Lost in transit

What am I doing here?

On good days, the sky is blue and the clouds perfect, the air smells of baking bread and distant diesel fumes (two of my favorite smells) and the hiss of espresso steam foaming milk at the coffeehouse the dominant sound. The world is a romantic place, I earn a living by dint of speaking English, my kids are getting good educations (more or less), the marriage is going fine, and I have no real reason to question this life I lead nor my decision to move so far from my family and friends.

A perceptive cousin of mine once drew my attention to reclusive traits in our family and the way many of us end up living in secluded cabins out in the woods, or in trailers by the beach, or disappearing as I have. It reminded me that when I was a kid I did not want to be a fireman or a doctor, I wanted to be a hermit. And it was not only due to the widespread fears of nuclear war at that time that growing up, that one of my regular fantasies was of living in a post-apocalyptic world, where I had a Mustang and all the gas I wanted and no one to bother me.

So here I am, self-sufficient, in no great need of relatives or friends, in an invisible hermit's cell of my own device. All the books I need. Only problem is gas is so expensive here...

You see, every now and then, something occurs that shakes me out of this satisfaction with my isolation and makes me wonder whether this was the right choice. It can be an insignificant event, or something large. This time, my favorite uncle, a man who has been as important to me as my father, or nearly so, had a massive heart attack. He was reanimated twelve times in a single day. No one knew whether he'd survive, or whether he'd suffer brain damage if he did live. I received information on his condition in small but regular doses via telephone and e-mail, and felt further away than I have in a long time.

He seems to be making a miraculous recovery, but the chronic conversation with myself has resumed. Was it right to choose to be an outsider? I would feel like one no matter where I lived, and I'm more integrated here than I ever was back "home", to be honest. Am I running away from something? What am I running away from? Maybe I'm running towards something.

I remember a conversation I had with a man once. We were both teaching languages at a night school in Vienna, he Spanish and I English. I was in my early twenties, he was twice my age and had traveled a lot. "You can't keep drifting around," he told me. "At some point you have to get married and settle down, otherwise you wake up one morning and find you are a broken-down old guy."

At some point in time, you live one life in one place, or you don't. Am I, or am I still trying to exist in suspended animation, floating in this field created by the tension between where I come from and where I am? What am I doing here?

Posted by Mig at October 13, 2003 06:50 AM