home again

As much as I enjoy traveling, I always enjoy walking through the front door of the house with no name and realizing I am home.

That has not always been true. Only a few years ago, whenever one of my trips was drawing to a close, I wished it would continue for another month or two.

I vividly recall when my mood switched. I was on a cruise from Miami to Los Angeles through the Panama Canal. As we sailed up the west coast of Mexico on 12 December 2018, I could make out Navidad Bay, the body of water that unites the little fishing villages I call home. And I realized that I wanted to be in Barra de Navidad instead of on that ship.

Maybe it is a matter of age. The older we get, we tend to find comfort in familiar routines as our senses (especially our memories) begin to diminish. Safety takes priority over adventure. External views turn internal.

I have been commuting to Oregon almost monthly since August. In August, the flights and the airports were almost deserted. Each month, the crowds increased. When I flew north a week ago, the airplane was almost full. Flying south on Saturday, it was full. The type of flight where passengers were stripped of their carry-ons because there was no overhead space available, and mask usage was a game of "catch me if you can."

The reason for the crowds on both legs was the same. Families were on the move for Spring Break. According to several passengers I talked with, they were taking extended trips because their children were not attending classes in person. So, they pulled them away from the computer to actually learn something by traveling.

Somewhere over northern Mexico on the return, the curmudgeon who lives in the darker recesses of my soul decided to make an appearance. Two young couples were traveling together. One couple upgraded to first class; the other was in coach. They were on their way to Manzanillo for two weeks in the sun.

For some reason, perhaps a bit of hierarchy envy, the wife in coach decided she would spend most of the flight standing in the aisle blocking all traffic. We all quickly learned what was up. She had indulged in at least one pitcher of margaritas before boarding the flight and had downed a few beers after takeoff.

Of course, that meant she was talking in her drunk-deaf voice. We all learned a lot about her, including how her children were created and where the blissful acts occurred -- as well as a list of the far more mundane details of her life.

After an hour of the banter, I could feel my patience wall being destroyed brick by brick. And I knew what was coming next. I was about to erupt and become another embarrassing character in Mexpatriate.

Fortunately, a soupçon of wisdom has accompanied my advanced age. Just as Mr. Curmudgeon stuck his head through the wall, I stuffed him back into his hole.

Sure, the young mother was annoying, but I had no idea what her life was like (other than The Stepford Wife version she had narrated for all of us). Maybe this was the first trip she had made away from her children. Maybe it was going to be her last lifeline to sanity.

The point is that she was doing her best to find a way to be happy. Maybe it was a doomed goal. Maybe it was not even an appropriate goal. But it was her goal. And I had no right to pretend I was a proctor in Massachusetts Bay Colony. I slid along the edge of how H. L. Mencken wittily defined puritans: "The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”

So, I just ignored her. Though, I will admit I kept listening for any further salacious details. Well, until her friend waved her hand and rather inelegantly dismissed the narrator from her presence.

The two couples are young. They still prize the value that adventure can bring to their lives. That realization was enough to blot out the less-pleasant side of my experience. Even better, the young mother who had become far too familiar with Don Julio made me re-discover why I like to travel. It is an opportunity to meet new people, experience events I have not experienced before, and to learn something new about the human condition.

I certainly did on this trip.

Having said that, coming home to the flowers Dora arranged in my kitchen was the best part of my journey.

Welcome home, Steve.


Note -- Two weeks ago in being dan, I told you about how I acquired my misbegotten lore of musical comedy. Well, everything exists for a purpose. As I was writing this piece, a Bock-Harnick song from Fiorello kept small-worlding through my head. It is not a very good piece of music, but it certainly sums up my feeling about coming home -- except for that USA finale. You can skip the Gentleman Jimmy piece if you like.