The plane takes off from San Francisco at 1AM on Tuesday night. (or is it Wednesday morning?)
Mexico City, four hours later. New time zone. New language. A new plane. Take off and land in Zihuatenejo.
You’re in the jungle now. Or the tropics. It’s called something, I know. They let you off the plane and you walk the tarmac and the first thing you see is the lookout tower, painted the circumference in soft blue it reads ZIHUATANEJO. I took a photo and the second it clicked I saw the guard up there, machine gun ready.
Along the path, beneath the palm trees – more armed guards in military greens.
The San Francisco 49ers played the Atlanta Falcons and the hotel’s lobby bar is full of tourists on a golf trip watching the game. The window blinds were pulled down to block out the tropical sun. Kill the view of the coast. Return all to empty space.
I don’t know what this means. That exact moment can be read as – stupid Americans, even when they leave their country, they don’t actually leave their country. Or, it’s not about being American, or any specific nationality at all, it’s about putting the internal want and desire, personality, against all landscapes. No fear. Zero trepidation and one hundred percent acceptance of the world through ignorance.
Again, I don’t know what this means. This attempt to make sense of travel. The distance from home to your current location – does it mean anything? Should it? You get stuck and then you get unstuck. What is home if everywhere you go becomes the same place, because you’re the same person?