Santiago, Chile: The day before I left for Patagonia I was focused on my preparation. The big leap would have to wait for the next day. I remember when I was 10 I wished I was 12, then at 12 I wished I was 16, My mom shared the same advice every time; “Don’t wish your life away.” So the day before I left Patagonia, on my way home, I was focused on finishing strong. I had people to see, work to do and more than anything else, I wanted to feel good at the end of the day. There would be plenty of time on the plane to reflect. I told the Sisters I would see them that night, walked to Terra Australis and had coffee with Juan and Olvia. I had no reason to go through my suitcase, it had been organized and packed before I left on my walk-about. Everything else had to fit in my duffle bag and backpack. Juan called, confirmed my flight the next day. Students arrived and the day began just like every other day. I sat in on class with Olvia and the British guys. Sometimes I helped when she wanted them to listen to us talk. The review was good for me as well.
I made sure I was early at Library For The Blind. Alone in the audio lab, I took the guitar out and was practicing as my blind students began to arrive. Some were new to me. My three star pupils were right on time, Claudia, Javier and Ruth. We retold the stories on both songs and did some singing. Jet Plane was our best song. Claudia thought it should sound more sad so we put in a “Boo hoo” after the “Oh babe, I hate to go.” At the end, they all thanked me in both Spanish and English. Ruth was the last to go. She was more dressed up than usual. I asked what was up and she had a date. I asked if he was a “Novio” , a sweetheart, and she laughed. She said she didn’t need one, just someone who could pay for their own whiskey. She said she liked Cutty Sark Scotch Whiskey but without ice and that Lennon only got to drink beer. I stopped to see the Librarian, the lady who interviewed me. She said the students liked my lessons, that I was welcomed to come back any time.
On the short walk back to Terra Australis it occurred to me; I’ve done everything I could squeeze in. There was no walk-about field trip that day; students got a free afternoon. I asked Juan if he and Olvia would like pizza for an early dinner; picked up two large pizzas and we shared a pleasant supper. They both had work to do at school so it was dark when we closed up. I was going to take a taxi with the guitar and suitcase but hey insisted they drive me back to Sisters B&B. I would’t see them again; my flight was early and I would take a taxi to the air port.
I was afraid that time would drag but I was wrong. I napped down stairs, fully dressed, with my travel alarm set in my pocket. It went off at 1:00 a.m., my hosts called a taxi and I was checked in, ticket in hand, through security and at my gate by 2:30. It went so smooth I forgot to change my pesos back into American dollars. Still going on cash I had left over from my credit card fiasco in Bariloche, I didn’t want to bring it back in pesos but I didn’t want to get stuck outside the security gate either. Boarding was easy, they let my guitar go in the overhead and my back pack under the seat. My flight home was direct, no stops on the way so I was able to sleep.
The International Terminal at Miami International is a far, long walk from everywhere. I walked past the gate where I had seen the flight attendants and crew, boarding on the night I left the USA. There were several check points where everyone had to funnel through, look at passports, get permission to keep going. I had time to make my next flight but none to waste. Food could wait. There was a point where it occurred to me that I might be waling back to Kansas City. At the end of every long tunnel was a turn into another tunnel where I couldn’t see the end. Then another turn and another long tunnel. Finally, there was a zig and zag where all you could see was the security officer at his kiosk. The people ahead of me made it through with no difficulty. The officer wasn’t in the blue TSA uniform, his was tan and his badge was different. He was Latino, in his 40’s with a thin mustache, looked like an actor on a movie set. He shined his light on my photo, thumbed back to see where I was coming from, where I had been. He gave me two short glances and then a long third look, handed my passport back and nodded his head for me to move along. I was several steps toward the zag in the zig-zag when he called me by name, “Frank.” I stopped and turned his way. We made eye contact but his expression didn’t tell me anything. “Welcome home,” he said, and he said it again, “Welcome home.”
I didn’t know, I hadn’t thought about how I wanted my journey to end. But there should have been a moment when I sensed, that story was over and a new one soon to begin. I made my flight, changed planes in Atlanta and it was still daylight in K.C. when I collected my baggage. I’m not particularly patriotic, being an American has as many drawbacks and down sides as it does privileges. When someone asks me where I’m from I tell them, “I try not to be from:” But making that long walk, feeling in limbo and being welcomed home the way I was, in my own tongue, seriously, twice by the same officer: I couldn’t have written a post script that would have pleased me more. It made me feel so good then, and still does every time I reboot that memory.
It was full summer in Missouri, hot by any measure. I had three days before I needed to be in Oklahoma City for a Story Telling Conference. It was a little strange to hear so much English, with no accent. I found myself automatically translating what I was hearing into Spanish. But that door was closing and a new one would open when I woke up the next day.
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