A Shy Patriot

The language has changed. The signs have changed. The mood has changed. The clothes have changed. Penn Station, frozen in 1994. Has time not marched on whilst I have dilletanted around Europe, picking olives and making oil, speaking the Old World, sometimes fluently, often broken ...? America, what have you been up to, besides eight years of Dubya and pharmaceutical dog biscuits that tranquilize poor Fido, sexual enhancer strips you put under your tongue, advertised on the radio? Have I landed on the Moon, or in 1994, or am I just in Nassau County, suburban Long Island, which happily oversleeps in its Prozac-induced time warp. The great hope of Obama lingers on the horizon on this Thanksgiving day, eight weeks to inauguration and counting. When I return, let it not involved any doubling up or turning back or dare I say decline of sophistication, lest I find myself absentmindedly correcting the grammar of highway billboards. 'Only Place in Philly to Get One' - get what? 'Dunkin Donuts, Eagles Fan Fuel'. 'Gasolean'.

I'm sure I know you.
I'm sure I love you.
I'm sure I am you.

But who are you people?

It's an overcast, London-esque day in Philadelphia. And the world is my home. I am nostalgically American, classically American, just like in the movies American. When abroad. The conflict of belonging on native soil strikes a chord of betrayal to seven years of international living. This chord is, however, tinny and faint and false and fearful. The truth is I belong everywhere. The world is a funny place, that's all. What would great nations be without great neuroses. The ddefensive 'you're in America now', leave all imported knowledge at the door propaganda is to be smiled at, warmly, and promptly forgotten. I am who I am because of everything I've seen, everyone I've ever met and had a laugh with, every wine I've supped, every question asked, even the roads untravelled, decisions taken and laid aside, in absence and in plenty. It's a small world, indeed, and this shy patriot is packing her bags.