Always Exotic

Waking up to birdcalls that sound like my youth.  What is that bird?  Those three sharp notes.  They are even more familiar than a Beatles song, more familiar than the Brady Bunch theme.  They had been there always for my first quarter century on earth.  No one, certainly not I, thought to consider their absence when I left the place where these songs sing.  But hearing that blue jay, I am flooded with familiarity, and I notice just how much it has been missing. 

Was so glad for the chance to be horizontal last night.  The neck muscles have a tremendous and important orb to hold aloft.  We do it for the day, and then rest at night.  But sitting in an economy seat, reading, dozing, typing, dozing, the neck is never really relived of its burden.  Per my last entry, there were more than forty eight hours or so before my neck had some time off. 

This is that odd day in America, when I’m not American.  The first day back is always exotic.  Within twenty-four hours I am just another American.  But for the first day, I am an anthropologist here.  And the man there in line at the salad and soup chain we’re going to for lunch looks like ten people I grew up with, now, sharpened into a caricature.  I assume he is an oily real estate agent.  He’s got that sharpened, implausible look.  I don’t want to think about him but the fish tank is uncomfortably intimate today, this first day. 

Got to meet some people who quickly share opinions about China, once they learn that I live there.  Interestingly no one mentioned pollution this time.   Rather three people in a row, mentioned control and lack of freedom.  This is the default American talking point.  I try to explain why this is only one part of the narrative.  They seem to think I am missing the only point worth mentioning.  American’s have a harder time than most people to imagine that some place different, isn’t necessarily at a loss for being so.