Life (and that other thing)

It’s funny how life (and that other thing) works out.  Just a few weeks ago I felt like I was going through a major emotional crisis.  I didn't know how I was going to survive another year without going back to Belize.  I was over my head with homesickness and with being in a situation where I had given up any minor level of control, authority, and social and financial security I had in my life to put myself in the role of the student.  I’d done all of this willingly, mind you, and put myself into exile, far from home and yet tortuously close in Trinidad.  I wanted, I suppose, to know how Dante felt, exiled from home and only having his writing as consolation.  But Dante didn't have facebook; he didn't have to watch the life he left behind go on without him; see all the things he was missing.  And what it freely amounts to is that I’m not half the man that Dante Alighieri was.  I think of myself moping then and I’m a little bit disgusted at what a little boy I was being, crying for home and its comforts but too pitiful to even actually cry.

Fast forward a few weeks later and I’m still just a little boy who doesn't know how to react to the news of his grandmother dying.  At least not outside my own head.  Inside my head there was a full scenario being played out, as there usually is.  The entire family would be present, except for me, and I would show up a year or so later, wandering a cemetery and completely unable to find her grave because I’ll simply have no clue where it might be, because I wasn't there to lower her into it.  Perhaps one of the simplest and most profound acts of respect a person can show another person: To bear the burden of their discarded body, to treat it properly and see that it is taken care of, to place it finally in a safe place, and to mark the spot and perhaps visit every now and again.  And I.  Wouldn't.  Be.  There.

Other scenarios played themselves out as well, including a visit from Mama in my dreams, just as she had done when I was smaller.  Only instead of stabbing me in the back of the neck with a hypodermic needle, she would be nice.  We would sit and chat; she in Spanish and I in English, and she would laugh and slap her thighs the way I never remember seeing her do.  But I can imagine it the same way I've always imagined the few moments before and after the image of her and her husband standing in front of the frame of what would soon be their home and the home of their eight children.  The picture that has hung on the living room wall for as long as there was a wall in the living room.  The one with the man with the same rakish mustache I have now standing next to a pretty young girl with a young girl’s unfiltered smile.

A scenario that hadn't occurred to me was there suddenly, miraculously being a plane ticket with my name on it, final destination: Belize.  And yet, here I am, writing from that concretely ambiguous location of the Miami airport.  The ticket wasn't miraculous exactly.  It hadn't appeared out of thin air.  My mother and I travel frequently and she happened to have enough air miles to get me where I needed to be.  It’s the getting back that’ll be the problem.  Money for that will come out of something; a credit card payment or my yet-to-be-paid tuition.  But there’s no point in worrying about that now.  The old two-way door is swinging, better for me to concentrate on making the most of it.

Mostly, I had given up on going to Belize because my reasons for going all seemed sop self serving and ultimately superfluous.  I was seeking the pleasure of old comforts and experiences, old friends, old lovers.  I told myself that I had practical reasons; I needed to lay down the groundwork for a career once I finished with school.  This is still true, but it wasn't the foremost thought on my mind.   I’d also decided that I would be foisting myself on my family, an act which I probably shouldn't rush into until the end of my third year, when I didn't have any other choice.  Now, instead of taking advantage of my family I’ll be required to fulfill my responsibility to them.  I've absolved my guilt through terrible circumstances.  The guilt is inescapable.

Day 2 - Chasing our tail

Traveling today was smooth, and got smoother as the day progressed. I think its because of our visit to Grand Central Station, our first for this trip, and therefore our first opportunity to pay propper homage to the statue of the messenger god that sits atop it. I think we got lost all of...once. And that was on foot, following instruction provided by the same service that would advise those from San Francisco who wanted directions to Honolulu to rent a canoe and roe for the final leg of the trip. (Its true. I checked. You should too.)

But then Hermes came along, dressed in the skin of a brown skinned, power-walking woman with an odd accent. (Greek, perhaps?) She pointed us in the right direction and then off she went, strutting her way up the steepest hill I'd ever seen and even pointing the direction we should go next while we struggled a couple dozen yards behind. Good 'ol Hermes. Lucky Hermes. It's not her fault afterall. She didn't know we were travelling toward disappointment. Greek gods are enither omniscient nor omnipotent. They've got very specific fields. I'm not sure who is in charge of assanine policy like "You recieved your first immunization shot ten days before your first birthday, therefore it does not count, therefore you may not register right now." But I'm pretty sure it's not Hermes.

But yeah, travelling was good, even if we spent a whole day getting nothing done.

Day 1 - Travel

Survived Cancun, despite personal anxiety. Despite being turned back at the border so Erica could use the right passport. Despite getting on to the most obnoxious bus ever created from Belize City to the border, and then having that bus abandon us on the Belize side of the border.

Thank goodness for travel mates. Erica and I noticed a guy on the bus with two bags big enough to smuggle an adult. From the look of the guy struggling with the weight, he might have had two adults in there afterall. We heard him ask the conductor if we would be crossing the border, and later he asked another passenger if he knew how long it took to get to Cancun by bus. During the grueling five hour trip in an uncomfortable bus with intollerably loud music (And a drunk that decided to join us the last fifty or so miles to the border), he was cheerfully chattering away the time with another passenger, and doing so with impressive confidence, even though his Creole accent made an otherwise elegant language sound like tumbling rocks.

As ut tyrbed iyt ge was a Belizean studying Electrical Engineering in Cuba. Not only was he flying back from Cancun the next morning, just like we were, it turns out he was from our old neihborhood to boot. His company, assistance, and quick translations made our trip immeasurably more tolerable. That guy is a lifesaver.

I just wish I could remember his name.

***

I don't remember the flight from Houston to Laguardia. I remember someone nudging me, and I mumbled 'orange juice' to that person. I remember drinking my orange juice. I remember landing.

So we're here! Getting to the hostel was a bit bumpier than I had planned. The problem was Lennox Avenue and Lexington Avenue look too similar when reading through the smeared window of the third bus you've been on in 24 hours without a shower. Too bad they're about five or six blocks apart. So much for cutting down on the walking time.

I miss Merri. This place isn't the same without her. I was afraid of that.

New York in summer. I was dripping sweat by the time we got to the subway, and the train kicked up a hot smelly breeze redulant of childhood memories. I'll try to make the best of it.