Life in the Fast Lane

We’ve been in the United States for two weeks now, long enough for the disorientation and reverse culture shock to take its full effect. We landed in Fort Lauderdale and spent a few days in the Florida Keys, a great place to transition slowly back—good friends, familiar scenery, and fun on lobster boats. And then we drove to Naples. In a sense, it is still the town Jay and I grew up in. On a date night, we drove down to the Ben & Jerry’s we used to frequent, tossed a coin in the fountain like we did in days of yore, and walked on the beach we remember so well. But other things have changed so that they are unrecognizable. Everything moves so fast. The place is so clean. And the people are so busy.

I knew we would be gone long enough to miss our boat and our traveling life, but I didn’t know how quickly I would miss it. That said, I am gorging myself on time spent with family and old friends–storing memories for later. I have been so happy to see relationships pick up where they left off, even though there have been a lot of changes, too. We came back to see friends and cousins who seemingly grew up overnight. They, of course, felt the same way about us—most of my kids are taller than I am now. Our parents have aged, of course, and we ourselves came back with gray in our hair and new wrinkles. These are the little things we might not have noticed if we had been here all along. It’s a bit of a rip-van-winkle experience.

On our boat, we live in slow motion. We got off the fast track a few years ago and chose to live more simply and to take our own sweet time—raising our kids, working, playing, eating—all of these things are done at a more-leisurely pace. We feel a sense of accomplishment if we can get one thing done during the day. Here, I can stick a load of wash in one machine and dishes in another, hop in the car, run to the grocery store, and still have time for a visit with a friend in the afternoon. That’s American efficiency. But it feels a lot more rushed and less satisfying. I can feel the pull of “civilization” and I know  we may need to spend some time in the U.S. while our kids are transitioning to independent lives, but my heart is anchored in the lee of a quiet island in turquoise water. Like the poet John Masefield says, “I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide/ is a wild call and a clear call, that may not be denied.”