I met a fellow attendee outside a classroom at a writers' workshop yesterday. He is working on a novel, a piece left by his Mexican friend who passed away recently. I assume it is a real act of generosity and an honor to their friendship.
I found him with interesting experiences, volunteering for Peace Corp. in the Philippine, studying Hinduism in India, teaching English in Japan, and living in Mexico. He spent two to five years at each location. I asked him how the adjustments of coming back home were. “Not very well,” was his answer. I asked whether people found his experience interesting. His answer was, “People usually have a lot to talk about when they spend a week abroad. Their friends here seem to relate to these accounts. After spending years at a place, I am lost in what to say.” I was really interested in hearing his stories in the Philippine, but I heard only generic descriptions, “People are very tribal”, “They are very friendly”, and “I lived in a hut by the beach”. I tried to bring the conversation to life by coaxing him with historic events in the Philippine during the time of his stay; again I was frustrated with scant details. I wonder what had led to the disappearances of the vividness and the richness of living abroad. I question if he had ever opened his senses and his mind to the foreign lands.
My eventual question of his adventure is “What drew him to these distant places?” Perhaps it is better to ask “What made him leaving home?”
Perhaps he missed something. He searched for it, but without the comprehension of what it was. And so, the search was fruitless and pointless.
It is embarrassing in looking for a pair of glasses one has pushed onto his forehead. It is distressing looking for the missing and also the unknown.
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