"Well you should be, because you're wrong about things being different because they're not the same. Things are different except in a different way. You're still the same, only I've been a fool... but I'm not now."
"Oh."
"So long as I'm different don't you thing that... well maybe things could be the same again... only a little different, huh?"
-- an exchange between Cary Gran and Irene Dunne, in The Awful Truth.
I am driving down the Merrit Parkway on a Monday morning. Tree boughs dripping with autumn kiss overhead, burnt oranges and deep reds contrasting against a light gray sky. Already a few trees stand naked, shivering in the fall wind. Around me cars weave in and out of traffic, filled with people moving forward, to meetings, to work, to shop, to breakfast. Though perforated by holes of civilized society, like asphalt and guard rails, the mere sight of the sloping treeline, a breathing Charles Wysocki painting, makes my heart swell slightly in my chest.
Since high school, I wanted to get away from New England, its SUV weilding stepford wives, congested highways and overpriced neo-colonials sitting squarely on every inch of postage stamp-sized lots. New England, Connecticut in particular, simply wasn't for me, I would lament to anyone who would listen. More importantly, I was not New England. Yet, after every adventure, from a move to North Carolina for school, a stint in Europe, and living abroad in Costa Rica and Palau, I migrate back to the same habitat, much like the turtles that enraptured me before.
There is something about fall that moves me. Whether it's the fact that the metamorphosis is a metaphor for the changes inevitably occuring in my life each year, or the august beauty of the colors of fall, changing and deepening with every day, every rain. The vast hues of gray that color the sky, gentle and hushed, serve as a muted forbearing of the silence of winter to come. I've seen the sky from a few continents now, arching and bursting with different colors and streaks of light.
Sage and I drove out to Westchester for a birthday party on Saturday, on windy New York back roads, stirring cyclones of fallen leaves, crimson and paper browns in our wake. We gazed at the small, well kept store fronts of the main streets bisecting the towns, breathing in the charm and beauty of the gingerbread white icing and fresh black shutters. We watched dusk fall softly over a ridge of trees, still bursting with the last vibrant leaves of fall, from a perch atop a straw bale, while our hands and faces burned hot from the fire. With my hands wrapped around a cup of hot apple cider, I felt an ease wash over me, a blanket of familiarity that incited a calmness I couldn't achieve while I was gone. Thirteen years after our initial introduction, Sage and I were in the same spot we would be in high school - hands wrapped around cups, warming ourselves by an outdoor fire and flanked with friends. Though our lives were completely different, so much of our existence was exactly the same.
Sunday night I ate dinner with my grandmother, who doted on me, delivering meatloaf and asking me about my travels. At night I lay in the bed that I've slept in at her house since I was a baby, and contemplated the soft swirls of spackle on the ceiling. Around the world and back again, I am the same small girl who wanted to champion causes and see the world. Instead of watching morning cartoons, I sat with my grandmother and had a cup of coffee while poring over the book review from the times. Years later I am now more interested in soaking up her wisdom and experiences than I was before, but my love for her remains the same. And this morning, as my car pushed its way through the scenery, the rotation of the tires against the road evoking a soft rythmic undercurrent, I found myself smiling in earnest, truly impressed with the beauty and uniqueness that evaded me as an adolescent. It occured to me on my ride home, that this is home. The same as when I left it, yet different, in a different way. And I am different, yet still the same. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
"And now, since we have said to you what we feel, you may say to us your good byes," the Floor Leader announced into the microphone, in his signature crackling Palauan drawl. My eyes met Sheree’s, incredulous. Was he serious?
The Speaker began the heartfelt addresses in his low growl, proclaiming that despite the challenges over the recent term, he felt that we were excellent attorneys and wished us the very best of luck. Carrying the torch of good will, the Floor Leader joked that I needed to come back for a second run and going away party, to carry on the tradition of on-again off-again legal representation for which the House has gained notoriety.
Minutes later, my heart raced a little in my chest as I passed Sheree on my way to my spot behind the microphone. I took a breath and fiddled with my hands, trying to think of something to say.
So many things flew through my head. I envisioned angry outbursts, "And YOU! YOU were the worst. I mean, you were SO mean that day? Remember? But YOU, now, you were pretty cool, and I liked that project..."; emotional digressions, "If we can come together as one community, united for change"; succinct emotionless cliches: "It’s been real. Take care of yourselves (shoot the gun and wink)". Nothing fit, though. I didn’t have a singular impression of Palau. Like any extended experience, it hasn’t been singularly bad or good. It was simply a journey in a new place, with ups and downs, lulls and excitement. I leaned toward the microphone and in a slightly tremored voice, rambled on for roughly two minutes about how wonderful Palau was, how thankful I was to have worked there, and how sad I would be to leave. I think I may have quoted a speech I wrote for the Speaker once, I’m not sure.
Everyone clapped politely as I made my way back to the relative safety of my seat. I think I could have belched the alphabet and gotten a better reception. In retrospect, I think maybe I should have. Perched above a glass of turning red wine, I glanced over at Kristen.
"You know, I’ve never heard Palauan music performed live?"I mused aloud.
"If they don’t have a synthesizer, I am leaving," Kristen dead-panned.
We watched from our table as the band warmed up. Suddenly, a melodic canned riff from what could only be a Casio synthesizer tumbled through the air. A wide smile spread across Kristen’s face. I laughed.
"Yesssss!"
Parties Palauan-style are quite casual, yet also organized and orchestrated according to cultural customs. For example, the invitation for this, Sheree and my going away extravaganza, read a start time of 8pm, "American Time", however everyone knew that most Palauans would filter in 45 minutes to 2 hours late. In addition, people arrive wearing island attire, flowing dresses and flower print shirts, flip flops and flowers. Carefully prepared food was spread in dual columns along a long table, in quantities to feed an army. Perfectly formed squares of rice abutted platters or marinated cucumber, poke, fried chicken and grilled short ribs. Jars of mayonnaise and soy sauce littered the table. As an honor, we were asked to begin the traverse through the buffet. And after our awkward speeches, the festivities began.
Palauan music is an acquired taste, mainly large bites of Top 40 American Music with Palauan words echoing at astounding decibels. Under the lone rainbow disco ball, Palauans shuffled in time to the music, slowly turning and rolling their lightly fisted hands, as if pantomiming locomotion. It conjured up images of Bill Cosby dancing at the beginning of his show, shuffling and tapping randomly, his stomach proudly protruding as he shook his head to the rhythm. A bulbous man walked the length of the dance floor in my direction, extending his hand in offer of a dance. I shook my head no, a saccharin grin smeared across my face in an attempt to hide my embarrassment, and he walked away, shaking his head. Cultural taboo or not, I just didn’t want to dance. I felt off balance, out of my element, and tired. Another man came up, making a lassoing motion, inciting laughter as he tried to "rope" me onto the dance floor. I blushed hot, and again declined. Sober and anxious to board the plane home, I just didn’t have it in me to feebly attempt the cha-cha on an empty dance floor in front of tens of my coworkers, staring and commenting loudly in a language I didn’t understand. I’ve never really been much of a dancer anyway. Glancing at Kristen, who knowingly smiled in support of my abstinence, I still felt a pang of guilt, which was only amplified by Christopher, who offered my a sideways stare of disapproval. "You’re in so much trouble," he joked.
Later, I ventured out of the safety of my houle table and sat next to Elena. Dressed in vibrant red with her long black hair tied neatly in a single braid that streamed down her back, Elena smiled warmly at me.
"I’m going to miss you, Emily,"she said sincerely through her ruby lipstick and betelnut stained lips. For a moment, I felt a flush of emotion, and a small lump form in my throat.
"I’m going to miss you, too, Elena," I replied. I meant it.
The cratered road to Airai seemed to grow longer with every minute we stayed, so Kristen and I made a hasty exit somewhere after eleven. Rumbling along the asphalt and gravel patches, I thought about Elena, and many of the other staffers who took time to get to know me during my brief stay on their island. Legal counsels are somewhat faceless to most staff, as they seem to spin through the revolving hiring door for one reason after the next. Like any resort area subject to the traffic patterns of tourism, the locals develop different attitudes toward the new visitors and transient residents. Some people are indifferent, simply going about their tasks, others are resentful and cold. And a few are open and kind, inquisitive and generous. I count to myself the number of acquaintances I’ve made since arriving, and recall long car rides to the Capitol, laughing and practicing new Palauan words, or Elena slipping a pair of earrings into my hand. I can hear Joyce’s laughter as we wove our way through the pools of icebox, peering into the dark water to see cultured clams.
Though unique and comical in its own right, Palau has many parallels to any other place you might visit. Its dynamic is comprised of a myriad of personalities, and daily life has the same expectations and draw backs as it would anywhere - long commutes, boredom, frustration and challenges. It’s just the setting that’s different, perhaps acting like a magnet for absurdity. Maybe when I get back, I’ll pitch a pilot for an island version of "the Office"?
