One of the rich rewards of being a US citizen living abroad is returning home.
Recently I spent a month stateside attending two important events. The first was my 50th college reunion (that’s right, half a century since I received my undergraduate diploma) and a grandchild’s high school graduation.
Each event is moving in its own way. And, during the month between them, I visit many friends and family who ask me lots of questions. One that comes up many times is…“What’s it like to be an ExPat?”
I most often pause, then say, “I don’t really know. I’m not an Ex-anything. I’m just me.” The truth is that the label sounds negative. And, I’m having the time of my life.
Three years ago I sold my house in Virginia and moved with Peggy to our new home in Akumal, Mexico. Relocation of mature, retirement age adults to other parts of the globe has become something of a trend. One might even call it a fad. Many of these travelers call themselves Ex Pats.
This trip back home starts with a short flight from hectic Cancun to beautiful, laid back Coastal Georgia. I reunite with loved ones, take care of a few family matters and soon I am on my way to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
Half a century ago I was a shaggy-haired, anti-war protester graduating from an historic private college in Lexington, Virginia. At that time, most of my classmates were poised to begin their careers in medicine, law or finance. I was clueless about my future so I embarked on a curious path which brought me to where I am today.
On this occasion, I pull up to an old frat brother’s home for a dinner party just before dark. He watches me navigate the steep, twisty drive high above a rolling sea of pine, hemlock and oak trees. He welcomes me with an amused smile and we go inside for barbecue. I feel as though I have already survived a fraternity hazing.
Since I’m the last to arrive, I quickly become center of attention, swarmed over by faces, mostly familiar, but not all. I enjoy a great meal while getting chatted up by brothers, mothers and wives.
I am warmly greeted by a tall, greyhaired guy who once was a redhead. He hails me across the room by my playful, fraternity name from five decades ago. Back then nearly every freshman was stamped with a nickname mostly to help intoxicated upperclass students distinguish fresh faces during rapid fire courting of new “frat rats.”
Weeks after the rush process concludes I learn that my particular playful moniker “Mestizo” was applied by a trash-talking Texan in reference to my particularly dark summer tan. At the time it was no big deal.
Now, all these years later, I recognize a cultural impropriety which never struck me as a teenager. For a moment, I feel I am being embraced as a curiosity from a foreign land. But, I let it slide.
Next day is bright, sunny, the air is almost crisp. I slowly cross my college front campus which is welcoming and impeccably groomed. Coffee and breakfast pastries wait for me at the Alumni House and so does David Keeling, college classmate, and post graduate cohort from Jamaica. He and I share a colorful history. You can read about it in my book Corn Island Rundown.
I find Dave in a quiet, well-appointed drawing room, seated in a high back, richly upholstered chair, bright morning sun spilling over his shoulder. He wears a subdued blazer with decorative kerchief in the pocket, button down sweater and tasteful tie. He looks like a hero from an Ian Fleming novel, or perhaps just another suspicious character.
We walk the grounds of our alma mater which claims its origin from 1749. Taking time to admire architecture we took for granted 50 years ago, we note some recent modifications.
One classic building’s name has changed and a memorial nearby reflects on the institution’s “difficult yet undeniable history” of enslaved people forced to serve the university. This recent addition to the front campus marks a particularly dark time. And maybe, just maybe, during this generation full responsibility will be admitted and belated reparations begun.
It is a fitting moment to rejoin our collegiate colleagues for lunch on the green grass, then gather for a ‘celebration of life service’ in a chapel we all know well. Here our collective exuberance is quieted as distinguished classmates ask us to remember over 50 names of those who have already passed away.
Next day is purely celebratory. It begins with champagne brunch in which I am far too distracted to indulge.
I have been invited by the University Bookstore to an Alumni Book Signing event. Two of my efforts are now on shelves where I once bought books as an undergrad. On this day, many flattering old friends depart with copies of my recent works Stage Monkey and Corn Island Rundown. In fact, I believe they deplete the bookstore supply. Fortunately, I have brought a few extra.
It is flattering, humbling and exhilerating.
For three hours I bask in a totally new experience I will remember forever. Engagement with old acquaintances, dorm mates and casual chums is nearly non-stop.
The remainder of the day is an indulgence in food, drink and festivity. There is a General Assembly where awards are bestowed, an ice cream social and viewing party of the Kentucky Derby. A large crowd attends the Grand Finale which includes all-you-can-eat seafood dinner and after dinner dancing.
There’s much more to tell about my recent return to the States. I spend one night at an elegant mansion in Annapolis.
My hosts, Florencia and Mauricio, are two new friends from South America. They are world class chefs from Argentina and Colombia and among other things have recently taken over stewardship of this elegant estate on the Chesapeake Bay.
Next day, I slurp down oysters and clams straight from the dark, rich waters of the Bay with another college housemate. This one is from Alabama.
For a few college years Withers Davis and I grew up together and once hitchhiked to Washington DC to demonstrate our opinions about international affairs playing out in Southeast Asia at the time. He’s a master when it comes to seafood and a monster regarding personal politics.
In Batesville, Virginia I reconnect with one of my most influential professional mentors, Ryan Schnare.
He and partner Kate tour me around their heavily forested home and treat me to many fine meals. Ry and I don’t talk much about our decade long worklife together because it’s a big secret. But we reminisce about good times in California, Florida, Las Vegas and on the Shenandoah River.
Along my route down Memory Lane I visit two top-notch theatres, both critical to my theatrical career.
First stop is Center Stage on Calvert Street in Baltimore, just blocks away from where the Orioles and Ravens host their home games. Here I honed my professional stage chops in collaboration with renowned theatre professionals like Christine Baranski, Terry O’Quinn, William Devane, Hugh Landwehr and many more.
A few days later I return to the site where this Stage Monkey was conceived at the Fine Arts Building on the University of Georgia campus, Athens Georgia.
It was here, at the UGA Theatre Department, on the scene shop floor, that I executed my most important stage professional design: my future as a Tech Director, Lighting Designer, Stage Carpenter, Touring Professional and Associate Professor.
Thank you Steve Rees, August Staub, Stanley Longman, Paul Camp, Tom Fichter and casts upon casts of others.
My trip continues into North Carolina. I spend a few nights with my brother Corky and his wife Ginny. They keep me well fed and totally entertained
Time with them in Wake Forest is also filled with music including privileged seats for a tribute concert by a band called Get the LED Out as well as closeup seating for one of my brother’s Duopoly band performances.
Time rushes on. And I now I set my course due South.
I visit another great friend in Dahlonega, Georgia. Bard Wrisley is the only person to go to the same high school and same college that I attend and we share a keen hunger to “…see the world.”
Bard’s photography career has taken him to every continent except one. And he assures me that he’s not done yet.
As the month zooms by, I return to Georgia to spend time with friends, family and relish a nonstop flood of memories.
On Saint Simons Island (where I have been almost every year of my life) I slip backwards on the tide of time with my “brother by another mother,” Curtis Johnson. We attend a local literary guild event with his wife Patti. And once again, I am inspired to capture and secure important moments in my life for family members in the future, particularly those I will never meet.
Finally I attend a very important high school graduation. My grandson Xavier is on his way to college. I trust his time there will be as meaningful as mine.
To wrap it all up, I spend the final nights of this incredible month in quiet reflection, sleeping in a treehouse. This temporary lodging is tucked deep in the south Georgia woods at a place called Hostel in the Forest. It was established by another fine friend, Tom Dennard, who happens to be an amazingly prolific author.
Ultimately, it’s time to head home, but not before one more remarkable surprise.
My grand expedition is capped off by an unexplained upgrade to a First Class seat for my return trip back home to Cancun, and ultimately to sultry Peggy and our beautiful home in Akumal. Go figure.
All in all, it was an invigorating month, with many reminders of how fortunate I have been and how lucky I still am.
But the bottom line remains. I am not, nor probably will I ever be, an ExPat. Let’s just call me an Eternal Traveler.
