On Going Home.

June 22nd. Been home in Jersey for two weeks now. I went from the exotic to the extremely mundane in about 16 hours of travel. And now that I am home again, of course, I can feel the pull of the exotic again--now that I see I am not missing much at home, that the home-world will continue to spin just fine without me, that I am not missed as much as I had imagined.

Of course there is the huge discrepancy--the high points in Panama I imagine from Jersey vs. the problems of routine daily life in Panama, the drag of the hot, uneventful afternoon, the bedbugs, the loneliness, the ups and downs in mettle, where to eat every day, my tendency to turn in early.

The sound of it is very romantic from Jersey--"I lived in Panama for a couple months." But when you are there, it is not so different from Jersey, not so enriching as they would have us imagine. People are out on the street looking to hassle you, hustle you, the same laws governing human behavior, the same questions abounding about how to spend your time. The xenophobia, the homesickness, the pull of anything remotely familiar--gets old after a while.

I remember thinking while I was there--what a pity it would be to live there the whole two months, and then die just before getting on the plane. The thought of home is what would keep me going, the place that would make the 2 months all worthwhile, being able to reflect back upon the experience. Which really isn't how it should be. I don't want to be there if I am only doing it to reflect back upon it, like I have to grunt through it and gnash my teeth until it's over. It should be, needs to be, done for the experience of the experience itself, not as a means to an end.

And this is something I've learned about myself. That I am not the cosmopolitan type I dream of--the type who can be comfortable anywhere, with anything. Although, honestly, I would have been fine if I had more connections. This was, has been, and will likely continue to be, my biggest downfall. It is so hard to change disposition, habit. The reason the trip was so trying was that I am not good at making friends one day and saying goodbye to them the next, making new friends later the same day, saying goodbye again the next. But that is the nature of traveling. A very existential kind of experience.

I think of Patrick a lot, the Irish kid--the way he was able to make friends so easily, with anyone and everyone--something I am extremely jealous of, as it is abundantly clear to me that I am not predisposed to any such skill. My instinct is always the opposite--to seek out only those I am comfortable with, and then to cling to them. And if I don't get a great vibe from someone--if they seem unauthentic, dishonest, etc.--instead of talking more with them, I avoid them. Then I am alone, etc. And I write or read or do some other solitary thing that allows me to believe I am being constructive.

He would use everyone's name a lot, and you would instantly feel connected to him. He genuinely liked conversing with people, getting to know people, which made him popular. He was a natural leader, as he was the hub that tied everyone together. Introverts are amazed by these cosmopolitan people.