I was originally going to start using this blog when I study abroad in Dharamsala, India in September … however, recent events have changed my mind.
Last Saturday I went to the beach in a forest preserve near MU with some friends. This quickly turned into a spontaneous quest to find this great covered bridge that I had stumbled upon in the fall while on one of my things-aren’t-going-well I-need-to-clear-my-head drives. While adventuring, it struck me just how quickly you can find yourself in another world. Granted, MU isn’t exactly in the most cosmopolitan of locations, so the jump from quaint college town to picturesque countryside is much more pronounced than back in the suburbs.
The more we drove … ok we were lost for a while, totally my fault: the map that I drew in my notebook lacked some key labels a.k.a. the names of the roads surrounding our destination … anyways. The more we drove, the more the three of us realized just how different life is out in the land of farming. As an outsider to this culture, one can only imagine a romantic existence amid the rolling hills, one characterized by a nice, even pace to life—slow by college-student standards—where one is connected to the land and, forgive me for the Lion King reference, to the “circle of life.” A farmer sees life cycle right in front of his nose, constantly, and he can’t ignore it because it’s his job to be responsible for it!
We joke about living in the “Miami Bubble” all the time—something I have always prided myself on not quite being caught up in, little Internat’l Studies major that I am … but even I was caught off guard by how quickly we forget that just outside our usual haunts lie fields just waiting for crops—corn, soybeans, sod—pastures of sheep, cows and horses: all absorbing life at life’s pace, rather than the speed of their wireless internet. What is it like to live in a place where your neighbors are separated from you by a cornfield or two, rather than just a side yard? This culture is so alien to this child from the suburbs and it is RIGHT THERE. Why, when looking to experience a new culture, does Africa or Asia come to mind before my own backyard? This beautiful country that seeks so hard to promote diversity is just as much a place to be explored as Kathmandu.
That is what I tried to focus on throughout my unfortunate day trip to South Bend, IN. There isn’t any simple way to run up there from MU, so I spent the majority of my trip on more local roads, remarkably similar to those from Saturday. Passing all of those small towns just heightened my awareness of how little I know about America’s “small town.” I thought that my hometown lacked “excitement”—something I associate with places like downtown Chicago—until I started living in Oxford, OH. While it is easy to become remarkably busy on a college campus, visiting Oxford in the summertime has proven that the actual town of Oxford is small, quiet, slow, quaint, and a place you could lose yourself in. [This is the part where “Oslo in the Summertime” by Of Montreal pops into my head. The connection is pretty tenuous I know :D]
I really got to see some interesting places when I missed my exit on the way back and took only local roads after getting off of 80/90. I do realize that most people do not get lost, stuck in an inefficient detour, drive through pouring rain and follow a tractor for a few miles and then get happy about it. I had a great time though. I saw people moving bales of hay … I realized that sheep exist outside of the Irish countryside—a connection that I doubt will ever dissipate—the power wielded on me by my trip to Ireland as a 9 year old continues to amaze me … I saw a gorgeous rainbow and then drove with it for a while, watching the mythical “end of the rainbow” speed across trees and fields at the pace of my little Corolla.
Confession: I’m currently chillin’ in the Buffalo Niagra International Airport, where they charge you for the internet (bastards), waiting for my Dad and Sis to meet up with me. On my way to a Grateful Dead show-hell yeah! This is the part where I should insert the inevitable, cliché tirade about air travel and what a pain in the ass it is. But I think that I can skip that part and just talk about the things that I LOVE about airports … especially waiting in them.
While scarfing down a delicious Tuna Cheddar Melt from Cosi (nomnomnom) and waiting for my flight from DC to Buffalo to board, this guy about my Dad’s age, sporting a stellar tie-dye t-shirt, sat down next to me. Turns out we’re going to the same concert. :D He then proceeded to tell me all about the recent set-lists, what songs he thinks they may play, that I should check to see if they have a Shakedown Street outside the arena … and we just generally had a fantastic conversation about “life, the universe, and everything.” I love that somehow the complete anonymity of airports—and public transportation in some respects—allows people to connect to complete strangers in ways they otherwise never would.
Also, you will very rarely see people sleeping in public places in the US with few exceptions: busy airports or train/bus stations, parks, or gathering places outside office buildings that would be parks if concrete wasn’t easier to maintain. Looking around me right now, I see no less then 7 people sleeping. Somehow, they are able to trust these complete strangers in the airport to leave them alone and not jack their stuff. Crazy. And awesome.
Once, while people watching in an airport, I started this poem:
In the crowded, oppressive atmosphere of the airport--
a multi-colored monochrome--
I am lost in a sea of luggage
and clicking, shuffling feet.
Like a soldier with a war-addled brain,
I know the path but not the goal,
Meandering around terminals and fast-food lines
in search of the future.
I watch a limping man with shiny shoes
click past me to join
The crowd of strangers, waiting, en masse
beneath steel beams and glass plates.
So evident is the paradox
of close separation
In the empty seat between the passengers
United by destination.
... I'm honestly not sure where it should go from there, but such is life.
Today, I have seen a fantastic group of people. There’s the classic middle-aged mother college-age daughter duo: one sporting casual, yet conservative attire, complete with scarf and watch; the other in skinny jeans and faux-animal print, hair dyed, nose pierced and foot tattooed. They have the same shaped glasses, which makes me smile. There is the slightly overweight business man with a receding hairline and sunglasses burn—from golf no doubt. The jean shirt with jeans white-haired gentleman. The family of punks-for-life dressed as hard-core punk rockers and totting two kids. The tomboy girl intent on her GameBoy—or is it a DS now? The “Holy-Shit I’m going to miss my flight” woman in stilettos undoubtedly on her way to or from a career-making business meeting. There is this awesome Hasidic Jew who just makes me want to rock out to Matisyahu. A wonderful little old lady in a power suit from the 80’s and gym shoes. … And that is merely a small sample. The point is that the airport is a microcosm, a wonderful array of completely different, completely interesting people. I love it.
The reason that I decided to name this blog "Seeking a New Way of Seeing" is because that is really what I want to do when I travel—more importantly as I live. I want to constantly open my eyes, see news things, appreciate just how huge, diverse and utterly amazing this world is. Constantly broadening my perspective on life and not feeling “foreign” to anyone.
