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An American in Mexico City: Musing on Happiness and Culture
Am I happy? Am I human? Should I pick up my things and move?
Again, the universe untangles my intricately messy and endlessly creative soul.
Entering Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport that Wednesday, April 3, and at the crack of dawn, made me feel alive again. Were it not for the frenetic pace that life offers the ambitious and apathetic equally, slowing down and losing oneself in the surf might serve as a reminder, that I am both wave and ocean. But, alas, I am American…and freedom of this kind is the farthest thing from free.
As I made my way to the terminal, I was reminded of true diversity — various ethnicities, backgrounds, and modes of thinking — immediately enjoyed a high only travel can provide. And yet, dissimilarity cannot be celebrated without praising the other side of that coin, our likenesses, which should come naturally.
After passing through multiple security checkpoints, I noticed something peculiar: people were doing people things. Parents carried children, strangers shared friendly smiles and interesting anecdotes, and occasionally a few eyes would stare blankly from snail-paced lines, indicating they were daydreaming.
