1/19/15
Philip S. W. Goldson International Airport, Belize (BZE)
And so I find myself back where I started. This should be the triumphant airport
entry. I did everything I set out to do,
and I did it my way. I should be
celebrating and talking about how amazing the trip was. I should be saying that, as much as I loved
this country, I can’t wait to get home.
I will not be doing that. There
is nothing for me back at home that draws me back this time. A messy apartment that needs to be aired out
from Friday night’s smoking session, a trip to the T-Mobile store with my
broken phone, what else? If I could stay
here, I would. I’d work on my
writing. I’d find some work in the city. I’d uproot my entire life and move here. For the first time, I no longer have the
sensation of wanting to go home.
Next
weekend, I will be going skiing in New Hampshire, the Super Bowl is the
following weekend, the weekend after that I may be going to the DR with my best
friend. When I was on the boat
yesterday, they were talking about how cold it was in Florida. I mentioned that my best friend lives in
Orlando and had said the temperature was in the 30s. No, my best friend lives in Riverdale, and he
knows nothing of the day to day temperature in Florida. The girl on whom I have had a huge crush for
almost three years is not my best friend.
She is a very dear friend and the person with whom I exchange the most
texts now, but she is not my best friend.
My best friend is the person with whom I exchanged 324 texts in one day
for the sole purpose of us being able to say that we exchanged chai squared
texts in one day. My best friend is the
person whom I texted 76 times last semester to tell him that I took an Official
U on campus. My best friend is the
person who accompanied on an 18-day trip to Alaska and the PNW. My best friend is not the gorgeous girl who
gives me my movie recommendations and texts me funny news articles. My best friend is not the person who makes my
face light up every time I see her name pop up on my phone and go rushing to
respond. My best friend is the person
whose texts I feel that I can ignore if I’m not in the mood for a
conversation. I feel that because we
have a close enough relationship that, if we do not respond to each other’s
texts for a few hours, or even a day or so, the fact that we’re on the outs would
pretty much be the last thought on our minds.
You can only have one best friend, and I hate when people, girls in
particular, talk about their best friend and then their other best friend. Pick one.
They can’t both be your best friend.
You can have two best friends, but they are both “one of your best
friends,” not your best friend. When I
spoke on the ship about my “new best friend,” I simply meant that he would be
my best friend until I returned home, at which point he would just be a good
friend. I believe in the well-ordering
principle, and I believe it can be applied to every aspect of life.
I can say that, of any two
people in the world, I love one more than the other. That was how I came up with that list. If I love person A more than person B, and I
love person B more than person C, it necessarily follows that I love person A
more than C. The list constantly
changes, but, every time I update it, it is 100% accurate at that moment. I spoke about the irony of how that list has
completely changed over the past 6-7 years.
Every single name on the original lists, excluding my family, has been
replaced by new names. The people on the
list are the people in my life who make me happy, the people whom I’m happy to see
happy. It is that simple.
I have met those people in so many different
ways, and my feelings about them are very different, but the one thing that is
indisputable is that I love each and every person on that list. If I uprooted my life and moved here, I would
be leaving each and every one of them behind.
Of the people on that list, excluding the people I met on the boat, I
saw most of them at some point in 2014, but I only see six of them more than
once a month. Could I really say that I
the reason that I am getting on this airplane is so that I can continue to see
six people? No, I am getting on this
airplane because I hate change, because I hate the unknown. I don’t want to go home, but I am scared of
the idea of uprooting my life.
As soon
as I finish this cigar, I will head through security and return to my
life. I will start dating again, and
I’ll find someone new, or I won’t. I’ll
fall in love again, or I won’t. I’ll add
a new name to that list, or I won’t.
I’ll get married, or I won’t. I’ll
go to the DR with my best friend, or I won’t.
After that weekend, I’ll finally do my New Mexico WHS trip, and then
I’ll watch the Oscars and text back and forth with, well, I’m trying to avoid
mentioning names in my blog posts, and we’ll cheer every time one of our
favorite movies wins an award. I’ll work
on my novel and on completing my travel goals.
All of that begins with finishing this cigar and getting on that airplane. I am tired.
I am exhausted. I am ready to go
home.
Well, I survived #Belize #TheExperience. I have nothing else profound or deep to say,
just an ordinary tale of #TheJourneyHome.
After I closed last night, I was too tired to publish, so I waited for
the morning. Breakfast was a meager
affair, consisting of scrambled eggs, banana bread, coffee, toast, and turkey
sausage. Needless to say, I was hungry
again at the airport a few hours later.
I got ready and waited for George to pick me up at the appointed
time. We stopped first at an ATM so that
I would have enough cash to pay him. Our
second stop was the souvenir shop, where I got my Official flag pin, along with
some other random crap. We got in the
car, and I paid him, along with a very generous tip, which he much
appreciated. I lit up the last pipe I had
packed, my Ardor. For once during a
trip, I actually smoked all the pipes that I packed. I think Alaska was the last time that I did
that. Well, I was more than three hours
early when I got to the airport, so I checked in and went outside to smoke a
Julius Caesar and write that morose entry.
I went through security, got some food, got on the plane, fell asleep,
and woke up in Houston. It felt like the
shortest flight I had ever taken. Going
through customs was a breeze, and I didn’t think I had ever seen a quicker
process. Security took a little
longer. I then noticed something. There was not a single black face in line for
security. There were at least 40 people
waiting for security, and every face was white.
The TSA agents, though, half of them were black. Anyway, after I cleared security, I was
starving, so I took the train to my gate and stopped at Popeye’s. My plan was to eat, smoke, and write, but to
my shock IAH does not have a smoking lounge.
Seriously? We’re in Texas. Oh, well, I ate my food at that gate, where I
proceeded to write this entry which I will now close, along with this trip, so
that I can try to publish before we board.
Next stop: Lincoln, New Hampshire to go skiing at Loon Mountain.
No comments:
Post a Comment