My trip to the United States
Boarding the plane to Seattle sent tremors of guilt through my soul. How dare I spend my precious Asian vacation time traveling in the land of Wal-Mart and Taco Bell? Shouldn't I be broadening my horizons while journeying through exotic, English-free backwaters? Surrounded by a plane filled with more Westerners than I'd seen in the last six months, I questioned my decision to revisit Seattle, Hood River, San Francisco and Maui.
Until I stepped off the plane. Seattlites and travelers smiled at me and at each other. A stranger loaned me his cell phone. A black guy looked me over and said, "Hello miss," and, "Yo, bro! Whas up. You likin' dis place?" to another black guy walking behind me. Diversity. Friendliness. Americans, despite oppression and fear wrought by the current administration, still embrace their fellow Americans.
My family is another story. Caught up in the struggles of caring for a new baby, my relatives were anything but cheerful. Arguments over money, childcare, jobs and possible relocation stressed me, an innocent bystander. After three days, I'd had enough. This vacation wasn't a vacation.
I escaped to Hood River. Pulling into town, still jet-lagged, I drove to Post Canyon and ran for an hour. Familiar rocks and ruts passed beneath my feet. Damp forest air, scented with red mud and spring growth, filled my lungs. Sweat traced paths down my dusty cheeks and shins.
Four days of fun followed. Cross-country skiing, snowboarding, biking and hiking filled daylight hours. Parties, dinners out and drinking rounded out the nights. My home, Hood River.
Back to Seattle, and a flight to San Francisco. Another day with friends, spent mountain biking in Marin and driving in a Porsche. Sunlight and warmth, uncharacteristic for March, brightened the green hills of The City. Dinner at a Brazilian restaurant - all you can eat meat and a handsome German named Raphael. Sent him home in favor of waiting for the grand prize.
Maui. Plumeria-scented rain dripping from the palm trees outside the airport. Old friends, tanned and relaxed from island living. House-sitting at a friend's home on the beach at Camp One. Acres of perfectly manicured lawn, shaded by fifty-foot palms. Smashing coconuts on lava rocks, carelessly drinking some juice while the rest rained upon my body. Runs on the beach, barefoot, bikini-clad, sun burning my shoulders and back. Day after day of surfing clear, blue waves. Windsurfing logo-high Kuau and 3.7 Camp One. The grand prize. A single, perfect night spent with a friend who covered my ears to protect my sleep from the noise of small-hour plane departures.
Almost three weeks of bliss. Then... back to Seattle. Back to Japan. Back to the Ozarks, Aomori-ken.
