these are the sentiments you are supposed to experience when you come back from africa. reverse culture shock: economic shock. the change from poverty to wealth, i was told, is harder than the other way around, than adjusting to the difficulties and trials of life in africa. you return only to feel the people you left behind are somehow more real, more deserving of the good things we have than we are, we who so thoughtlessly have them each day and night.

that’s what you feel when you come back from africa. reverse culture shock. do i? no.

…

in part it’s been like winters in south dakota, winters where no one wants to be outdoors, out of heating, but at times you must. and at those times no matter how much you bundle up, you are going to get cold. and you are going to curse the cold and wish you were back inside and generally be fairly uncomfortable for a time. and then, at some point, you’ll have been cold for so long that it becomes the normal state of being, and while it’s still deplorable, it’s not really on the front burner of your mind, and you go on doing the rest of whatever it is you need to do outside, still remembering somewhere how nice it will be to go indoors.

and then you do, and that’s what coming back from africa has been like for me. not a culture shock–this is where i grew up, after all, and being from somewhere is a little like riding a bicycle, though if you spend long enough away it’s bound to be a little unfamiliar. you don’t forget your home. what you do forget–or what you maybe never noticed–is how nice it is to be home, like you notice it coming indoors after a half hour or more outside in the snow and wind: how nice it is to take off your coat, your shoes, shiver a little bit as the cold air shakes out of your hair and you get warm again, comfortable.

coming back to america has been a little like that for me.

For the ardent traveler, the book constitutes required reading. The following is an excerpted passage that crystallizes beautifully and viscerally the joys of shared kinship; that bonhomie, that sort of adventurist ecstasy that one feels upon the start of a new journey.

For full effect, enjoy this slowly and delicately.

The wine was poured, we were on course. The wind was from the east at about twelve knots. The sun was sinking, over there to the left, in the general direction of Puerto Rico. Suddenly the babbling stopped, almost as if we had all been following the instructions of an orchestra leader; we heard only the lap-lap of the waves, patting firmly the headstrong hull of our ketch, white-gold in the falling light, the surrounding water turned now a viridian blue, oddly diaphanous, St. Thomas receding astern. No one spoke.

It is a period, I have found, that almost always comes, choosing its own rhythmic moment – the moment when, collectively, everyone on board recognizes that a journey has truly begun. Up there, toward which we are pointing, a thousand miles away, is a tiny little coral island. The object is to reach it, to arrive there without injury to ourselves or to our vessel. No one formally proposed a toast, but looking about – at Tony, with his floppy white hat so carefully tilted to shield his sun-sensitive face from those final ultraviolet shafts; at Dick with his jaunty captain’s hat, reluctantly putting on his shirt as he yielded to the demands of lowering temperature; Van, hatless, with his light blue crew-necked sweater, squinting at that morning’s New York Times, glass in hand; Reggie carefully screwing back the holding flange on the speedometer; Christopher, snapping away with an anfractuous photographic apparatus at the setting sun – I guess that we were all thinking related thoughts.

….

Related: While aboard that voyage on the ketch Sealestial in 1979, WFB wrote for Esquire a piece on Heaven, which is both refreshing and witty. Unfortunately, it seems to have never made the transition online. You can find the essay on p. 123 of Atlantic High.

I’ve been to Washington many times before, and seen all the major sights from the White House to the Lincoln Memorial. This visit, though, was a special one for me. It was the first time I’ve spent any significant time in Georgetown, which is an historic and gorgeous part of the city that I’ve come to adore.

Georgetown is what I consider the “classical America” area of the district with more high end shops and boutiques than you can count, but it’s charm is evident in block after block of historic buildings and colonial homes. (In fact, during a previous visit two years ago, I visited the Old Stone House. Built in 1765, it’s the oldest standing building in the district.)

We arrived late on Friday any enjoyed the pleasant but muggy weather, heading out after lunch on Saturday and heading to the heart of the city. I was moved by a massive community effort by a local service organization to provide food, shelter and bathroom facilities to the homeless population. It’s a humbling reminder that the capital of the greatest nation in the history of mankind still struggles with very human problems of destitution.

Later we attending an early Mass at Holy Trinity Church, the same one attended by President John F. Kennedy and recently in the news for Tim Russert’s funeral Mass. The church takes up about an entire city block with the modern church and original chapel, along with gardens and a recreation area.

Above the entrance to the chapel is a beautiful stained glass representation of the nature of the Holy Trinity — the relationship between the Father, Son and Holy Spirit or Pater, Filius and Spiritus Sanctus. The Mass itself was exceptional with a thoughtful Homily delivered by, I believe, Fr. Gregory A. Schenden, S.J.

He referenced a passage by Fr. Ron Rolheiser on the reality that, too often, “the pious are not liberal” in and “the liberal are not pious.” The challenge, he asserted, was to strive for a life that successfully blends the two.

I captured the last portion of the closing organ music on video, as has become a habit when visiting other churches. After Mass we were struck by a sign affixed to the door of the church as we left with a cross that said simply, “For The Greater Glory of God.”

Afterward we ate at The Tombs, which I was impressed to learn was named after a line in Bustopher Jones, a poem by T.S. Elliot. The meal — pork BBQ with french fries and, for desert, blackberry pie — hit the spot.

On Sunday we rose early for what was my first professional soccer match between D.C. United and the LA Galaxy. Since watching my high school soccer team compete, I have been a mild fan of soccer, but seeing it played professionally in RFK Stadium gave me an entirely new appreciation. I’ll definitely be back.

A whirlwind weekend in Georgetown — I couldn’t have asked for more.