Privacy Please

About two decades ago I met one of my greatest loves. Life was breathed into me in a visceral, palpitating way and I was drawn into the clutch of unbridled ecstasy. This love has never left me, although it has been shelved for some time. The memory of what was and the hope of what will be fills my spirit with quiet resolve to plough forward. For now I bide my time until we meet again. Oh, sweet Travel, your grip is a firm one. 

I was not blessed with a sharply tuned memory. My recollections are proportionately linked to emotion. I remember how I felt more starkly than remembering what actually was. I entered Latin America through the gate of Santo Domingo in the company of well-equipped comrades—folks devoted to bringing fresh water to the impoverished inhabitants of La Victoria, Dominican Republic. I tried to keep my sheltered eyes from gawking and hoped my timid smile would not reveal my shock at the way people lived: families of four or five sharing one mattress on the dirt floor and having access to only a single-flamed stove-top in order to boil the contamination out of the water. Children ran through the streets barefoot and wild as the roosters who ran alongside them. 

My first great observation was that no one spent much time inside their dwellings. We would walk through the neighborhoods and I remember feeling so scrupulously eyed that it made me check my blouse to see if I had dribbled the contents of my empanada. Everyone knew everyone. My friends waved and offered hellos and crouched down to allow the kids to climb upon their backs. Happiness in the purest form abounded. 

My 7-year old niece will sometimes say “Momo, I need privacy.” After traveling to over 30 countries, it seems to me as though privacy is an American concept. It wasn’t just the Dominicans who lived life on their front porches. In Vietnam, friends and neighbors slurped pho outside the motorbike shop. In Italy, folks gathered around the large community tables in the village square not because it was a holiday or festival, but because it was Sunday.

In America we shop at massive econo-marts where we can fill our carts with ribeye steaks, a garden hose and a package of underwear. We eliminate the need to pop into our local butcher or florist or bakery. We enter our homes through the garage so we’ll never brush shoulders with the neighbors. We plan “play dates” and make resolutions to “be a bit better about entertaining” when all we REALLY need to do is go outside. Take a walk. Break free from the privacy of our homes. Live. 

Twenty years ago Travel took my hand and started gently guiding me through the Human Experience. I reflect upon that personal awakening with both fondness and necessity. I cannot forget what other cultures have shown me and what I must instill in my own family—that sometimes you need to step outside of your house to finally feel at home.