contents may have shifted upon re-entry

And then all the sudden you’re home. And your life returns to its normal course; well, almost. You perceive it all differently now; it’s as though there’s a film over your eyes, or as if a film has lifted. I reallly didn’t think enough time had passed for this to be true but as it turns out I was gone longer, or more profoundly gone, than I had thought I was.

So the funny thing is that there appears to be a ritual of returning. I can’t decide if I do these things to overcome my culture shock or to wallow in it a bit longer. I’m one of those annoying people who’s like, well, in MEXICO, they do things THIS way, and when I was in MEXICO, I did THAT thing. I can hear myself doing it but can’t seem to contain it for the time being, which suggests to me it’s simply something I need to do, at least for a while.

There are other surprising ways in which coming home this time has been the same as last time. For example, I’ve listened to a lot of Silvio Rodríguez. The funny thing is he isn’t even Mexican. But he does sing in Spanish and is very, very depressing. If you looked in my fridge right now you’d see tortillas, beans and lots of jalapeños. I made a brief foray into the garlicky, Italianesque flavors I had been missing, but two days on I once again crave chile and lime with everything.

There are tradeoffs, naturally: being reunited with Phantom Limb, as I nicknamed my dog after the first week I spent without him. The house I live in is vacant except for me and P.L. and though I only have access to the smallest of three apartments, I’m insulated from the comings and goings of neighbors at least til the end of this month. I have commandeered the porch and its furniture, even though it technically pertains to one of the vacant apartments, and intend to make enough of a tradition of drinking my morning coffee there that the new occupants will assume the porch is part mine (hopefully disregarding that to get to it I have to climb out my bedroom window). The porch chairs and table were left by the previous tenants, and since they are upholstered in brown and aqua and match my bedroom I have decided they shall henceforth belong to me. Having a car and a bike to get around with isn’t all bad, and though it feels like someone is breathing on me at close range all day long, the humidity and the tree-ey-ness (oh dear lord, there must be a real word for that) make me feel enclosed, sort of cradled and protected. The exact opposite of the “región más transparente del aire”, as Humboldt nicknamed the Mexican plateau.

I’m still seeing the States with an outsider’s perspective, I think. Everybody seems so trashy, maybe because in the last few days I’ve made 1482 trips to the Harding’s on Howard for one thing or another. People speak ungrammatically with these threadbare voices completely spent by cigarettes and booze, and drag their obese bodies around atop irredeemably ugly shoes. And surrounding these bizarre lumbering creatures, everything made for their use and amusement is so sleek and abundant.

Except my friends, of course. My friends are immediate, genuine and careful around me when I've been away. They are sparkling and busy with any number of noble and clever pursuits. I have promised them I will come home soon.