Bon Voyage (Or Should I Say: Buen Viaje!)

While the highlight of my night was spending an hour trying to get the God-forsaken #$!* wax off of my legs, the highlight of my morning was burning my tongue with a mouthfull of my re-heated coffee. It's the morning of my travel day and I'm filled with questions; like, would my vacation have been better spent or more relaxing if I just stayed in this city that I so love? I mean, my morning was wonderful--beside the coffee fiasco and the wax-trauma, I was greeted by the sun that shone on all of the pretty brick houses behind all of the young couples and singles going to work and walking their dogs. Not going to work and being able to take my time in the morning is enough of a vacation for me.  I got into my car and drove down Mass. Ave, past tall buildings and people who remind me that the public square exists, something I often forget in the suburbs. Relaxing. Re-assuring. MIT students walk across the Harvard Bridge as Alexi Murdoch reminds me to "just breathe". I stared at the skyline and parked near Berklee College of Music, went to my beloved Trident Bookstore Cafe. Familiar. The people that work at the bookstore know exactly the kind of books I like and the kind of person I am. For as much as we talk trash about our country, we're Americans. I'm Latin-(North) American and they, maybe African American or Anglo American. They are familiar with the classification I fall under: college grad.-looking to enrich her life after college. looking for meaningful read. wears skinny jeans.
In DR. my identity is not so black and white. I'm a lightskinned Dominincan who should belong in the Northern part of the country, but who grew up elsewhere. I'm a Dominican-York there, who is both admired and viewed as just a little ridiculous.
What will my vacation be like at a place I'm not so familiar with; where I could easily be identified as a money sign or a green card opportunity? A place whose routes and streets I do not know like the back of my hand and I could very well spend the entirety of my day on some small bus with chickens sticking out of the side in order to find a coffee shop or a beach. And here's the thing, if I were going on vacation to Chile or Argentina I'd totally be ok with traveling around in the chicken-filled sardine-bus, but in DR it's different. My mother reminded me between 8-17 times this morning that its dangerous to travel by myself. I'll have to be careful to tell my aunts where I'm going and when I'm coming home, something I don't have to do here.

But there are things to look forward to; like meeting my dad's close friend who will hopefully provide clues about his life for me and explanations about his political passion. I'm equipped with a book about a Dominican-York, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, to accompany me on this brief journey back to my roots. Maybe I'll have a lot to write about when I come back and maybe I won't. Maybe I'll relax and get a fabulous tan. Or maybe I'll be stressed by the end with a horrible sun burn. Maybe I'll loose a bunch of important items or maybe I'll realize that I actually have the potential to keep track of my things. Here's to a week of discovery. And I'm off to the airport.