Back before we had a kid, I didn’t take a vacation for a little over seven years.
Sure, there were times that work was supposed to be closed, like Christmas and New Year’s Day and weekends and nights, but I ended up on some phone call or finishing a project or had to show up in the office anyway. My wife found the entire situation distasteful, though she did appreciate my somewhat maniacal dedication to a role as a family provider.
She began to plan a proper trip for us, far enough away from work that my brand new portable cellular telephone (wow so fancy) wouldn’t be able to connect with the office.
Due to her extensive research and exemplary budget strategies, the whole thing went extremely well. I saw things and ate things and slept seven hours in a row. It was pretty neat. So she set a goal that we would travel to somewhere every two years or so. I was absolutely no help, as it was now clearly established that I didn’t understand the “work/life balance” thing.
Zoe’s trips are always to places that are engaging and intriguing, rather than “relaxing” in the strictest sense. That’s why I always found myself in the absolute middle of a bustling city where I neither spoke the language or understood the street signs.
Again, pretty neat, but a little scary too…up until 2009.
Now, I don’t want to be in any way inappropriate, but to tell one story I very quickly have to tell another.
I once took a bus across the American southwest from Kansas City to Los Angeles, and on the way there was a rest stop at what appeared to be a long forgotten adobe fort. It had a little snack bar with soft drinks and vendors selling random jewelry and key rings and whatnot and a newsstand and of course, restrooms. I didn’t need a newspaper or shiny new bracelet, so I went straight to the restroom.
We all waited our turn, standing silently whether in line or already engaged. When it was my turn I proceeded to stare pensively ahead (as is common practice), when the African American gentleman to my left turned to me and LOUDLY said,
“DR. KING!”
There was no way to pretend he wasn’t talking to me, he was just a foot away.
“I’m sorry?”
“I GUESS YOU GET THAT ALL THE TIME. BUT IT IS AMAZING.”
“Dr. King?”
“YOU LOOK SO MUCH LIKE HIM! IS HE… “ and then just a…tiny bit softer, “ARE YOU RELATED?”
“Y’know what? I don’t… I really don’t think so.”
[Bear in mind the location and circumstance of this conversation.]
“WELL, IT IS INCREDIBLY INSPIRING. IT’S LIKE HE’S RIGHT HERE. MAN!” He turned back to the wall. ”I CAN’T WAIT TO TELL MY BROTHER!”
Later at the sink, washing hands, he gave me a slow, respectful nod in the mirror. One not meant for me, but for the pioneer of social justice he saw within me. Or on my outside.
“TRULY AMAZING.” he said.
I don’t look like Martin Luther King. I just checked, just now, in the bathroom mirror. I’m… alright lookin’, but I’m no Dr. King.
But that guy was so happy, and it meant so much to him, that I felt a teensy bit of pride as I left the restroom, for absolutely no logical reason.
…now, 2009.
Zoe took me to Turkey, and points East. We touched the continent of Asia and had frozen yogurt there. We walked streets which for thousands of years had been trod upon. Again, neat.
But there, half a world away, in one of the crossroads of human civilization, surrounded by visitors from across the planet, I did not experience the feeling of total isolation that other such instances had generated. As soon as we hit the street, they seemed to know that we were from New York City, because of all the black clothing, but most importantly they recognized that we were from the USA.
And for me, this recognition had a universal response. Groups of young men, grandmothers sweeping their stoops, busy street vendors at kiosks a hundred feet away would see me, point excitedly, and then say “Obama!!!”.
Ok, the first time this happened, I didn’t have a response. It was three boys walking past us… but now their eyebrows were raised and they were nodding expectantly. I chose a slow nod with a thumbs up and replied, “Obama!”
Cheering. They sort of jumped up and down a little. Still waving, they excitedly spoke to each other in Turkish as they walked away.
At the Hagia Sophia, as we were coming down the gigantic steps, a group of 12 students from Norway stopped me. One of them stepped forward.
“Are you from America?” they haltingly asked.
“Yeah, New York City.”
“OH!!!!!” Ok, that was a little bit of a flex, but it was true.
“Can we take a photo with you?”
“Oh!” Now I felt bad about the flex, because they obviously thought I was Somebody. “I’m not anybody, I’m just here… I’m just… nobody.”
“But you are a Black African American.”
Well, yeah. “Yep. Yep, I am.” No flex there - that was just a fact.
“Is it ok then?”
Inside a nearly 2000 year old building, it was super strange to be the focus of anyone’s attention, but sure… my wife took their camera and we all stood to take the photo, and when it was time to smile one of the kids said, “Everyone say Obama!”
And we all did. No, I do not have a copy of that picture, because though it somehow made sense of them to take a photo of me, it still felt unsettling for us to take a picture of some random college students from Norway.
It happened at least five more times during the trip, and then on trips after that. And again, I do not look anything like the former President, but this time I understood that wasn’t the point.
I was an ambassador of a place whose chief representative projected an attitude of goodwill that somehow elevated my own identity. And this reflected rizz was intercontinental, where differences in language, age, and culture did not diffuse its impact.
I have to admit, I walked a lot taller on those trips. I felt like a Cub Scout again, in uniform, where everything I did was indicative of a larger whole. I was so polite and excessively tipped and said “please” and “thank you” in six different languages. It was the closest I will ever be to famous, and a unique experience where my first impression was welcomed and celebrated.
Which was also kind of a vacation, ‘cause…that was neat.
