Honduras
2004 - Many Meetings
DEC.
27—Four days after my arrival, Karla and I sit
on a bus bound for Las Ruinas de Copán, one
of the most famous sites of the ancient Maya. The
bus ride marks the beginning of our adventures, but
for me, it also serves as a much-needed breather.
The past four days have been a whirlwind of
reunions and new acquaintances. The days have flown
by like the jungle outside my bus
window.
In
the 21 years since my year abroad in Honduras, I
have imagined these reunions countless times,
picturing them in every conceivable permutation. My
year in this country, living as a native,
was—and remains—the most profound
experience of my life. I left behind treasured
family and friends long ago, never imagining that
so many years would pass before I saw them
again.
After
fantasizing about my return for so long, one would
think I came with ultra-high expectations. Yet I
arrived with the mental equivalent of a blank
slate. I imagine it would have been different if
less time had passed. But after so many years with
so many changes, I didn't know what to expect, and
I therefore had few expectations.
When
I landed in Tegucigalpa, I sailed through
customs—so quickly that Karla had not yet
arrived to pick me up. My reacquaintance with my
"sister" was the meeting I awaited with perhaps the
most anticipation. She was just six when I left;
now, 21 years later, she was all grown up. I
literally did not know what to expect upon meeting
her, and we were to spend my entire visit together,
traveling around the country. I knew something of
her from our email correspondence in the months
preceding my visit, but it still wasn't the same as
seeing her in person. It was like knowing
about someone, but not knowing
them.
But
when the crowd parted, there she was. I recognized
her immediately. She was 21 years older than when I
saw her last, but not much taller. Same big eyes,
same cute smile, same fiery personality. Within
moments of talking to her, I felt something that
would quickly become a theme of the many meetings
over the next few days: I felt as if hardly any
time had passed at all. Karla had been a child when
I left, and seeing her as an adult was like meeting
a different person. Yet we instantly got along as
if we had grown up together.
When
we arrived at the house and I reunited with my
mother, father and brother Chalie, I found myself
surrounded by the same warmth. I spent a year, a
wonderful year, as part of this family, but 21 more
years apart from them had passed. Yet they made me
feel as if I had always been, and always will be, a
member of the family. Like I had never
left.
With
old friends back in the States, even with members
of my own family, I don't know if I would feel so
comfortable so quickly after a 21-year separation.
This warm friendliness so characteristic of the
Honduran people—and unfortunately lacking in
so many of my fellow Californians—is part of
what made me fall in love with this country in the
first place.
The
same camaraderie warmed the evening—Christmas
Eve, Noche Buena. The house filled with other
family members as we celebrated the holiday.
Buzzing from so many meetings, so much Spanish
conversation, and more than a few glasses of
Honduran rum, I finally found my way to bed. After
a day full of dreams-come-true, I slept a night
without dreams.
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