Back in the USA

The blog has been stagnant for the past couple of weeks because I've been back home in the States for some work and then some vacation. It's my first time back since moving to Kenya in September, and I've been enjoying almost every minute of it. The fun started right when I landed in Washington two Sundays ago. While disembarking the plane, I inadvertently stepped into the aisle in front of a rather heavyset woman, who abruptly put her hand out to stop me. "Sorry," I said, but she grumbled and got out ahead of me.

 

A few minutes later I found myself in the immigration line ahead of her and her traveling companions, who couldn't stop talking about how pleased they were to be back in "the greatest country in the world." The people they'd met while traveling in Europe had apparently been rude and "annoying." Then, unbelievably, the woman started talking about me, not realizing that I was standing five feet from her. "Some young foreign guy tried to get in front of me on the plane," she clucked. Her friends clucked back. An elderly woman in a wheelchair - her mother, I think - said something to the effect of, "Just because they're foreign, doesn't mean they don't have to have manners." I briefly thought of throwing my U.S. passport at them, but I was dumbfounded by shock (or maybe it was jetlag), and then it was my turn to get my passport stamped, so there went my chance.

 

But not even that semi-encounter with Red America could dampen my mood. It was good to be back. Within hours of landing, I was at the home of the Sandhus in Cleveland Park, where my friends Dean and Yasmine were in last-minute preparations for their wedding, which is this Saturday in Jamaica. Typically, they (and a few bourbons) kept me awake until past midnight, helping to stave off first-day jetlag. But the next day, the seven-hour time difference got to me. On Monday evening, after a talk on international reporting that I and another reporter gave for the local chapter of the South Asian Journalists Association, a girl came up to me and asked if I'd been crying a lot because my eyes were so red.

 

After a week in Washington (including a two-day detour in North Carolina to visit two newspapers, and my friend Michelle in Durham) I came home to L.A. The first day was great - a family dinner to celebrate my brother's 24th birthday, then a night out in honor of Atur, who became the first of my childhood friends to get engaged. You could tell AT's friends that night - we were the ones looking nervous because that night our marriage clocks began ticking ever louder. But we put that aside for a good night in Long Beach, which culminated at some cavernous club the size of a Vegas casino.

 

The next morning, at home in the kitchen, I went to pour myself a glass of water and saw that the club's entrance stamp was still dark and clear on my right wrist. It said, "Nasty," and rather than have to explain to my 85-year-old grandfather what that meant, I went and scrubbed that off right away.

 

Other highlights from my two weeks here:

 

Landing in Charlotte, N.C., the week of a big NASCAR race. Charlotte is vying to become the racing capital of America. I'd say it's off to a good start. After a day of meetings at the newspaper in town, I drove into thick late-afternoon traffic outside of town on my way to Durham. A big crowd was headed for the racetrack, but the race wasn't for three more days. Folks were just going to the track to hang out.

 

Inane ramblings of Bud Light drinkers. It takes only a little overseas travel to realize how poor the average American beer is in comparison to the average beers of the other countries of the world. (This includes African countries; I'll take a cold Tusker or a Nile Special over a Bud any day.) Two Fridays ago, I was at a great D.C. bar called Bourbon with Dean, Yasmine and Yasmine's sister Chandani. No bonus points for guessing what drink the bar specializes in. Yet at one point, we heard a 20-something girl ask the bartender for a bottle of Bud Light. He replied that they didn't serve Bud Light. She asked, "O.K., do you have anything that tastes like Bud Light?" The four of us rolled our eyes way back into our nasal cavities at each other, but it was only outside, like an hour later, that I realized what the bartender should have said: "Well, I could urinate into a pint glass if you'd like."

 

I still hate shopping. Besides seeing my family, I came to L.A. hoping to compress a year's worth of shopping into a week. I had a list of things to buy - clothes, books, electronics - and only a small amount of patience for the logistics of shopping in this city. I spent a couple of days (and several weeks' worth of salary on gasoline) zigzagging from one megamall to another before giving up and cutting my list in half.

 

What happens in Vegas depends on who you're with in Vegas. My parents, grandfather and I just did two days in everyone's favorite capital of sin and marketing. This was unlike the past few Las Vegas trips, which I've made with friends. The family played a little, walked around a lot, griped about the heat, saw a show, played some more, and that was it. Good family time. I broke even at the blackjack tables, and that was good. At no point did Mom or Dad order a round of tequila shots, double-down on a seven with the dealer showing a face card, or strike up a conversation with a stripper. And while I love the Guys Gone Wild trips and hope to make a few more, I have to say that waking up to the smell of incense from my Mom's morning prayers is nicer than waking up to the smell of stale beer - and perhaps vomit.