I have never been to the Grand Canyon. I've never seen the Mohave or Rushmore or the Great Lakes. I've never had beignets in New Orleans or lobster in Maine. All the bison I've ever seen were through a date's binoculars in Golden Gate Park. I have never been fishing or seen a prison town or ordered a milkshake. I have never called a soda pop. Did you know you can grow up on East 30th and not once climb the Empire State Building on West 34th? You can.
I never thought about how cool any of this might be until I left America. And not "cool" as in bursting-with-Williamsburg-irony (contrary to what Sylvan refers to as my alleged "hipster sympathies"). No. I mean, sincerely cool.
It was here in Liberia that I first had pork chops with applesauce, a dish I truly believed only the existed in the Brady home. (For the record, this wasn't on a menu: some English dude made it. And it was rad.) In Liberia, I blast '90s radio with heavy bass as I drive home. In Liberia, I steam Brussels sprouts and read On The Road. Being here, somehow, has made me more American.
And also less. I frequently cover my mouth in shock when I hear myself say:
"EHN!?" ("What did you say?")
"Wha you seh?" ("'Sup?")
"Wheh you goeen so?" ("Where in the hell are you off to?")
"Ehn-hehn!" ("See? I told you!")
"Tenk you yah" ("Thanks, dude.")
"No" and "Hello" now have an extra "oh" at the end as far as I'm concerned.
Welcome to Survival 101.
The thing is, though, that I was always more afraid to see the States than I was to fly alone to Namibia at 8 or trek alone to Thailand at 27. No one knows how overwhelming the endless plains and 'burbs and kitsch of America are to a city kid born to foreigners. Last week, I confessed that the sound of cars reminded me that the world hadn't disappeared; two Dutch girls and a German laughed. They thought I was kidding but I was not: small towns scare me. (Don't even get me started on the countryside.)
But here I am, living in Liberia like it ain't no thing. Where is the logic? How can I roadtrip it through Africa without really seeing the country that made me? I'm doing it all backwards -- something about knowing where you going by knowing where you come from springs to mind.
So it's settled. Next spring: America by car, East Africa by Jeep. Be prepared. I will roll up on you, wherever you may be. (Please disregard my accent.)
I never thought about how cool any of this might be until I left America. And not "cool" as in bursting-with-Williamsburg-irony (contrary to what Sylvan refers to as my alleged "hipster sympathies"). No. I mean, sincerely cool.
It was here in Liberia that I first had pork chops with applesauce, a dish I truly believed only the existed in the Brady home. (For the record, this wasn't on a menu: some English dude made it. And it was rad.) In Liberia, I blast '90s radio with heavy bass as I drive home. In Liberia, I steam Brussels sprouts and read On The Road. Being here, somehow, has made me more American.
And also less. I frequently cover my mouth in shock when I hear myself say:
"EHN!?" ("What did you say?")
"Wha you seh?" ("'Sup?")
"Wheh you goeen so?" ("Where in the hell are you off to?")
"Ehn-hehn!" ("See? I told you!")
"Tenk you yah" ("Thanks, dude.")
"No" and "Hello" now have an extra "oh" at the end as far as I'm concerned.
Welcome to Survival 101.
The thing is, though, that I was always more afraid to see the States than I was to fly alone to Namibia at 8 or trek alone to Thailand at 27. No one knows how overwhelming the endless plains and 'burbs and kitsch of America are to a city kid born to foreigners. Last week, I confessed that the sound of cars reminded me that the world hadn't disappeared; two Dutch girls and a German laughed. They thought I was kidding but I was not: small towns scare me. (Don't even get me started on the countryside.)
But here I am, living in Liberia like it ain't no thing. Where is the logic? How can I roadtrip it through Africa without really seeing the country that made me? I'm doing it all backwards -- something about knowing where you going by knowing where you come from springs to mind.
So it's settled. Next spring: America by car, East Africa by Jeep. Be prepared. I will roll up on you, wherever you may be. (Please disregard my accent.)
6 comments:
I'd be happy to go to the top of the ESB with you. I think I only went once and I don't much remember it :)
You don't remember half our childhood, B. I shall take you on my ascent.
MAINE! Lobster! (that's all you buddy)
:D I am coming for you and your damn lobster.
You survived southern Oregon. One of the few "tan" people to do so. (Granted, there was a brush with the law and an unexpectedly cancelled flight... but these things happen). America is vast. Worth checking out. I'm off to Zion next week. I'll think of you.
I reckon perma-tan people rarely leave Oregon unscathed, Brian.
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