If there's one thing I've learned from
finishing and
starting over and
moving and
making friends and
breaking ties and
living on four continents and
one tropical island,
it is that
there are no such things
as endings.
Index
My favorite part of traveling and
seeing new places and faces,
and learning new words
and ways of saying things,
and trying new foods,
and making new friends,
and creating memories never to be forgotten,
and taking off in huge airplanes that press you back into the seat
as they tear themselves violently away from the runway, and
landing in a new hemisphere with a bump,
Is coming home to a familiar place.
My favorite part of coming home
and finding old friends are still friends
to warm heated houses and
food that I can pronounce
and safe, clean streets, and
a culture that I know and feels comfortable,
is remembering all I've done since I left.
Just pour in the gas and turn the key.
Fuel pours down the engines' throats,
turbines whir, roar.
Heat pouring from the engines
mangles the images of the airport
that I see through the haze.
We slip forward down the runway,
faster and faster,
Then seem to stop.
The plane tilts, and
dumps me back into the seat
and I am airborne again
over the city
and mountains
and clouds.
Fuel keeps dumping down the engines
and the landscape slips by below.
I don't need to know why--
people and airplanes alike
need only forward momentum
to rise above anything.
I curl up and try to go back to sleep in my corner of the cabin. Outside, the wind howls by at hundreds of miles per hour, but the strong walls keeps out most of the sound and keeps in enough heat to let me sleep beneath a thin blanket.
In another corner, a group of Japanese, obviously here for their first time, whisper unintelligible words in tones that betray their excitement.
At 37,000 feet above sea level, the air feels, almost tastes, different.
Having crossed the International Date Line, I land in Hawaii two hours before leaving Asia.
Behind me Before me
more growing up than I could deal with home
all this experience yet to be processed motorcycle
learning, new understandings time to readjust
loneliness and depression once-familiar customs
teachers and friends giving old friends a chance
long train rides a few more quarters of school
comfort of a clean, organized society
surprises at how much it would take to adjust
hopes of finding Katie and hugs and smiles to welcome me home
At the airport, I checked my things into Left Luggage and hopped on a bus bound for Waikiki. Once there, I climbed a tree where I could lock my pack while I went for a swim. The bike lock had been used on trains in China to make sure my pack didn't decide to step off the train with anyone else. Now it allowed me to go for a swim without worrying about who found it in the tree.
Dangling my feet from a tree branch, I gazed out over the golden beach toward the surf. The sky was overcast with occasional patches of blue, a light ocean wind blew the hair out of my eyes, and a misty rain fell at times; but the day was warm, and I didn't mind.
Behind me, a car engine turned over and pulled out of the parking space. What a hassle to own a car, I thought, you'd have to put it somewhere! Hearing my thoughts, I began to realize that nine months in China had changed me. When my old roommate had flown back to America in July, he wrote and said that America had changed. How much had four months affected him? "Whatever." I wasn't in the mood to think so much.
Checking the locks on my pack once more, including the one holding it in the tree, I dropped six feet to the sand and stepped out toward the surf. At my feet, I noticed a bright sea shell glistening in the rain and soft light. I picked it out of the sand and set it on a branch where I would find it later, turned, and ran down the beach to the ocean.
The water was blue, hazy and warm. I dove in immediately with none of those purple-lipped April-water-ski-trip style "f-f-feels g-gr-great!"s. I swam out toward the reef that kept the water calm near the beach with long, easy strokes. Water occasionally splashed over my head, dripping into my ears and the corners of my mouth. The salt tasted good--somehow different than the Atlantic ocean taste that you can't get rid of.
The late afternoon sun crawled out from behind the cloud cover, and I tread water for a minute or two to watch. What an view! I could watch it for hours! But the music was somehow missing. Too much of the world and life and loneliness overlapped inside me, and too many connections had just been severed for me to make sense of any of it.
Even beyond that, things just didn't feel right. It wasn't the warm water swishing between my toes with every kick. It wasn't the light rain that I didn't feel on my face. It wasn't the six hour time change I had flown through overnight. It was something cold that had reached out and touched me inside. Something like a sad movie that hits too close to home and leaves little room for hope.
I slept at the Honolulu Airport that night. Despite the lack of a wall separating the airport from the outside, they left the air conditioning on. I suspect this is done to keep people like me from sleeping there, to persuade us to spend the night in a hotel, instead; but I had an 8:00 a.m. flight to the mainland and only fifty dollars left in my account. I just pulled a sweater from a suitcase and watched the rain fall outside.
Having missed my flight in Hong Kong, I had changed my reservations, and would now arrive in Salt Lake City the next day around midnight--a few hours later than I had planned. I ran my credit card through the phone and dialed Utah. The connection was the worst I had ever heard, and I had forgotten about the time change. It sounded like Katie had been asleep.
"Can you come to the airport to meet me?" "No."? Did I hear right? Then something about having to work. That would be at the Village Inn. Correspondence was slow to China and it had been two or three weeks since we had heard from each other, but I did know where she was working during Christmas break. "That's okay. I'll get in touch with you after I get home."
She could hear me alright, but there was no sense struggling to communicate further. Besides, the cold thing inside felt stronger than ever. I almost wondered if someone else was watching me, and if they had the benefit of music to help interpret my situation. If they did, it wouldn't be the soft, romantic stuff that makes the audience want to shout, "Kiss her! Kiss her!" It would be Nat King Cole singing Tenderly, Autumn Leaves..."but I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall...." The urgency would be there in his voice, and I would be the only one who wouldn't hear it.
But I convinced myself that I couldn't hear the music, that I only felt culture shock and jet lag, and that everything would be fine. And with that thought, I fell asleep on a hard bench, with one arm draped across two heavy suitcases and a back pack.
Dreams are movies. They leap wildly from one scene to another with no explanation. The dreamer is a captive audience.
Obediently, I lay asleep and watched the silver screen on the back of my eyelids, watching and listening as a crowded train pulled into the station. Children and teenagers and old women pushed and shoved, and there was no room for me. As the train pulled out of the station, I saw Katie watching me from inside a window. She didn't smile, and a light rain began to fall on the beach. I pushed my one speed bicycle through deep, golden sand that squished between my toes with every step. A full moon shone on the still water, and dancers filled the pavilion, spinning and dipping silently to a noiseless rhythm.
Someone spoke to the left, and I awoke. I turned toward the sound and opened my eyes, quickly trying to force a sense of reality to the front of my mind and make sense of my surroundings. 7:15 a.m. Honolulu International Airport. Forty-five minutes to catch my flight to the mainland.
Born in Longbranch, lived in Neptune, NJ August 13, 1966
Moved to Ipswitch, Massachusetts September 1, 1966
Moved to Eatontown, New Jersey November 2, 1967
Moved to Stanford, California August 15, 1969
Moved to Sao Jose Dos Campos, Brazil July 23, 1973
Moved to Logan, Utah June 18, 1974
Moved to Provo, Utah October 3, 1985
Moved to Valencia, Spain December 2, 1985
Moved to Cartagena, Murcia, Spain May 5, 1986
Moved to Bilbao, Spain October 23, 1986
Moved to Portugalete, Spain November 11, 1986
Moved to San Sebastian, Spain December 6, 1986
Moved to Hospitalet, Catalunia, Spain March 13, 1987
Moved to Lorca, Murcia, Spain April 14, 1987
Moved to Logan, Utah October 27, 1987
Moved to Alexandria, Virginia June 5, 1988
Moved to Logan, Utah September 6, 1988
Moved to San Francisco, California June 10, 1989
Moved to Logan, Utah September 14, 1989
Moved to Chungli, Taiwan March 28, 1990
Moved to Lung Kang, Taiwan August 1, 1990
Moved to Beijing, China September 5, 1990
Leave for Honalulu, Hawaii December 19, 1990
Leave for Salt Lake City, Utah December 20, 1990
Nine months on another hemisphere are over and my shoulders ache again from lugging the heavy suitcases on and off subways and buses, lifting them to customs officials' tables, opening them, closing them, growing to despise them.
Nine months on another hemisphere are over and my English is still intact, but I'm less sure about the rest of me.
Nine months on another hemisphere are over and I'm just a bit scared of what I'll find when the plane finally touches down in Salt Lake City.
Nine months on another hemisphere are over, nine months of pain and adventure and learning and confusion and excitement and boredom and danger, all because it is not safe to stagnate, because it is not safe to let fear hold you back.
Nine months since I climbed on a plane and traded my world for the other hemisphere are over.
Nine months are over and the wheels touch down on a snow-covered runway.
At home, a picture hangs on the wall taken of me when I was five years old. I still remember the day it was taken in Stanford, California. Dad had the camera on a tripod and a blue blanket hung on the apartment wall behind me. I remember the ocean breeze blowing through my hair, and now I wonder why I remember at all.
One day, as I was looking in the mirror to shave, I thought of the photo, and it suddenly occurred to me that I am the same person--that that shy young boy used to be me! I put down my razor and stared into the mirror in surprise.
If someone would have told that five year old then that he would that he would travel the world, to South America, Europe, and Asia, that he would earn a masters degree in writing, that he would drive a black motorcycle at 125 mph, and that he would remember that day nineteen years later, what would the child have thought?
Some day, I'll look back through my photo albums, I'll read this book again, and I'll again be shocked to realize that I am the same person. To me in the future: I'm trying really hard to do a good job of getting where you are. And where ever you are, don't stop--there must be so much more left to learn.
Something more about adjusting to being home. Sitting in Russian class? everyone dressed "normal" had fair complexions. so comfortable. no hurried traffic. snow outside, warm and carpet inside. no mud to track in.
it’s no crime, not cheating, to love the uniqueness of one home, to prefer certain aspects to those of the other.
feels good to be home, but being surprised to not really like the food. etc, etc.
I dedicate this book to Shannon, Von, Mike, Beth, Michelle, Suzanne, Heather, Peter, Vicki, Ron, Atina, Ma, Katie, the Hsiangs, Matthew, Leslie, Beth, Wendy, Kihn, Joan, Kristin, Ice, Clancy, Stan, Brad, Dan, and all my many friends from Taiwan and China.
To the Chinese people and travelers who share a love for their countries.
To readers of this book who identify with my love for travel and experience and strive to cultivate their own passion for living.
If I had placed this dedication at the beginning of the book, you wouldn’t have understood.
Nine months can bring many changes to your world. It's the equivalent of five minutes in a theater. In nine months, the majority of my close friends had graduated, married, and moved away. Katie, of course, wouldn't see me.
I had begun to forget what being American was all about. In a wild attempt to make the entire world my home, the word had lost its meaning. In a backward-looking society, I had forgotten how to look to the future, while cutting all the strings that tied me to my past.
February had nearly passed, and I stood alone in the rain, in a grocery store parking lot, in the closest thing I had to a home town, and wondered what makes people belong.
about being home. about winter? about class, about readjusting. about not knowing the answers. about cross-cultural awareness class and what I learned about what makes up a country's and a culture's flavor.
time, space, formality, etc. Titles: the flavor of time, the flavor of distance, the flavor of formality. OR: lemon lime. tutti frutti. etc. high calorie cultural time. 2-3 servings of sweets.
mention other countries as examples. refer to Hall.
{{revise to fit here...}}
Wind whistles violently through the open visor of my helmet, and I imagine the same whistling surrounding the form of my black motorcycle as we hurtle along the mountain highway. The dotted yellow line in the center of the road becomes nearly solid below my feet as the speedometer reaches past the 110 mph mark. Fiery red, yellow, and orange trees fly by to either side; and the sweet scent of their falling leaves is strong in my nostrils. I breath in deep, then hold it for a moment before exhaling inside my helmet. The touch of cool air, the flash of surrounding color, and the sensation of my solid motorcycle beneath me combine to fill me with the gratifying sensation of being truly alive.
Choosing to travel by motorcycle seemed natural after once listening to the advice offered by a friend: That the journeys in life are more important than the destinations. Since that time, long range goals have become "possible outcomes" as I concentrate on the present and the directions it seems to be leading me. There's no guarantee, after all, that, upon arrival, my destination will be all I once hoped it would be. I admit that life was far simpler when I believed in destiny, but having made the break from that concept, I will never go back, nor would backtracking be possible even if I tried.
The point of no return occurred, for me, when I left for a three week vacation to China. I had been teaching English in Taiwan for five months, and planned to polish off my Asian experience with a trip to the mainland before returning to school, my girlfriend, and responsibilities.
Traveling alone, I naturally linked up with other travelers, who happened to be students in Beijing. The giant oaks of their campus, the dry, cool weather, and the beautiful fall leaves captivated me; and my three week vacation stretched on for four months--months filled with experience, with adventure, with pain and joy, and with something that I am still unable to understand or define.
I returned home a different person to a changed world. Since many friends had graduated or married, I found myself alone in a culture that had grown somewhat foreign to me. Old goals seemed meaningless or impossible to attain, and to go on believing in destiny was to believe that I had thrown mine away, having deserted it by staying in China when, perhaps, my destiny had meant to lead elsewhere. Thus I had delivered myself into the indifferent hands of chance.
But rather than accept the idea that my future would now be controlled by circumstances beyond my control, I threw out the fairy tales, forgot the childish hopes that some benelovent destiny would ensure my well being, and took my fate into my own care. I made new friends, changed my major, and purchased a fast motorcycle.
The canyon before me narrows and becomes curvy. The speed limit drops to 35 mph. The joy of power and speed is exchanged for the thrill of precise control as I steer around each curve, shifting smoothly, keeping the speed just right to allow me to get my knee as low to the pavement as I dare. Soon a Winnebago appears before me, slowing me down and spoiling my fun, and so I resolve to pass it in a short passing zone placed awkwardly between the sharp curves. I shift down to second gear and open the throttle all the way, pouring gas fumes down the carburetor's thirsty throat. By the time I reach the nose of the camper, the bike is tossing me down the road at 70 miles per hour, and still picking up speed quickly.
I suddenly become aware of the next curve rushing toward me now with frightening speed. A quick stomp on the brakes drops ten or twenty mph from the speedometer, but I no longer dare touch them for fear of losing my grip on the road as we go dipping into the turn, placing the entire weight of the bike, combined with the added G's of the turn, along the two narrow strips of rubber that still touch the asphalt.
The fear that such a tight turn will make the bike slide out from under me is strong in my mind, but still stronger is the fear of tumbling over the guard rail and into the river. Tighter and lower and crazier I go until I can go no farther--the foot peg drags along the road beside me, and I wonder if sparks are flying up behind, but don't bother to look back and check. "Don't slip! Don't fall!" I think to myself, and add, "If I make it through this one alive, I promise to be more careful!"
Inside, I know this is not the first time I have uttered such a silent prayer. In the back of my mind lives the memory of a not-too-distant day when I found myself in a dissimilar but equally serious situation.
{{deadly fate reused? find something new? Isolate the first experience and chop the rest?}}
The recollection of that delicious first breath is sharp and sweet as I again draw air into my starving lungs, realizing that I had held my breath through the entire turn. The bike is upright again and the needle on the speedometer now matches the number on the speed limit sign.
Driving now at reduced speed, I discover the enchantment of watching the trees as the canyon wind sways their branches and tears dying leaves from their birthplaces, strewing them along the riverbanks, lifting them high in the air, and tumbling them along the highway where they dodge my spinning wheels.
"POP!"
I'm startled from my reverie by what sounds like a pheasant colliding with my radiator, but the wobbling of the bike quickly tells me I've had a blow out. At low speed, it's a simple task to maneuver off to the side of the road. As I slow to a stop on the shoulder, I am happy. Happy to be alive. Happy for a million other things. But I don't need a million things to be happy--that's what Dallen taught me one December night, years ago, not far from this canyon.
Something in the silence of a winter night is very different from summer or fall in the Rocky Mountains. Leaves no longer hang on the maples and aspen to rustle in the light breeze that often pours from the canyon mouth. At 3:00 am, Dallen and I, the final stragglers from a friend's Christmas party, stepped outside into the light snow that had been drifting down through the still air ever since the grandfather clock inside had struck twelve. The snow covered ground now sent sparkling reflections of the moonlight in every direction.
Finding my car's battery drained and dead, the two of us began pushing it down the street for a push start. The new snow on the ground made the task difficult; feet easily slid and slipped along, as did the tires when I popped the clutch to try to turn over the cold engine. The air on my face had, at first, felt refreshing, invigorating. Now it bit hard at my mouth and nose, burning deeply into our lungs as we pushed the car on through the snow.
"Aahh! I hate this!" I said, resting momentarily against the car, and then came the lesson: Dallen looked up from his edge of the car, smiling through his own pained gasps.
"No way! This is fun!"
His words brought a smile to my frozen lips. I was almost ashamed for not having said them myself. The sky was suddenly filled with stars as is only visible in the cold night air of winter, The familiar smell of coal and pine burning floated from the chimneys, and we laughed as we pushed the car another three blocks before finding a dry patch where the road crews had salted. Soon the car was running and we went home.
Having set my bike up onto it's kickstand, I pull off my helmet and find myself surrounded by new sounds. With the roar of the engine and the howl of wind gone, the silence reminds me that it was only me speeding through the canyon, and that the scenery that had flown past me had an entirely different perspective of the afternoon than what I had seen. As I watch the leaves fall, the cars drive by, and the river tumble endlessly over rocks and roots, I take another deep breath, think to myself, "I just might not make it home for dinner tonight," and smile.
Nine months at home pass and the call to leave is again strong. Too many important questions have been left unanswered. Not that I understand the questions. Not that I know I am looking for answers. Still, the call is strong and I answer.
Two years earlier, while struggling at adjusting to a summer in San Francisco, I had written:
Nine months have passed and the call to shake off the moss is strong.
Today, four years after returning form China, for the first time, I have begun to understand the restlessness that moves me around the world, to the tops of the highest mountains, etc.
It is the need to find expression for what I feel inside, the need to balance my outer and inner worlds, the need to make it tangible, to put it in terms that I can touch and understand, and that I can share.
My inner world is too big to find expression in only one place, one culture. It requires a world, maybe more. Too big for only valleys, it needs mountains and oceans and skies. Too big, perhaps, for one lifetime, but I won’t give up.
Even as I go in search of understanding and expression, however, I understand that my inner world only grows. The more I seek resolution, it seems, the larger the task becomes. ...a task, a goal, a vision that I embrace willingly.
Today I walked past a flyer announcing English teaching jobs in Korea.
If there's one thing I've learned
from finishing and
starting over and
moving and
making friends and
breaking ties and
living on four continents and
one tropical island,
it is that
there are no such things
as endings.
$500 Reward goes to whoever hooks me up with a publisher with whom I sign a contract to sell this book.