Once Upon My Return

I’ve been back in the country for three weeks now—after ten months abroad—and one of the strangest things (as far as culture shock goes)  is putting toilet paper in the toilet.  Everytime I go to the bathroom, I feel somehow not right about depositing the tp directly into the toilet rather than the waste bin, which is how it’s done in the great majority of places I visited in South America.

As I walked around New York City the first few days, passing people talking on cell phones and talking to each other, I thought how funny that they’re all speaking in English, how weird that I can understand everything without even trying.

But the more I walked, the more I started overhearing people talking in Spanish, and then, I grew envious.  I wanted to get in on the conversation.

Grocery shopping in Fairway, I listened as two of the employees spoke in Spanish, and I milled about them, attempting to think of something to say.

“Donde esta…?”  (Where is…?)

But, I chickened out.

On the subway, a young couple sat next to me and exchanged words in what was unmistakably their native tongue, and I longed to turn to them and ask where they were from.  Almost just to show off.  Prove that I might not look like I spoke Spanish but that I actually spoke it quite well.

But, I remained silent.

On my second day back in The United States, I went to the bank and there I engaged (and impressed) the bank employee with my Spanish conversation.

More recently, however, I failed to impress an Argentinean friend who was in town on business.  Although he didn’t criticize or correct my Spanish, he said in perfect English, “Wait, can we talk in English for a second?” as I was in the middle of giving him directions.

I’ve always been able to take a hint.

Understandably, people have been asking me about my trip and how it feels to be back.  While I can barely proffer an adequate answer to these questions that in reality require quite lengthy responses (I prefer my stories to come out naturally over the course of time), I’ll take them any day over the biggie, “So, how have you changed?”

Let me get back to you on that.

While I’m certain that my experience of independent travel has shaped me in ways I will continue to discover days, months, and years from now, I am unable to comfortably digest the bold inquiry at this moment.

Happily, I fell right back in with my family and friends, one close friend agreeing that my first night back I made several “spot-on Stacey comments.”

This made me smile.

So, I’m me but only different to posit a completely useless understanding of my “great” transformation.

Even though I’m thrilled to be back in my favorite city in the world, I am not completely comfortable.  Riding the subway wasn’t a problem (though shelling out $89.00 for a monthly unlimited Metrocard was), nor was finding my favorite cup of coffee (Abraco on 7th between 1st and 2nd).

Making a decision about how to fill my stomach—this from a self-professed foodie—has proven challenging though.  I ate a bagel and cream cheese the morning after my return, but then I didn’t eat for the rest of the day simply because I couldn’t decide what to eat.

In Buffalo with my family, my dear mom handed me some cash and told me to go to my favorite grocery store to stock up on the things I’d been missing.

I returned with organic milk and my favorite cereal and met my mother’s confused look as she peered into the grocery bag on the counter.

While I’d like to develop my restaurant list once again, I don’t know where to start, and I am unreasonably frustrated with myself for feeling out of the loop about the current theatre and museum exhibits (something which can easily be fixed by opening up the current New Yorker).

Because I was constantly on the go in South America, I had a routine of sorts.

Pack backpack.   Travel to bus station.  Buy ticket and board bus.  Read about new place then hope for some sleep or chill out time with music.  Arrive.  Find accommodations or meet Couchsurfing hosts.  Peruse map.  Find delicious street food (none of it varying too much).  Explore new city/town/village.

Repeat.

Of course, no two places were the same, and I’d be hard-pressed to truly categorize my trip in such simple, easy terms.  But, I had a routine.  And a backpack.  And few obligations.

Here, I’m in limbo.  I am looking for a place to call home, ready to start working.  Instead of lugging my backpack around, I’m carrying my laptop looking for wireless Internet and thinking it’d be so much easier if NYC had the plethora of Internet cafes that even the smallest pueblo in South America has.

Yesterday, I went up and down about five times, finally having a good cry in the sauna at the gym where I’m utilizing a free week and trying to politely refuse a membership.

I just feel weird sometimes, and as much as I would like to elaborate on that vague statement, I cannot.  Not because I don’t want to share (for if you’ve been reading my blog, you know I’m comfortable with sharing) but because the weirdness (which comes and goes) is so strangely unsettling, that words cannot describe it.

Maybe this is what they mean about culture shock.

Getting Out of Mompos

Mompos, Colombia did not win my heart.

Maybe I didn’t give it a huge chance.  I’ll admit that when I arrived I was exhausted.  It’s not the easiest place to get to as it is sits on a piece of land surrounded by a river, and to arrive, one must take a bus (which I did bright and early from Cartagena) and then await a ferry.  After the 45 minute ferry ride, there is more time on the bus until finally Mompos presents itself as a sweltering, relaxed pueblo where the residents sell cheese, ice-cream, and ice from their homes.  In small Colombian towns, it is not unusual to see handwritten signs on house doors and windows advertising various products.

While I have gotten used to seeing the curious offerings, I have to remind myself that this kind of thing just does not happen back home. 

Would you buy bread from a woman walking around NYC with a bread basket on her arm?  Well, I probably would but that´s only after becoming so familiarized with it in South America.

When I was in Silvia, an indigenous village famous for its Tuesday market, I stopped at a home offering homemade yogurt, and it was the best damn yogurt I’ve ever tasted.

In Mompos, I did not do much.  Confession:  I slept from 6:15 PM until 8:00 AM the first night.  Maybe it was the heat that wiped me out; I know it made me highly irritable, which had the effect of making me anti-social.

Before my long sleep, however, when I ventured out into the hazy evening, I discovered a family offering fresh fruit juices, and as I still had a list of fruits to try before the end of my trip, I stopped, ordered a jugo de zapote and took my place in the rocking chair on the front porch.

Although I can’t tell you why, rocking chairs are THE thing in Mompos.  Most people leave their front doors open, and in the first room, easily viewed by anyone passing by are rocking chairs, often set up in a circle.  If the house has a small patio or porch, it’s common to see the folks of Mompos contentedly rocking away outside.

I gave Mompos another shot the following day after my rest, and I returned to the same house for another fruit juice, jugo de tomate de arbol, a favorite of mine by now.  Generally, a small square of paper taped to a window or a door suffices as advertisement, but this particular household had gone a little further and created a more professional-looking sign.

For less than a dollar I drank nearly a blender’s worth of fruit juice.

I stayed in Mompos a day and a half, and though it was an interesting stop on my journey, I probably would have skipped it altogether had I known about the difficulty of getting out.

At 5:15 AM, the senor of the hotel knocked on my door as requested, so I could wait for the minivan to pick me up, take me two hours to the nearest bus terminal in El Banco, where I’d wait an hour for an eight hour bus to Bucamaranga, from where I’d take another small bus to Giron, Bucamaranga’s chill neighbor.

At 5:50 AM, Mompos was buzzing, and I was able to procure pastries for my trip from a walking vendor and enlist the help of the kind senor in bringing me a tinto (cafe).

As I waited for my ride, I people-watched from a rocking chair in the hotel’s entrance.  Children were already playing in the streets.  Couples walked hand-in-hand.  The usual people selling “minutos” (literally minutes from their own cell phones) perched on their corners.

The weather at this hour was pleasant, and I can see why the Mompos folks were out and about, taking advantage of the respite before the sun becomes oppressive and cruel.

Considering that the dilapidated van was running on fumes and had no air-conditioning, I understand the early morning departure time.   As the first passenger picked up, I had the pleasure (read: agony) of riding around Mompos’ dirt roads for over an hour, getting jostled and bumped around until we were full and officially on the way.

An hour at the bus terminal, where I offered a piece of bread to a young begging boy (though I suspect that he gave it away to one of the roaming, owner-less dogs because by itself, it wasn’t very tasty), and finally I was on the bus meant for Bucamaranga. 

The eight hour ride took ten.

We stopped countless times, letting people on and off.  Food vendors, normally an expected part of any long bus ride in South America, were few.  Luckily I had a few snacks.  Movies were American but dubbed in Spanish, and when I asked about the possibility of English subtitles, I was quickly rebuffed.  My Ipod was dead, and I could’t focus on Jude the Obscure.

Last long bus ride, I told myself.  This is it.

Instead of becoming more comfortable with the discomforts of traveling, I was actually, to my surprise, becoming uncomfortable.  I had thought that months of adapting to less-than-ideal situations would have toughened me, given me strength to endure the travails of backpacker traveling, but in this, I was wrong. 

Sure, I could sleep nearly anywhere (no air-conditioning on the coast despite night time temperatures of 80 degrees didn’t bother me).  I could deal with cold showers and the occasional bathroom cockroach.  Every night in spite of spraying myself with strong mosquitto repellent, I endured bug bites, woke to itching and swelling bumps on any exposed part (which, given the heat, was every part).

I was used to washing my dishes in cold water.  I didn’t fret about street food (still my preferred way of filling my stomach ).  Again and again, I opted for public transportation within large cities to reach my destination, and I gritted my teeth as I squished myself and my bulging backpacks past the turnstyle that was typical on intracity buses.

But, save for the street food–often a part of my day that has me smiling widely and thinking that this is why I travel–I don’t have to admit to liking the obstacles and the challenges and the discomforts far from home.

I haven’t turned into a super-crunchy hippy-type person (though I mean no offense).  I hope to want for less when I return to New York City next week, but just last week, tired of my backpack’s offerings, I went shopping in Cartagena. 

I can live with little.  I am low-maintanence.  I can backpack around a continent by myself, learning the language as I go, learning the way as I go. 

I’ve proven this in the past ten months.

And it’s been one hell of a journey, one that I’m not yet prepared to capture in a blog post.

I made it out of Mompos, and I’ll make it back to NYC where I belong.