Homecoming

June 1, 2022 — By Adam Brownstein

The first real time I spent outside the United States was the Spring and Summer of 1992.  Whitney Houston’s crooning ear worm “I Will Always Love You” (oooo-ooo-ooo) was #1.  A blueblood President from Texas (by way of Kennebunkport) toasted the end of the Cold War (also known as “Cold War I”) with his vodka-swilling, Brill-creamed Soviet counterpart.  Also, the largest McDonald’s ever constructed opened its doors in Beijing.

Flying well beneath the radar of these seminal global events, I was enjoying the carefree life of a backpacker/foreign exchange student.  My home base for this time abroad was a modest three bedroom flat a stone’s throw from the Reuben Dario Metro and a short stroll to the Prado and Parque de Retiro.  The flat belonged to a charming older couple, Carmen and Fernando Padilla, who made day-to-day living fun.  Mornings were spiced by transactional gossip, pan con mermelada and cafe au lait.  Evening meals were more relaxed, often taking in an Atletico Madrid match on the tele with plates of fish, manchego and plenty of Ribera del Duero to wash it down.  We never developed a host mama/hijo closeness, but we were fine with that.  I came and went as I pleased, and Carmen and Fernando never judged me for staying out all night dancing at Joy Esclava. 

When I arrived for my semester+ abroad I had two satchels with me.  One properly filled with clothing and the other absurdly laden with soap, shampoo, shaving cream and toothpaste.  Hours before departing for my connecting flight through JFK to Madrid-Barajas I had dragged my father to Long’s Drugs to purchase all of the toiletries.

“You know, Adam,” my father offered.  “The Procter and Gamble Company has an office in Spain.  I am pretty sure you can buy a lifetime supply of sundries over there just as easily as you can here.”

“I’m not sure about that, Dad,” I retorted.  “I mean, it’s SPAIN!  Who knows if they even have running water over there!”  

“Aj, are you quite ALRIGHT?” he queried.

“Sorry, Dad,” I confided.  “I guess I’m just a little freaked out about leaving America.”

It seems strange now, after living nearly 20 years of my life abroad, that I would get schpilkes about the trip.  I filled that Spanish summer with so many wonderful memories, trivial and material.  The color of Let’s Go Europe tomb that year (Volunteer Orange).  The girlfriend who was too cool for me (they say that the font of Love is Pity, afterall).  The jars of Nutella.  Going to the barbershop around the corner from my flat in Madrid and returning with my head resembling a Dominican friar. Dream Team I (Michael, Magic & Larry Legend) holding court in Barcelona. 

Stranger still, I remember absolutely NOTHING about my homecoming back to the States way back in 1992.  By the time I came out of the Euro-fog it was already late autumn in West Philadelphia.  I was a nebbish college senior version of Jason Bourne (if that’s even a thing).

Now, exactly three decades later, I’ve come home once again to America.  The top-loading rucksack has been replaced by an armada of ubiquitous of black rollie bags.  Instead of boozy overnight bus rides with my crew from Madrid to Valencia there are now long-haul Narita > SFO flights wedged in the middle of my three-year-old and nine-year-old sons aka “Thing One” and “Thing Two”.  

This time around I plan to take notes on what I find along the way.  Our grand Homecoming tour includes progressive coastal enclaves, Big Sky towns where folks fish and hunt like they’re part of the Lewis & Clarke expedition and even some pilgrimages to smoked fish mongers on the Lower East Side and oyster farms in The San Juans. 

Stay tuned for missives from The Tokyo Yenta abroad . . . I mean at home.