The Hitcher

One of my favorite writers is the late Douglas Adams. I’ve been thinking a lot these days of his much beloved and theatrically abused Hitchhiker’s series, perhaps because I sense a certain similarity between its bumbling lead and my current circumstance. Yes, like Arthur Dent, I’m having a heck of a time getting the hang of Thursdays.

During my most recent one, I found myself sitting in a Taiwanese oncology ward slurping a frozen concoction comprised of bitter herbs, starched yams, and a white paste that seemed sturdy enough to cork a bathtub. I was given the local delicacy by a group of nurses who thought I looked the exact blend of peckish and queasy to necessitate the offering. Personally, I think queasiness trumped the former emotion, but any mildly OCD suffering hypochondriac would have had the same reaction.

I'm not much for medical musings, but I think the setting warrants a word. Simply put, the hospital was boldly full of hope and chaos. And as a mere visitor I busied myself counting blessings and exuding empathy. Clearly I have nothing to bitch about.

But back to Dent. It’s occurred to me that how dumb you sound is directly related to where on the planet you are standing when you say what’s on your mind. I felt foolish speaking New York in Carolina so you can imagine I’m sounding a bit like a hairless orangutan these days. Yes, I’ve been flossing with shoelaces lately, but at least I’m learning.

Arthur had trouble settling in as well, but at least he had Zaphod and Trillian to respectively goad him to action and tease him to attention. Where’s my charismatic, two-headed protagonist, my brilliant, leggy temptress, both all too eager to shower me with friendship despite being desperately out of my league. After all, you need sidekicks to sustain, an ensemble to see you through.

In fairness, no one is fixed on disintegrating my planet to make way for an intergalactic bypass and I doubt if I’ll end up on a Vogon prison ship anytime soon. Still, at times I feel my home world is light years away, a distant dot in the universe that is my expat experience. Yeah, I’m a hitchhiker all right, bouncing about airports as if they were space stations, trying to fit in, knowing I don’t, and hoping at least to dodge any cultural laser blasts that are headed my way.

Still, for all the minor inconveniences I've been biching about, I do feel like a remarkably lucky bastard. Growing up where and how I did, I never imagined that I’d leave the neighborhood, much less the country. Yet here I am, thumb in air, eager for the next adventure.

I’m sure there will be moments when I long for my own Restaurant at the End of the Universe. You know, the one located along I-95 that smells of pasta, pastry, and home. But for now it seems I’ve become the bumbling hitcher I’ve always admired. I’m guideless of course, but perhaps that’s what this blog is all about.

Don’t Panic!