America

What is America? A week ago, it was an answer filled with switchbacks of doubt and elation. Now more than three months removed from my native soil -- a three months that coincide with perhaps the weightiest period of US change and deliberation in my lifetime -- I would have expressed deep pride in the wealth and individualistic empowerment within my culture that has allowed me to explore my world and my thoughts like it has. I would have expressed profound doubt about the ideological rifts that are part and parcel of such a nation filled with empowered people, people who are entitled to their beliefs and their possessions and their religious convictions but who I think should be considering the future of their children first and foremost. I would have told you that I am traveling right now with three brilliant young men, two of them who have studied political science at top American universities, and even after listening to their even-handed considerations and anaylses I still think that one politician running for President has the potential to be someone I can look up to and admire and be proud of, while the other one seemingly does not. I would have told you that I`m happy that American politics has not interfered that much with my life, anyway, but that I couldn`t say that for all the people in the world, no way. I would have told you I loved barbacue (the Peruvian barbacue I had a few days ago had some good shish kabobs and green garlic-y stuff but is otherwise worlds apart) and that jazz (pronounced ``yazz`` in these parts) is the kind of free-flowing individual-showcasing wildly-exploratory music that draws a perfect metaphor for what America potentially offers its people. Southern accents are hilarious. Love them. New York is the best city in the world and I am prepared to be incredibly presumptive in saying so. The Rocky Mountains are not the Andes (blanketed in forest, wreathed with clouds, families of behemoths) but doggone it you can ski on them like you wouldn`t believe. And such babble, on and on . . . I mean, it`s AMERICA, how can you make that concise?

Well, a week has passed. And I am proud to say that all the obliqueness has disappeared. I know America. I can describe America. I can say with confidence that America came to help me in my time of need, came to rejuvenate me and put a smile on my face and restore faith in my world. And the greatest gift of all was that America understood me, too.

I met America in Cuzco. At a juice shop named Yajùù!, its logo a blatant rip-off of the Internet company. America gave me a chicken-avocado-and-cheese sandwich for seven soles and smiled at me. I smiled back. Has America ever been interested in me before? Would I have been aware if America had been? Certainly America had never been about five foot six, dark brown ringlets down to below the shoulders, slender and straightforward, eyes so full of interest and excitement that her whole face elongates when she opens them wide. And America certainly does not speak English, God no, that`s a myth if any myths have ever been told. America speaks Spanish and I didn`t know the word for ``busy`` but somewhere in the distance Simon and Garfunkel were humming and singing a certain tune and combined with my friend Andy`s little melody entitled ``You`d Be Stupid If You Didn`t Talk To Her`` I started thinking that maybe America is not something to study or ponder or expostulate but rather someone to talk to. In broken language and eye contact. Which all seemed simple enough.

I guess I was taught as a kid that America was named after some Italian mapmaker and that United States-ians (there is no word for this in English like there is in Spanish, estadounidense) are as much American per se as Central Americans or South Americans. But this is false, ridiculous, preposterous and brainwashing, because I looked out from a concrete plaza over the entire city of Cuzco with America and I can say with total confidence that there is but one American alive on this planet. North, south, east, west, up or down. And the land around us was distinction-less, no labels or signs in sight, beyond America`s ability to describe its landmarks to me (as America is studying tourism at university) and the smiles that passed across her lips as she gazed silently over her home city. From Incas to Spaniards to starlight, no textbook has ever taught so thoroughly. No election necessary.

America dances salsa, America warms your hands when sitting in cold Incas ruins dwarfed by eucalyptus forest, America helps you take your luggage out of sardine-packed buses, America tells you you can trust her, America makes you eat every last french fry because you haven`t had a good meal yet that day, America says good-bye forever. And now you know.