Notes from America

I walked the Market Street in San Francisco feeling like one of the locals. Spending dollars on this vacation, I was not so much worried on my expenses as to getting the vibe of San Fo. When friends ask me what I felt about my trip, I said it in many different ways.

You know what being in the first world country means? It means having all the resources from around the world made available only to you.

It meant going beyond the needs and simple wants, but creating an entire industry out of wants.

It meant cringing at advertisements that blatantly display the priceless worth of an engagement ring- a year's wage for some people in my country; almost blindng diamonds and gold jewelry ads that blast the TV screen as valentine's day drew near;it meant gawking at super-sized meals and watching as a lot of food come to waste.

When I asked how they clean their shoes, I was answered that they don't. It doesn't become dirty because they have so many pairs to choose from.

It meant freedom of choice in so many ways. From the local cafeteria where all options for lunch or snack is available for you to mix and match, from the way they prepare their coffee, to the endless options (24 valves for carbonated drinks, 18 valves for a frozen drink and more than 6 choices for coffee) for a quick beverage trip to your local convenience and gas station. The possibilities are endless, and the path is laid before you. All you have to do is to make that decision.

It is the land of the free, and is populated by such a diverse group of people that you wonder how great it would be to have equal opportunities in such a vast nation. You start to think you can be one of them, among the locals, just grabbing a quick dinner before you head off for work, or to a dance practice, or to a talk on some obscure topic that you'd like to attend, just because.

It is a land where the air is cleaner, the wind is chilly, and the people pursue their interests, rather than succumb to the daily grinds of the third world rat race.

Does it make for a better life? Maybe. But that is their home, and this is mine.

Home is when people clap their hands as soon as the plane lands, offering their prayer of thanks. Home hits you when people offer their hand in exchange for a few dollars for getting your bags, pushing your cart, checking your customs slip, looking for lost and found items. Home is when people who greet and meet you are barred from entering the airport. Home is where people who love you greet you and are glad to see you. Home is where the people who really love you hold you in their arms, let you weep, and comfort you in your pain. Home is where your heart lies, and your hopes are build, and rebuilt day in and out.