With a hop, skip, and a jump, I am back in the United States for the first time in five years. I have spent the last half-decade living in different parts of Brazil, from the countrysides of Minas Gerais to the never-ending expanse that is the metropolis of São Paulo.
Traveling from South America, I touched down in Dallas ( I drank a quick morning beer in Dallas, and met a bartender who was in a great mood, with an ear-to-ear smile and early morning stories to tell), spent a flash in the airport, and was walking in the sunny streets of Los Angeles in what felt like a few minutes thereafter.
In Los Angeles, I finally saw the silver Elon Musk trucks in person. It was strange to see an object like that—a commodity—and one that, at least from far away, has been a rather contentious object when looking through a social and political angle. So much so that some drivers have resorted to cheesy half-baked attempts to distance themselves from the owner, with various bumper stickers and vanity plates, declaring “no, not me!”
Too, there were other signs of tech that I had not yet discovered or seen in person. Walking robots, roughly the size of a tailgating cooler, delivering god-knows-what to god-knows-who, and there were also driverless taxis, with dispassionate passengers in the back of the self-driving vehicles.
Clichéd as it sounds, I felt like I stepped from a time machine. Not only was the tech visible everywhere (I could have mentioned more tech here, believe me), but the juxtaposition of visuals were enormous and grand. I arrived in Santa Monica ( with its swinging palm trees, picturesque sunsets, and its relatively speckless atmosphere) from the Brazilian city where I lived, São Paulo, which feels more like Queens in the late seventies in many parts, rather than a modern-day New York City.
Throughout my travels, no airport or flight of mine was ever affected by any delays or cancellations whatsoever. Every flight attendant to every security guard, etc., was as jubilant and smiling as they would be in a commercial. Every ticket agent and cab driver seemed to be as joyful as one could be.
Every passenger in the sky, or on the Amtrak railway, was just the same—although exhausted, I was struck by the limitless conversations between strangers that were taking place. Because I was surrounded by English speakers, I picked up on all the ways polite conversation amongst strangers decides to be pleasant, cordial, and, if possible, extremely helpful. It occurred to me how friendly we Americans can be to one another without trying.
But it is an easy thing to forget. Being nice is hardly newsworthy.
The fare in America—the local cuisine, found through a high-end grocery store called Erewhon, featured some classic foods that I was instantly happy to be reminded of; Tortilla chips and store-bought salsa, Classic Country Cornbread, canned Chili, and boxes and boxes of freshly fried chicken.
Shortly thereafter, I arrived at a Target superstore, where, when touring the huge place with its countless rows of just about everything, I felt somewhat like a movie star. Bright lights, freshly polished walkways, and billboard-sized displays of the latest fashion were strange to see again. Everything is new, big, and coming at you. I noticed how many rows of small items were either empty or behind glass. At the checkout, a sweet woman named Rosie was also bouncing and smiling her way through the workday.
In Los Angeles, the weather was hot and sunny, and in Portland, it is closer to Winter. The cold is creeping in—a feeling I have not had hardly since I left America. The expanse of the weather from Los Angeles to Portland was like a tour through the four seasons.
I am, 48 hours in, studded with questions about a whole host of things. I have returned to America on short notice, with short resources, and with a head full of ideas.
My first 48 hours showed me a picture of something I had forgotten, and perhaps, had taken little notice or acknowledgement of. It is something that I am tempted to remind a reader—that America, after all, is a country of nice people. Polite people. The country, though strained and stretched in many ways, has little to fear for itself—if it can work in the ways my fresh eyes saw.
I had not been on my phone while traveling. I had not cracked open my laptop nor any other device. I was not listening or thinking about politics, thank goodness. But I was certainly aware of my surroundings and how much better things can be when people choose to be nice to one another.
Personal Note: I am back in America indefinitely, and what a time away it has been. As I have reacclimated to my surroundings, I am feeling a whole host of emotions. From grateful to gluttonous, from nostalgic to missing my wife and home in Brazil. But nobody needs to know that about me here, and nobody needs to know anything about anyone to be kind to them.
I do think that is a big part of life and a big part of marriage—just be kind to yourself and to others. It makes things so much easier.
Wrong Speak is a free-expression platform that allows varying viewpoints. All views expressed in this article are the author’s own.
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