he vuelto

After almost nine months of living and traveling in South America, I'm home. Other than the shock that my already obese cats have doubled in size, everything is as I left it.

My dad has yet to ask me anything about my adventures. When the shuttle from Newark dropped me off at our house, he helped me with my luggage, urged me to eat the 2 lbs. of cherries he has bought and washed, and reminded me that there was also watermelon in the refrigerator. Then he turned to watch the Chinese knockoff version of Larry King Live on satellite TV.

It is not that my dad doesn't care about me or what I do. Nor is it because he is an incurious person. I think it is just that what is important to him is that I am safe and that I am home. The details of how I spent the past 9 months are irrelevant—I am his daughter and there is nothing more he needs to know.

For my mom, a cactus in the desert, I am the rain. Because I am her daughter, she wants to know everything, most of all what I will do with my future and when I am getting married. I deftly dodged both questions.

I loved that I arrived on the longest day of the year. The sun rises at 5:24 and doesn't set until 20:31 and twilight lingers well past 21.

I still love my library. I visited it the first day I got back and checked out four books. It turned out that I had a fine of $1.40 from last September. When I tried to pay it, the librarian waved his hand, said "pfff" and "don't worry about it," and asked me wait at the counter just long enough so he can confirm that my record has been cleared, which took 2 seconds.

Everything else is strange. No one greets you with a kiss on the cheek. Everyone communicates in English. Cars aren't trying to run pedestrians down. I miss the music of Spanish being spoken, laughed, and sung. I'm trying to let go of the tension in my muscles when I walk in Greenwich Village after midnight carrying my laptop; I have to remind myself that I'm not in Peru anymore.

Indeed, I am not.