To Live By Our Own Gumption

Dear The United States of America,

Hey there.  How are you doing?  You've been getting a little weird lately with your new boyfriend Donald, but that's not what I'm here to write about.  The more I try to stand in your way, the more you'll just be drawn to him, so I have to step back and trust you for now.  

There is a saying that goes something like, "You don't know your own language until you know another," and that is true of countries and cultures, too.  My last five years in Ecuador and Spain have made me truly appreciate you.  I know I talk a lot about how much I have enjoyed my time abroad, and I know that I have just left once again, but I wanted to let you know just how important you are to me.  

First and foremost, you contain all of these people that I love.  You are seriously just littered with them, and you have so extravagantly lain them about that I could spend all of my time just bouncing around from coast to coast.  The rest of the world has been thrilling and fascinating to discover, but it's quite large, and thinly populated with people that I know and care about personally.  I'm sure there are a lot more wonderful people out there, but trying to find all of them can be exhausting.  For every exciting new encounter, there are at least 10 lonesome and frustrating stretches of stagnation, no matter how much I seem to be moving around.  

Javi, responsible for coining the title of this
post

This past year back in Maryland was not a year of firsts, but it was a year of first-in-awhiles.  For example, it was the first real winter that I've had in 6 years.  Not only that, but we were fully snow-bombed at the end of January, and it reminded me of what a communal event a blizzard can be.  Everyone was watching the weather, buying too many groceries, and exchanging knowing glances with friends and strangers alike.  And as it turns out, 100% of cashiers are aspiring meteorologists.  By the time 3 feet of powder had hushed and blanketed Walkersville, I had watched The Martian with my mom and step dad, gorged on black bean soup with tortilla chips, twice, and thrown on all of my mountain gear to hike less than a mile to a friend's house with a bottle of wine and some bourbon.  The parallel universe inside of Call of Duty is still recovering.  On my walk (okay, stupor) back home the next day, I learned that at some point in my absence, everyone, EVERYONE, had bought a snowblower.  The sidewalks were better than the roads, and I couldn't help grinning at how the whole neighborhood was outside and interacting, with a European casualness, as if Spain had stopped by to ironically say hello through inclement weather.  

You are never too old for building snow ramps!

And even before that, there was Ethel's wedding.  Where do I begin with that one?  My sister's wedding was not the first wedding I've been involved with, but it does mark the first time that after months of thoughtful and meticulous planning and preparation, a hurricane swept through and totally destroyed almost every detail, save for the participants.  I would like to stress that I am not being figurative here.  A fucking hurricane hit fucking Delaware on the fucking weekend of Ethel's fucking outdoor wedding.  In October.  On 3 days notice, we had to find a new venue and alter every single catering arrangement that had been made for 150 people, and do so with flooding and tidal highway closures.  By "we" I mean mostly my sister Joy, but still it was all hands on deck.  It was stressful, and crazy, and new shit was going down every 5 minutes.  And I wouldn't have missed it for the world.  

Expectations of an outdoor wedding by the beach

Reality

So, America, why have I left?  Partly, it's because for a time, I have once again chosen to live near those who share some of my recent experiences.  People who will, shuddering with laughter, describe the time that they, too, accidentally ordered and ate raw shrimp.  Or horse.  Who are likely to have also spent an entire day walking around town and gesticulating for "bed sheets" in the dullest game of public charades imaginable.  Or who, when facing the arbitrary rules set forth by banks, post offices, and vehicular agencies, are okay being left not only with the leisurely question of "why?" but also with urgent and dumbfounding questions of "how the fuck?"  Already in Durres, I seem to have found a pretty good group of these people.  More than any of that, though, my leaving comes down to a simple worldview.

Imagine that someone is offered a job.  For the sake of argument, let's say it's the exact job that they were looking for, and that they feel both very good doing it and very qualified for it.  And now let's imagine the interviewer saying, "As a global service, this is actually a job that you can do from anywhere you want.  Where would you like to work?"  Some people may hear this and say, "Perfect, I'll work from home!"  And why not?  The commute is unbeatable, and the flexibility is a dream.  

Others when prompted with the question, "Where would you like to work?" may instead respond with something in the vein of, "Umm...Mongolia?"  For good or ill, this is my kind of answer.  There is nothing inherently good or bad about either one, it's only that neither group can really fathom why the other doesn't agree with them.  Both groups seem to find their choices obvious, and their explanations superfluous. 

Sunset from my new apartment in Durres

This kind of choice requires us to trust ourselves.  It requires us to live by our own gumption.  The hardest choices are the ones that we cannot explain to the satisfaction of others, yet still seem to feel are right.  I don't mean here that decisions should go unexamined.  Living by your own gumption is about what we do after we have exhausted thought and reflection and still have no clear idea of what we should do next.  It is trying to make the decision that you would make if there were a gun to your head...only there is no gun to your head.  There is only a vaguely familiar voice whispering things that you already know.  Is it the voice of reason, or some sad monologue of fear?  Or the deep, rumbling call for indiscriminate change?  Or the giggle of excitement?  Living by your own gumption is the choice you make once you realize that even delaying a choice is making a choice.  

I guess, America, I am leaving so that I can do it right this time.  Because by choosing this, I don't feel like I necessarily have to lose the closeness that I've rediscovered with friends and family back home.  In my first blog post on here, I described the tug-of-war I have felt between wanting to explore new places and missing people I care about.  I'm beginning to suspect, though, that perhaps I don't have to sacrifice one for the other.  Perhaps there is a way to do this that won't leave me torn.  Perhaps it's just a question of priorities, and of living in a way that keeps people close even when I'm far away.  This is what the voice is whispering to me now, and regardless of whether or not I can pull it off, the only way to know is to try again.  I hope you are doing well, and I will be seeing you very soon.

Sincerely,

Andy


P.S. Seriously though, Donald's no good for you.  Get your shit together.

Cheers to many Sharknadoes still to come.

Expat Unclehood

The year is 1994.  I am in sixth grade, and my girlfriend Hannah is telling me that she and her family will be moving to Sri Lanka.  I am crushed.  Where is Sri Lanka?  Is it, like, further than Florida?  With whom will I now speak nervously at lunch?  Whose hand will I contemplate holding after class?  Who will I now sway with at arms' length when the slow songs come on at the middle school dance?  Oh no, have we got to the end of the road?? I have so many questions.

"Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon,
is a small island nation in the North Indian Ocean
known for recording artist MIA, whisking away your
middle school sweetheart, and cinnamon." Map Source

Hannah and I stayed in touch for a few years, as old-school pen pals.  Email was still some weird thing that made a lot of noise on my dad's work computer and meant that no one could use the phone for the next half hour.  I would write to her about the people we knew and keep her updated about life in Walkersville.  She would write about homesickness and summer camps, and she sent me a picture of herself being lifted in the trunk of an elephant.  My home encyclopedia set had only an exasperatingly brief passage on Sri Lanka, and nothing about the elephants there, or the fact that they could be trusted to lift an adolescent human child.  I stared at the picture in awe, and kept it in my dresser drawer long after our once flowing correspondence had dripped down to a memory (we would meet again, randomly, but that is a story for another day).

Fort-building with Frankie! Photo stolen from Joy Klauder.

That photo seriously piqued my curiosity about the world, and now I am the one living abroad and trying to maintain relationships with family and friends from home.  Facebook and Skype are lifesavers, and I don't have to miss out entirely on major events the way that I would have had to a couple decades ago.  This is especially important for my nephews and niece, who are changing and growing as rapidly as only children and unchecked hamster populations can.  Frankie, the oldest and the only one of them born before I left, can now hit me up on Facetime.  I can talk to him while he and my brother-in-law build parachutes for eggs on a Saturday afternoon, and Grace, his sister, can grin at the screen and run away, mumbling something profound about the universe and Strawberry Shortcake.  Arthur is the newest addition, to my other sister, and is a man of many facial expressions not yet understood.

Hiking in Cunningham Falls State Park,
their first time in the mountains!
Photo stolen from Joy Klauder

All of this is wonderful and I love it, but nothing compares to going home and getting to spend time with everyone.  I make it back every summer and usually at least one other time each year, but this summer I had to leave mere days before my little sister's due date!  I was gone when she had Arthur, but by an incredible stroke of luck, I was able to fly home and meet him only a few weeks afterwards.

Hot lava??  Photo stolen from Frank Klauder.

Watching out for roots in the river.
Photo stolen from Joy Klauder.

For anyone new to the blog, I had an absolutely terrible time with the visa process for Spain.  I had to go through the application and paperwork in Quito, Ecuador, and the hydra that is dueling latin bureaucracies proved too much for my diplomatic skills and pain tolerance.  I ended up having to apply in the US, but because the visa takes up to a month to get approved, I had to leave for Barcelona before it was ready.  Then things started to take a turn for the better.  My visa was approved on September 3rd, my nephew was born on September 8th, and my school flew me to Washington, DC on September 20th.  In a whirlwind trip that gave me less than 72 hours in the US, I was able to finally get my Spanish visa and to see Arthur and family for the rest of what I could scrounge out of the weekend.  So thank you, Spanish Consulate in Quito: that your thoughtless maze of documents, signatures, and self-significance could lead to anything so wonderful and loving as this visit is one of the most delicious ironies I have yet to experience.

Ethel holding her new son.
Photo stolen from Joy Klauder

Hello Arthur! Photo stolen from...someone.

I'm pretty sure this was taken as he was farting on me.
Photo stolen from Ethel Sayles

Redskins vs. Eagles in-house rivalry.
Photo stolen from Ethel Sayles

The Spanish visa!!! Victory!! All of that
work for a damn sticker...

At present, I'm not entirely sure when I will be home next.  That may be for the better until I get more settled and comfortable in Barcelona, but it means going back to being a floating-laptop head for a little while, and tracking the honing of motor skills and the expanding of vocabularies from afar.  But not so far as it was in 1994.  So in the immortal words of smitten aunts and uncles everywhere, "Uhhhmmm, he's crying again.  Here [handing over the child].  I gotta go."

Cousins