A Tale of the Grass is Greener on Both Sides

All of my stories have escaped me. I used to have marvelous stories to tell of new beginnings, new friendships, travels and adventures of distant lands. Even everyday occurrences had a ring to them, a great story to be told. My life read like the glossy photo filled pages of National Geographic, now I can barely manage a life worthy of a National Enquirer tale.

I was in distant lands and the story weaver was alive and the stories came out naturally sounding like a travel magazine. I used to say things like, "When I was in the Amazon jungle on our midnight hike, something bit my shin and it didn't heal for 3 months." Or I started with, "The second day my sister and I visited Macchu Pichu, it was raining that incredible Andean rain and we were soaking wet running back down the Inca trail to the pueblo below." I know I said "On my jeep trip to the salar in Bolivia..." or "During Semana Santa in Guatemala… "

Now I'm back and have gone through a year of transition of unfamiliar familiarity. I've had new beginning, friendships, travels, and adventures, but it's not the same. My stories start with "When I bought a quart of milk, I didn't realize it had a leak, and the next day after I poured a glass, there was barely any left" or "I just received a $3.00 off coupon for an oil change, and they vacuum your car too." I try to feign enthusiasm when I tell people I didn't have to pay my $1.23 library fine because the librarian was really sympathetic when I told her I didn't know I couldn't have the movies for ten days.

When I lived out of the country even crossing the street was exciting. It was like being in a video game when you try to escape from the bad guys. You had to try to dodge the oncoming buses and taxicabs and run across two lanes along with the other game players. There weren't many crosswalks so the challenge was getting across anyway possible. My hunch is the buses and cabs always let us win, but I didn't mind. Sometimes I would wait until the last minute just to see if I could really make it across and make sure they were playing fairly.

I could cross the street here with my eyes closed. The crosswalks are clearly painted at the intersection and the blinking crosswalk signals tell you when to walk. Cars slow down for pedestrians and wait for you to cross safely. There is no challenge at all. Push the button, wait for the person signal to appear, and stay within the white lines while walking across.

Going to bank there was very lively. The armed guard would stop me and inquire about my business, I would just flash my bank card and I would get the invitation to proceed. There were nice ladies that invited me to sit down and wait my turn in front of their desks. They kept a photocopy of my identification card with my phone numbers and addresses just so they would remember me. I knew they cared about me and wanted to take the time to get to know me. They called me Senorita and smiled at me warmly. They weren't just interested in my money.

Here they charge me if I want to talk to them in the bank. They don't even want to get to know me. I'm just a number. I only get to talk to that same pleasant voiced lady over the phone. She will keep on giving me information if I keep pushing the right buttons. I could be sticking my tongue out at her and she wouldn't even notice, she just keeps right on with her business.

Sometimes, if I really have a problem, the computerized voice will let me talk to a 'real' person on the phone. I think they have a face. They rattle off some memorized line how they are glad to help me, what's my number, what's my name, and this is recorded for my safety. Safety. I'm sitting in my house, I better be safe. I secretly would like to think that they record our conversations because I'm so interesting and later they want to hear our conversation again when they are bored or lonely. But, I have a feeling they don't even care one diddly bit about me.

When I shopped in the grocery store or outdoor market it was easy. My list was always the same. Cheese. Milk. Yogurt. Tuna. Fruit. Vegetables. Plantain chips. Beans. Rice. It was easy to buy tuna. There was the gold kind and the white kind. Just to be feisty I would alternate each week which kind I would get. There were only two choices for most foods. It was simple.

Grocery shopping here isn't much fun. There are too many items to choose from and the proportions are too large. I'm only one person. I don't need 1,000 napkins sitting around or 50 ounce bottles of condiments. And I don't need super jumbo size bags of chips or any other food item for that matter. Just one portion please.

Shopping for tuna here makes me never want to eat it again. I get dizzy from all of the choices. There are so many brands. There is the bee telling me to buy, sea creatures, someone named generic, and a fish named Charlie, with water, with oil, no oil. Who needs tuna!

Don't even talk to me about cereal. I tried doing mathematical calculations just to see how long I would have to live to try out all of the different types. Let's just say it won't be a resolution I'm going to stick to.

Overseas I used to walk to the store on my way home from school and load up my backpack. The walk home was on the boardwalk beside the sea. The seabreeze took my mind off the heat. Sometimes if I didn't feel like walking I would take the bus after surviving the run across the two lanes. They were so friendly, they would hold up rows of traffic just to give me a ride. The ride had a party atmosphere to it. The music was blaring great salsa or vallenato tunes. There were pictures of ladies, dogs, cartoons and bumper stickers all over the bus. The pictures weren't in any kind of order and I'm sure they hadn't consulted a decorator, but I really enjoyed all of the art work I could feast my eyes upon.

Even though we drove fast and dodged pedestrians and other cars, I knew I would arrive safely because the buses had signs that said it was blessed by Baby Jesus or Mary. I never worried. Besides the blessing, the drivers all had different sounding horns they used to salute each other to let them know they were passing as they raced to pick up passengers. There were designated bus stops, but you could stand anywhere you wanted to to get a ride, it was really convenient.

A lot of the buses, especially the green ones, had curtains or those pretty little fringe balls draping over the windows. It was more than a bus ride, it was like a carnival ride with the gentle breeze blowing my hair out of my eyes. Sometimes I got to stand up and balance myself in between the narrow rows with bags in my hands and my backpack on. It was a special treat after a long day of work. When my sister visited, I let her in on this special treat and took her on one of the rides. She laughed and had as much fun as I did.

When returning stateside, I was struck with how boring a bus ride could be. There was no music, no decorations, no fringe balls, no color on the seats or walls, and everyone had to sit down. Some kids were playing their stereo, the driver pointed to the plain white sign that said "No Music, Keep Quiet, Stay in your seats, Don't cross this red line." He announced over his scratchy mike, "Turn the music off!" I didn't like this boy's choice of music, but it did liven things up a bit. It was boring sitting the entire way in silence. I just stared out of the bland gray bus onto the drab landscape.

I'm learning to adjust to the different tone of my new stories. I could probably make them more interesting if I wanted to. I don't need all of my stories to have a National Geographic background. But once you get used to that it's tough to change.

I wonder if when I first lived out of the country and I told people my stories, if I was dependent on the setting or if I believe in my own ability to spin a tale, despite the scenic backdrop. I'm sure I have engaging things to say.

I could probably jazz up my stories about crossing the street here to sound like the adventures I used to experience. I could say excitedly buses and cars try to run over me because they don't know the rules of the game. I would explain I know this because as I'm crossing the street, the minute they see me, I think it dawns on them they're driving. I would say their hands are filled with cell phones and large cups of mocha java double lite hot drinks, so they aren't really concentrating. I could exaggerate and say they scream at me, "Hey girl, this is the 21st century, get equipped, you have too many free hands. Why are you walking? You're going to wreck your pedicure."

My bus story could be embellished to sound like I got up and danced in the aisle to that boy's music just to defy the driver's little sign. Or I could say as I was getting off I crossed the red line and told the driver how he could liven his ride up a bit, and improve the overall atmosphere of his bus. That might stir up some emotion, but I would be digressing to fiction.

But for now I'll just daydream about my National Geographic stories and continue telling people about my flat tire, my car alarm draining my battery, and the story about the sprinkler system not working correctly. I'm confident I can make them entertaining too! Thereby, the thought that the grass is greener on both sides.