"Homeward Bound."

“A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it”. - George Moore

  After nearly a year and half of living and traveling Asia, and 32 hours in Transit, I stood out in the fresh air of American soil. I arrived in Los Angeles on Sunday night, feeling like a newcomer, feeling like I was returning home.  I was both at the same time, and I was unsure of everything, and certain of so much.  I waited outside the airport gazing and looking at people, how tall they were, how different everyone looked from each other, listening to a familiar language, reading signs in my own tongue.   The air was cool and fresh, as fresh I suppose as L.A’s air can be, and I stood by my backpack in my loose clothes and wittled frame and I was content to stand there, to enjoy the last moments, the new moments, the end, the beginning.  

 My friend Suzette pulled up in her car and quickly jumped out to give me a hug.  I remember still now thinking that I wanted a longer hug, but in the airport que, we rushed in to the car and drove off, and instantly, we were the friends we always were.  Suzette is amazing, and throughout the whole of my life, she is one of the only people I have ever kept in contact with.  I hope I always do.  We instantly started to trash talk and joke and laugh, and she tickled me while she drove, and I tickled her while she drove.  I always find a way to win, and she never completely gives up or surrenders.  She commented on how skinny I had become, though I didn’t think it was so bad, and we drove from LA down the 405 to Huntington Beach.  I looked closely at the freeway exits, the off ramps, the business, and everything that reminded me of a life I once lived, of my many travels up and down those roads for work, for leisure, for life.  I passed the shop I bought my beloved motorcycle at, the exits where I knew Jamba Juice locations were, exits to various beaches, and then we rounded down to HB, pulled off the freeway and drove down the roads I knew too well, though they were different somehow, and entirely the same.  We pulled in to her nice new apartment, unloaded my bag, grabbed bicycles and headed out to the pier.  I told Suzette the first thing I had to do was buy deodorant, as mine had been stolen while in Asia and I had been without  for over a month, and even a fresh shower did not seem to disguise that fact.  We rode through the streets of HB, laughing and joking.  The air was that familiar breeze blowing off the pacific, cool for summer, and digging deep in to my skin and down to my bones, but I loved it.  I loved the goose bumps the wind gave me, the chill on my face, the shuffling of my hair, and the turning of my legs to pedal forward. 

  We locked the bikes up and walked around downtown HB, down to the end of the pier and around Ruby’s Diner.  We stopped to look at the waves, laughed at the memory of us jumping off the pier one night and fighting hard to swim back safely to shore.  We walked up and down Main Street, a street I knew so well, had walked so many times.  Each street in downtown was marked inside me, and I remembered a thousand times on my skateboard or bicycle up and down the streets looking at houses and small gardens, or simply out for an evening stroll, a daytime jog, or a search to clear my head among the salt and sea of the air outside.  I loved that air there, that feeling of the breeze and wind, the sun on my face and shoulders, the smell of ocean and sand.  I loved skateboarding down the boardwalk or around parks or through the streets to Suzette’s apartment, and here I was, doing it again, the cool summer night of California once again with me. 

  I stayed with Suzette for a week.  We didn’t do as much as I had hoped, as she was busy with school, and had her niece over for a couple days, but we had the kind of fun we always have.  We stayed up too late talking and wrestling, and she was convinced she could finally beat me with my emaciated frame, and the first thing she did when we walked in the door and I dropped my bag was try to tackle me and take advantage at both my lack of sleep and weight, though it proved that even with that she could not  gain a victory, but I love her for her effort. 

  I spent time at the beach enjoying the sand and sun, reminiscing many moments of solitude.  I went to the Tuesday night street market, watched the street performers, watched the people, and was quaffed at having to pay $5 for a small dinner after so long surviving so cheaply in Asia.  I also tasted the wonderful joy of Jamba Juice.  Oh, Jamba Juice I did miss you, and here now in the UAE I am without you again and wait for our reunion. 

  Suzette took me to a wedding up in Bakersfield and we talked and laughed the hours away.  I missed HB.  I miss it still, and often wish to return, though I know I did struggle there and would struggle again, but how is that different from any place?  I miss the beach, the weather, the familiar breeze, the freedom I had there, walking to the gym, a morning Jamba Juice, a night time skateboard ride down the pier, a summer of sitting solo in the sand, and empty winter beaches. 

  Suzette drove me down to her parents’ house an hour outside of San Diego out among one of the small towns of Southern California’s hills.  It was a lovely home, and we talked with her parents and stayed up late again, and in the morning, she drove me to the freeway and dropped me off and there we said goodbye.  I have not seen her since, and have only been fortunate to talk to her a few times since we parted on a freeway on-ramp.  It was dawn, the sun not yet full up.  I had my backpack, a water bottle, and two pounds of dried mangoes brought from Asia, and with that I put my thumb out to cars that passed and thought about home and family.  I decided the end of my journey could best be completed by hitchhiking the 700 miles home, and in retrospect, I was right.  I have driven that route many times, only about a 10 hour drive with fuel stops, but with a thumb instead of a gas pedal, it took me 2 ½ tiring days in a very hot sun. 

  The first day I made it up to Baker, California, only a couple hours from LA.  I spent the night on a lumpy patch of grass dodging sprinkles all night.  I even pulled out my small travel umbrella and tried to hide underneath.  It took several rides to get me up that far.  I would stand in a spot for hours waiting for someone to pick me up and then drive for 30-60 minutes and wait a few more hours for another ride.  I had an Afghani guy, an Indian guy, two separate American guys, and a trucker who drove me only 8 miles and admittedly picked me up only because he saw my long blonde hair and thought I was a woman. 

  The following day I rose again before dawn and while still dark began again with both my thumb and my hopes up.  I was a little more fortunate with rides that day.  One guy took me from Baker to Vegas, another took me about 15 miles outside of Vegas, and then I lucked out and a trucker who felt bad for me out in the triple digit heat with no shade in sight picked me up and took all the way to Salinas.  Every guy who picked me up had spent time hitchhiking in his youth, and some were interesting folks for sure, and even more interesting were the conversations. 

  On the second night I slept in a rocky ditch on the side of the road outside Salina.  It was a little cold and windy and I did not sleep well.  The only food I had eaten all trip was the dried mangoes, and a sandwich off McDonald’s dollar menu.  That night, I slept in the cold and bushes of an uncomfortable ditch only an hour drive from my parents’ house.  They had no idea I was in the country though and I did not want to ruin the surprise.  I cut my backpacking trip short without telling them in hopes of surprising them.  I missed them and despite the fun I had in Asia, I knew I wanted to see my family, and the closer I got to going home, the more excited I became about it.  All along the hitchhike home I kept hoping for one lucky and long ride to take me home to my parents, to see their surprise, and to be home, as much of a home as I any longer had. 

  The 3^rd day I was very tempted to give in and destroy the surprise. I walked 25 miles that day without a single ride, from Salina to Manti.  No one would pick me up, even when I collapsed on the side of the road and lay motionless in the grass with my bag still strapped to my shoulders, no one picked me up.  I did, however, have the police called on me 13 times and one officer very apologetically chased me out of town.  I just kept walking with my heavy bag, building bumps and bruises on my hips on back, and my feet could barely hold me any longer.  Each step was an aching pain.  My flip flops were worn through and paper thin with holes.  It was like walking barefoot with a heavy bag strapped to an underweight and exhausted body.  I limped for miles, nearly to tears and frustration, and kept hoping with the few cars that passed on the country roads, that one would stop, and take me home.  Finally, one did, and someone drove me the rest of the way to Fairview, dropping me a mile from my parents’ house, and despite the pain, one more mile was nothing at all to bear, so I headed up the canyon anxious and waiting, hoping they’d be home, and wondering what I would do if they weren’t.  It was a flurry of thoughts and feelings which I had gone over for two months in anticipation.  Here it was all about to be realized.  How would it go?  In ways, I did not know what to expect, though in other ways I thought I knew exactly what to expect because for the past two months I had been dreaming of and pondering over the exact moment when I arrived at their door and all the scenarios that could happen.  I took in to consideration my parents being out of town for a few days and having to use a wifi connection at their neighbor’s house to use Skype to call them so as not to give out my location with caller i.d.   I took in to account my dad being home, but my mom not being home.  I thought of my parents driving past me on the road while I was trudging up the hill to their house.  I imagined a dozen different things I would say to them and dozens more things they would say back.  I did not quite imagine what did happen though.  It was a sublime treat.

  I walked with my pack strapped to my back across the lawn of my parents small cabin and right past the kitchen window where I saw my mother standing and talking on the phone while she absent-mindedly looked out the window and apparently either past me or through me.  The door was unlocked so I walked in.  She was in the kitchen and still on the phone and it was clear she had not seen me.  I lifted my bag off my sore shoulders and felt the release from my back and feet and quietly walked up behind my mother.  I was standing directly behind her, and still she had no clue of my presence.  I thought perhaps she was on the phone with my sister, and hoping to surprise my siblings in person, I did not want my mom screeching out anything over the phone and giving the surprise away.  I softly tapped on her shoulder.  She turned around and I put my finger to my lips softly motioning for her to be quiet.  She stared at me blankly and confused.  It was an odd moment and I could tell she either didn’t recognize me or was too confused to grasp my being there.  After a few seconds she let out a loud burst and screamed out “I have to go.  I have to go,” over the phone and noticing my request for her to be quiet she tried to control the noise and ran out the front door without saying a single word to me, but just crying over the phone and repeating that she had to go over and over.  I stood there shocked myself.  Here I was standing solo in my parents’ house and I had effectively just chased my mother out by the mere sight of me in her home.  I was a little baffled and had rather expected a hug or a welcome home or something, but had never expected her to simply run away from me.  Of all the scenarios I had envisioned, that one never came up, and I stood as confused as she must have been.  My father, who was in the bedroom resting, heard the commotion of my mother’s sudden fitful burst in to tears and hysteria and he meandered out and stopped and looked up at me slowly and equally as confused and after a moment’s pause simply asked me what mom was crying about.  He didn’t step toward me, offer a hug, say hello, or really act as though he entirely recognized who I was or that he had not seen me in a year and a half.  I walked over and gave him a bug hug and he still just stood there dazed and uncertain.  I don’t think he said anything at all, but I grabbed around his still strong frame and hugged as close as two men think comfortable to hug.  It was my old man, standing in front of me, and I was happy to see him.  Although in my family it seems we children are much closer with my mother, still there is a bond we have with our father, a strange connection built on sarcasm and wit, built on a stern upbringing and an appreciation for teaching us hard work and responsibility that we all hated as children.   It has been strange for me to see how the relationship with my father has changed and grown the further into adulthood I ascend, and I think sometimes there is an understanding in the silence and an appreciation and immense pride we have for each other.  It is also strange to see how my distance and absence and travels affect him.  The man I knew as a child, distant and sometimes seemingly cold now shows a nurturing side and a desire for closeness and proximity.  I have an amazing father, and there I was, hugging him close.

  While in the midst of hugging my father my mother came in, still in tears and muttering through her sobs “You’re here.  You’re really here.  I can’t believe you’re really here.”  She held and hugged me as close and tight as a mother can hold her baby boy, I held and hugged her back as close and tight as a baby boy can hold his mother.  Sometimes there are moments in our lives when we want nothing more than to be our parent’s child, small and young, and holding on to that love and affection that seems only appropriate for a little child, but no matter how old we become we always find the simplest and greatest of reasons to want and need our mommies and daddies. 

  It may have taken a few minutes for things to register for my parents, but alas I did get a welcome home and an acknowledgement that I was there, that I was their son, and that I had been long away and returned at last.  In every way that I had imagined it the two months prior, I had not imagined it to be as grand as in reality it was.  If I could choose but only a few days in my life to live again, that would be such a day.  It was among the greatest of my life, and all the travels, all the sites, all the adventures, all the unbelievable and unexplainable miracles and amazements were surpassed in a few moments that carried on in to a day, then into weeks.  No adventure will ever end so fantastically again. 

  Still though, sometimes I find it odd how my parents first reacted, my mother’s blank stare, my father’s complete lack of recognition.  My mother asked my father later what he had thought when he saw me and he simply said that he thought he was sleeping.  He had been lying on the bed resting and when he came out and saw me standing there he thought for certain he had fallen asleep and was dreaming.  I had spent months convincing my family I would not be home till a month or two beyond the date I showed up in their kitchen, and I was thought to be somewhere in Myanmar with a backpack and a smile. 

  We sat down and talked and hugged more and laughed and smiled and my mother fed me, as mothers like to do, and I was happy for good solid food, surviving for the last two days on dried mangoes and water, and looking ill-nourished and thin from months of walking and self-rations of cheap rice and noodles.  I told my parents the whole story, and how I even slept in a ditch the night before an hour away, cold and tired, and showed the bruises on my back, and my flip flops worn through, and after a couple hours I apologized and begged for a nap on a soft and comfortable bed. 

  Obviously there was a lot I did in the time I spent back home in Utah, but this entry is about the reunion of it all, and I still had family yet to surprise.  I stayed with my parents a few days and then we all drove up to Ogden to my brother’s house.  I walked in the door behind my parents, and his girlfriend, whom he had started dating after I moved to Korea, began to scream out when she saw me.  Dustin, my oldest brother, was on the phone with my sister, and smart as he is, didn’t say a word to her.  He took his time, hung up politely and then being his father’s son very nonchalantly said hello.  Something about we men, even when it is most appropriate to show emotions we hide it either for fear of being chided or thought to be unmanly.  I chided him for the opposite and got a proper hug out of him nonetheless.  In the morning we all drove together to my sister’s house where she, her three sons, and her husband were all at home.  I walked in and John, her husband, saw me and said hello, the kids all hugged me, and I stood behind the couch while my sister chatted away with my mom, not yet turning around to see me there.  John pointed out for her to look up and behind her as she lay on the couch.  When she did, she jumped up like a spring and screamed and gave me a hug, the same kind of hug she had given me when it was only she and I, two best friends, back when I use to sleep on her floor every Christmas Eve, back when we use to walk home from school together.  It was that kind of hug.  My sister and I had a relationship in our younger years that was beyond beauty.  We still have it, though it has changed through time and the moving on of years and having her own family and new responsibilities and priorities.  For that moment though, it was just the way it used to be.  I often blame my mother and sister.  Perhaps if they were not as beautiful , perhaps if they were not as strong, perhaps if they were not as witty and charming, or not such examples of what a woman can be, then I may have found someone long ago and be married with my own kids.  But when I have expectations as that, it is a difficult thing.

  My oldest nephew came home the next day.  When he first saw me, he jumped off his chair and ran and gave me a big hug.  I wonder if he had hugged anyone that way for years, or had shown so much emotion at near anything.  I love my nephew.  I love all my nephews, and it was for them, as much as for anyone that I wanted to return.  I have been gone for most of their lives, three years in California, one and a half years in Asia, and now one year in the Middle East.  My youngest nephews only know me as the uncle who lives far away and they only rarely see, and yet I have taught them well and they know to say I am their favorite uncle when asked, and I know they love me as young children would love an uncle who also loves them, and I know they miss me.  Sometimes I fear though that they do not know me.  I have taken myself too far away.

  Anyway, this entry has been long and tiresome, so I sign off for a time.  I still have much to catch up on, and much which I will skip over.  Ciao. 

“No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow.” — Lin Yutang