GAVIN
Being back in Chicago felt strange. I was used to smaller grocery stores, little mom and pop shops that had one of each thing. There wasn’t the same variety in most places in the world. Walking into the supermarket near my apartment, I got lost in the cereal aisle. There was literally an entire wall of choices from marshmallow puffs to wheat germ, granola, oatmeal, and cornflakes. Each package was bright and colorful with cartoon characters to sell its innards to kids.
Back in South Africa, I was lucky if I had ten or twelve choices of breakfast foods, much less hundreds. It was a culture shock. I went from a place where people didn’t expect to make a lot of money to a place where everyone wanted to be a high roller. I went from outdoor marketplaces and hand-crafted goods to dazzling shopping malls and high fashion chain stores.
It wasn’t just South Africa; I’d spent time in Italy, Morocco, Egypt, and India. I wasn’t on a world tour. I worked as a travel photographer for a magazine. They sent me to exotic locations to photograph ordinary people doing ordinary things. I took hundreds of pictures of old men and women holding hands, people selling things, and kids riding bikes.
I liked traveling. Seeing different cultures and different landscapes made me feel connected to humanity. I enjoyed visiting the tourist traps just to get a sense of the location. I sampled the local cuisine and spent my off-hours jogging around the various cities I lived in. I tried to learn the languages, although I wasn’t in any one place long enough to become fluent. Still, attempting to speak to people in their native tongue was always good for a laugh.
I could say “Can I see a menu?” in five different languages, including English. I also knew how to say, “How much?” and “Where is the bathroom?” Those were all the phrases I really needed to know. Most of the time, even if the country didn’t officially recognize English as a second language, enough people spoke it to give me a leg up. I really could travel the world without learning how to say anything, but I chose to get involved. I didn’t want to fit the ugly American stereotype and assume that everyone would cater to me.
Being back in the States, I realized there were some things I’d missed, though. The sports teams, for one. Everyone around the world was interested in soccer, except for India, which had a soft spot for cricket. I was a baseball fan, always had been. As a player all my life, I’d studied the game, the strategies, and all the players. I watched any baseball game; it didn’t matter who was playing. The sheer joy of hitting the ball, of rounding the bases and tapping out the opposing player was euphoric. Every time I watched a professional or college game, it took me back to my own season.
It was hard to get a baseball game overseas, but the minute I landed in Chicago, there was one playing in the airport. I stood around with some of the other travelers, feeling like I had finally come home. On a whim, I bought a hot dog at an airport stand. It was disgusting, but it gave me all the feels.
I caught a cab to the place I was going to call home for a few months. I already knew the area, so I rented it sight unseen.
It was everything I’d expected it to be: clean and comfortable, upscale but not obscene. It was a ten-minute drive to my new office, and since I didn’t have a car, I was going to lean heavily on rideshare apps for the time being.
I rented the place furnished because I didn’t have time to shop. There was a couch and a smart television. One of the first things I did was kick off my shoes and put on a ball game.
I ordered pizza and had myself a little picnic. Shutting out the noise of the world, I let myself bask in the glory that was the United States. After running around for so many years, I’d returned home to find it mostly unchanged. I stayed up late and fell asleep on the couch, reviving myself around midnight to walk a few feet into the bedroom and collapse on the unmade bed.
Monday morning, I was in no shape to go straight into the office. Thankfully, I had planned for a late flight, so I didn’t have to show my face until later that afternoon. I took a shower and went for a jog. Then I took another shower because I hadn’t thought that plan through entirely.
I hunted through all my suitcases, unpacking all the things I had been carrying with me for years. I had enough suits. The one constant no matter where I traveled were men’s suits. I was expected to wear the finest money could buy, and I spent a good deal of time and money making sure they were well cared for. Dry cleaned and folded neatly into the bottom of one suitcase in garment bags, I pulled them out and hung them up in the bedroom closet. Opening one of the bags to inspect the clothing, I found that it had survived the flight untouched. There wasn’t even a crease where the suit had been folded.
I got dressed and went down to the lobby. Stepping out onto the street, I looked around for a place to eat. I knew the neighborhood, but it had been a while since I’d spent any time there. A few new restaurants had popped up, though there were still some old favorites. I stopped by one place for a sandwich and spent some time familiarizing myself with the firm I would be working for.
My friend Cory was the one who’d talked me into taking the job. We kept in touch over the years, and when I was complaining about my job and my relationship status, he encouraged me to quit and come work with him.
“I just got this new gig in Chicago,” he’d said over the phone. “You should come work with me.”
“I don’t know,” I’d hesitated.
“You know who is running it?” Cory continued.
“No.”
“Matthew Lincoln. He went to college with us, but he was a couple years ahead. I’m sure he would give you a chance.”
I sighed. I enjoyed traveling, but I felt like it was time to give it up for a while. I’d worn my shoes down to the soles, and I was getting itchy to have a place of my own. I missed speaking English, and I missed all the unconscious references people made to things like Christmas and baseball.
There was another reason I wanted to get out of the travel game. There was a girl I had been seeing who’d recently decided she wasn’t interested in a relationship. She gave me the whole it isn’t you, it’s me routine, but I could see through that instantly. Whatever it was she was looking for, I wasn’t it. The abrupt breakup hurt.
I had so many fond memories of waking up next to her, going out for coffee and getting caught in the rain. I thought she was my soul mate, but that was apparently one-sided. I didn’t know if there was someone else she would rather be with. She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. All I knew was that I needed some stability in my life, or I was going to lose it. Going home seemed like the perfect solution.
So I called the guy that Cory introduced me to, and he hired me on the spot.
“I love your story,” he said. “We could use a world traveler in our PR department. Have you ever done PR?”
“I’m a photographer,” I answered, “so I know all about composition and communicating a message visually.”
“Great! You’re hired,” he replied. “Send me your email, and I’ll have my secretary send over the paperwork.”
Just like that, I had a place to land. I rented an apartment, and the rest was history. I was on the next plane back to America, eager to immerse myself in my own culture. The familiar sandwich shop was just the ticket. It wasn’t spicy or greasy, it wasn’t halal or vegetarian. It was the perfect homecoming after a long journey and gave me energy for what would be a short two or three hours in the office.
Catching a rideshare downtown, I got off right outside the building. It was impressive. Definitely new construction, the tower couldn’t rightfully be called a skyscraper because there were so many other, larger buildings. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t massive.