it. I could tell him I'm writing a story about the zoo, and if he decides he wants to hear about the monkeys and I write about the zebras, he'll tell me I am all wrong in saying the monkeys have stripes.
Anyway, I make the corrections, and hand it over to the copy editor, who gives me back a paper that, as he fondly put it, was a bloodbath (he uses a red pen). By this point I am fed up. He too thinks I am trying to paint stripes on the monkeys and refuses to listen when I try to explain that they are ZEBRAS. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried angry bitter tears and was afraid to wash my face afterward for fear that I would inhale something dangerous from the tap water. I finished all the corrections and turned the thing in yet again. Once again, it doesn't come out in the paper. Moreover, I find another article that I had originally written where the editor took all the information I gave him and wrote his own article. So I decided to talk to him about this. As I sat there trying my best to keep from acting like a leaky faucet, he told me in no uncertain terms that he was usually being nice to me just because I was an intern, that I obviously didn't know enough about water quality or how the water gets through the pipes to write a story about it, that he has the right to change my articles without telling me, especially when I turn them in 20 minutes before deadline (which, by the way, I have NEVER done unless it's given to me right before deadline. I turn most of them in a day early.) He also said that I am not good enough at translating to get the full context of a conversation and write it again in perfect English, and oh, by the way, don't get discouraged, because you're by far the best intern we've ever had. Apparently the others were trying to paint stripes on buildings or something.
In response, I went home, waved away the buzzing mosquitoes, and consoled myself by eating my way through the rest of a chocolate pudding pie.
The lesson? They are monkeys, regardless of the stripes, and chocolate really is a cure-all.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Introduction
My name is Morgan, and I am an addict. You see, I have a problem: I love to travel. Other people spend their money on cars, stereos, houses, clothes, shoes, maybe food. Me? I live in a cardboard box when I'm not abroad.
That may be somewhat of an exaggeration, but not by much. Every time I travel I come home exhausted. All of my clothes are so well worn I throw most of them away. I've slept more on airport floors than I have in beds, eaten more meals consisting of bread and whatever local spread is cheapest, and walked more miles to save bus fare than can possibly be healthy.
Each time I come back, I bury my backpack in the closet, throw some domestic goods on top of it, and say to myself and everyone else, "Good riddance. I'm done. I want to be able to eat real food, buy nice things for my house and have a job I like and want to stay in. No more traveling for awhile."
I'm lying.
I don't do this purposely. It's not like I don't believe myself. I come back and scramble to find a job, any job that will help me pay the bills. I can't afford to wait for the one I want. Once there, I find myself a cheap place to live after spending at least a week on someone's couch. I move all my stuff in and set it up like a home, like I'm going to stay.
Within a short amount of time, there's a positive number in my bank account. It starts to grow, even though I've begun to splurge just a little: I start buying vegetables again, or go out to eat every now and then with my friends. I go to the movies. I might even buy some new clothes if they're on sale.
At whatever job I have, I get settled. I start to get to know the people. I develop a routine. And slowly but surely, I begin to hate it.
The change is almost imperceptible. Gradually I become irritated at work, I find my routine mundane, and I can't bring myself to stay still. I start taking long drives on the weekends, and all of a sudden I decide I spend too much money on food. I cut down to frozen vegetables and Top Ramen. I check my bank account, then airline fares. I start thinking about where I want to go next, and cutting my expenses to a minimum. I rifle through my closet and find my backpack. I look it over and put it back, but in the front of the closet, where it can greet me every time I open the door.
At work, some small thing sets me off, and that's it! I'm done! I bide my time for just a little while, then I quit, move out of my house, put everything in storage, and I'm gone.
“Where are you going next, Morgan?”
I hear this a lot. And a lot of times, like this time, I say, “Well, I found some really cheap tickets and I’m heading to New York, New Orleans, then to Europe. Should be fun.”
Fun?
I know. It’s a lame thing to say. But what do you say? Inevitably, the next part of the conversation is the one that I hate the most.
“Are you going with anyone?”
“Nope. Just me. But I will see some people I know while I’m there. Besides, I’m sure I’ll meet people along the way.”
“How are you paying for this?”
“Well…ummm…I sold my car/stocks/soul and I’ve been surviving on cheap food for the past six months.”
“Wow. What are you going for?”
“No special reason. I just want to go.”
“I wish I could do that.”
No, actually you don’t. I have a very unfair belief that most people can do what I do, they just don’t really want to. I am not referring to people who barely have enough money to eat. I am referring to most people I know whose priorities are different than mine. They drive nice cars that aren’t 25 years old, perhaps live in nice houses or apartments, like to drink expensive concoctions at the bar, and eat at sit-down restaurants where there’s a waiter you have to tip. These are all priorities that I don’t share when I’m going abroad. My travel habits force me to forgo these daily pleasures with the idea that I will do them later in a foreign country, even if it’s not the case.
So why do I do it? Because I love to travel. I love the high I get landing somewhere totally new and trying to find a place to sleep and having no idea where my next meal will come from. I love meeting people who know absolutely nothing about me except what I choose to tell them. I love finding out why these people are here and realizing it is either nothing like my own story, or mirroring my thoughts exactly. I love listening to all the accents and dialects and different ways of saying the exact same thing.
My travel lust really began after returning to Washington State University after studying abroad in Spain. I was incredibly excited to go home after the year abroad. On my flight home I wrote down all the things I had missed on an airplane napkin:
Dryer sheets
Free water
No siesta
My pillow
Bagels
My bed
Starbucks coffee
Cold milk
Fresh fruit
Breakfast cookies
Driving
Cleanliness
Customer service
Chai tea
Movies in English
Chocolate banana milkshakes
Deli sandwiches
My computer/internet
Gum (American brands)
The radio
Thai food
Japanese food
Mexican food
Vietnamese food
Raspberries
Choice between non-fat, 2%, whole milk
Toilet seats and seat protectors in public bathrooms
Comprehension
Politeness
Shorts
More clothes
Teriyaki sauce
Tofu
My dog
I found this list later tucked into 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which I hadn’t finished. I couldn’t believe it. These were the reasons I wanted to come home? They were ridiculous. They meant nothing to me after about a week of being back in the States. After a week, counter-culture shock hit me full-force.
Few people talk about counter-culture shock, or even know what it is. Counter-culture shock is what you experience returning home after an extended period abroad. You are disillusioned because the place you couldn’t wait to get back to, the place that has represented comfort and home, doesn’t feel the same. It’s not that the place has changed; you have changed and it didn’t change with you.
My counter-culture shock was especially acute because of September 11. I arrived in Spain on August 30, 2001 and didn’t step foot on American soil until 11 months later. During that time my primary news sources were European. Their point of view, while similar to the U.S.’s at the beginning, was dramatically different by the time I left. I got home and there were American flags on every moving vehicle, and the fight against terrorism was in full swing. I was in Prague the day President Bush told the world that there was no middle ground and that you were either “with us or against us” in the battle against tyranny and evil as we defined it. I was walking across Northern Spain on a pilgrimage on the Fourth of July, and I was astounded when an American woman I met said that no one agreed with what Bush was doing, but they followed him because he was the president. Because of this day in history, the life I wanted to return to was no longer there, and the U.S. was feeling a cohesiveness that I was unable to understand or be part of.
As hard as a year in a foreign country and foreign culture was, it was nothing compared to the depression I felt returning to a country that had changed so drastically while I was gone. I was unwilling to state my point of view on what we were doing abroad because it was still considered un-American, but frustrated at my lack of courage and angry at what I was hearing around me. It took me a long time to realize that people’s views – including my own – are based on their personal experiences, and I had completely missed out on this one and the mentality it had produced.
Soon after returning to the States, I realized that I wanted to leave again. I felt confined, misunderstood, and that everything was too easy. After a year of struggling to speak the language, of trying to understand and be understood, college classes in my native language didn’t seem like much of a challenge. After a year of seeing pictures of the dead children killed by American bombs in Afghanistan on the front page of Spanish newspapers, I couldn’t fathom the light-hearted fun of grinding on fraternity boys at sticky-floored bars just because I was now 21.
So I started planning my next trip abroad. After this academic year, I would be able to wrap up my two degrees in Spanish and journalism with one six-month internship at a newspaper, provided that I wrote in English, but could somehow incorporate Spanish into the mix. Fortunately, I was close friends with one of the international programs advisors, and there just happened to be a program through Oregon State University where I could work at an English-language newspaper in a Latin-American country. My first choice – and the one I got – was for the Guadalajara Colony Reporter, a weekly newspaper that has written for the mostly American expatriates in Mexico for more than 30 years. I was working on an article at the Colony Reporter about cheap airfares when I decided that I wanted to go back to Europe via New York and New Orleans.
To understand why I decided to go to partake in this adventure, you first have to understand my time in Mexico. So that is where the story begins: in the cramped old house that holds the makings of the Colony Reporter in the city of Guadalajara in the state of Jalisco.
That may be somewhat of an exaggeration, but not by much. Every time I travel I come home exhausted. All of my clothes are so well worn I throw most of them away. I've slept more on airport floors than I have in beds, eaten more meals consisting of bread and whatever local spread is cheapest, and walked more miles to save bus fare than can possibly be healthy.
Each time I come back, I bury my backpack in the closet, throw some domestic goods on top of it, and say to myself and everyone else, "Good riddance. I'm done. I want to be able to eat real food, buy nice things for my house and have a job I like and want to stay in. No more traveling for awhile."
I'm lying.
I don't do this purposely. It's not like I don't believe myself. I come back and scramble to find a job, any job that will help me pay the bills. I can't afford to wait for the one I want. Once there, I find myself a cheap place to live after spending at least a week on someone's couch. I move all my stuff in and set it up like a home, like I'm going to stay.
Within a short amount of time, there's a positive number in my bank account. It starts to grow, even though I've begun to splurge just a little: I start buying vegetables again, or go out to eat every now and then with my friends. I go to the movies. I might even buy some new clothes if they're on sale.
At whatever job I have, I get settled. I start to get to know the people. I develop a routine. And slowly but surely, I begin to hate it.
The change is almost imperceptible. Gradually I become irritated at work, I find my routine mundane, and I can't bring myself to stay still. I start taking long drives on the weekends, and all of a sudden I decide I spend too much money on food. I cut down to frozen vegetables and Top Ramen. I check my bank account, then airline fares. I start thinking about where I want to go next, and cutting my expenses to a minimum. I rifle through my closet and find my backpack. I look it over and put it back, but in the front of the closet, where it can greet me every time I open the door.
At work, some small thing sets me off, and that's it! I'm done! I bide my time for just a little while, then I quit, move out of my house, put everything in storage, and I'm gone.
“Where are you going next, Morgan?”
I hear this a lot. And a lot of times, like this time, I say, “Well, I found some really cheap tickets and I’m heading to New York, New Orleans, then to Europe. Should be fun.”
Fun?
I know. It’s a lame thing to say. But what do you say? Inevitably, the next part of the conversation is the one that I hate the most.
“Are you going with anyone?”
“Nope. Just me. But I will see some people I know while I’m there. Besides, I’m sure I’ll meet people along the way.”
“How are you paying for this?”
“Well…ummm…I sold my car/stocks/soul and I’ve been surviving on cheap food for the past six months.”
“Wow. What are you going for?”
“No special reason. I just want to go.”
“I wish I could do that.”
No, actually you don’t. I have a very unfair belief that most people can do what I do, they just don’t really want to. I am not referring to people who barely have enough money to eat. I am referring to most people I know whose priorities are different than mine. They drive nice cars that aren’t 25 years old, perhaps live in nice houses or apartments, like to drink expensive concoctions at the bar, and eat at sit-down restaurants where there’s a waiter you have to tip. These are all priorities that I don’t share when I’m going abroad. My travel habits force me to forgo these daily pleasures with the idea that I will do them later in a foreign country, even if it’s not the case.
So why do I do it? Because I love to travel. I love the high I get landing somewhere totally new and trying to find a place to sleep and having no idea where my next meal will come from. I love meeting people who know absolutely nothing about me except what I choose to tell them. I love finding out why these people are here and realizing it is either nothing like my own story, or mirroring my thoughts exactly. I love listening to all the accents and dialects and different ways of saying the exact same thing.
My travel lust really began after returning to Washington State University after studying abroad in Spain. I was incredibly excited to go home after the year abroad. On my flight home I wrote down all the things I had missed on an airplane napkin:
Dryer sheets
Free water
No siesta
My pillow
Bagels
My bed
Starbucks coffee
Cold milk
Fresh fruit
Breakfast cookies
Driving
Cleanliness
Customer service
Chai tea
Movies in English
Chocolate banana milkshakes
Deli sandwiches
My computer/internet
Gum (American brands)
The radio
Thai food
Japanese food
Mexican food
Vietnamese food
Raspberries
Choice between non-fat, 2%, whole milk
Toilet seats and seat protectors in public bathrooms
Comprehension
Politeness
Shorts
More clothes
Teriyaki sauce
Tofu
My dog
I found this list later tucked into 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which I hadn’t finished. I couldn’t believe it. These were the reasons I wanted to come home? They were ridiculous. They meant nothing to me after about a week of being back in the States. After a week, counter-culture shock hit me full-force.
Few people talk about counter-culture shock, or even know what it is. Counter-culture shock is what you experience returning home after an extended period abroad. You are disillusioned because the place you couldn’t wait to get back to, the place that has represented comfort and home, doesn’t feel the same. It’s not that the place has changed; you have changed and it didn’t change with you.
My counter-culture shock was especially acute because of September 11. I arrived in Spain on August 30, 2001 and didn’t step foot on American soil until 11 months later. During that time my primary news sources were European. Their point of view, while similar to the U.S.’s at the beginning, was dramatically different by the time I left. I got home and there were American flags on every moving vehicle, and the fight against terrorism was in full swing. I was in Prague the day President Bush told the world that there was no middle ground and that you were either “with us or against us” in the battle against tyranny and evil as we defined it. I was walking across Northern Spain on a pilgrimage on the Fourth of July, and I was astounded when an American woman I met said that no one agreed with what Bush was doing, but they followed him because he was the president. Because of this day in history, the life I wanted to return to was no longer there, and the U.S. was feeling a cohesiveness that I was unable to understand or be part of.
As hard as a year in a foreign country and foreign culture was, it was nothing compared to the depression I felt returning to a country that had changed so drastically while I was gone. I was unwilling to state my point of view on what we were doing abroad because it was still considered un-American, but frustrated at my lack of courage and angry at what I was hearing around me. It took me a long time to realize that people’s views – including my own – are based on their personal experiences, and I had completely missed out on this one and the mentality it had produced.
Soon after returning to the States, I realized that I wanted to leave again. I felt confined, misunderstood, and that everything was too easy. After a year of struggling to speak the language, of trying to understand and be understood, college classes in my native language didn’t seem like much of a challenge. After a year of seeing pictures of the dead children killed by American bombs in Afghanistan on the front page of Spanish newspapers, I couldn’t fathom the light-hearted fun of grinding on fraternity boys at sticky-floored bars just because I was now 21.
So I started planning my next trip abroad. After this academic year, I would be able to wrap up my two degrees in Spanish and journalism with one six-month internship at a newspaper, provided that I wrote in English, but could somehow incorporate Spanish into the mix. Fortunately, I was close friends with one of the international programs advisors, and there just happened to be a program through Oregon State University where I could work at an English-language newspaper in a Latin-American country. My first choice – and the one I got – was for the Guadalajara Colony Reporter, a weekly newspaper that has written for the mostly American expatriates in Mexico for more than 30 years. I was working on an article at the Colony Reporter about cheap airfares when I decided that I wanted to go back to Europe via New York and New Orleans.
To understand why I decided to go to partake in this adventure, you first have to understand my time in Mexico. So that is where the story begins: in the cramped old house that holds the makings of the Colony Reporter in the city of Guadalajara in the state of Jalisco.
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