To accurately contrast anything, there must first exist a basis for comparison. Our daily lives don’t quite provide us with the color to do so, and failing to leave familiar customs can leave us with one-sided perspectives on our habits and norms. Many a writer has mentioned the “new eyes” one can return with after a long time abroad. While the place doesn’t change, home can feel more foreign than anywhere.

That being said, I’m writing this from outside of the U.S. again, so anticipate this as the Coming Home Chronicles finale for now.

Reverse Culture Shock

The first “symptom” after returning home from time abroad. You’d be hard-pressed to find a “coming home” story without it, and rightfully so. 

Being away in foreign lands exposes us to otherworldly lifestyles, unforgettable vistas, questionable values, and much more. Depending on the level we engage with our destination*, returning from liminal spaces abroad can force us to confront the sometimes jarring reality of what we left back at home. 

*Chain hotels and double-decker tour buses are by no means off-limits. However, it’s helpful to recognize when we overly insulate ourselves within those familiar comforts in lieu of contact with the unfamiliar place we worked so hard to arrive at.

These cultural epiphanies are among the most fascinating to me and the ones that I gravitate to when recounting a recent adventure. The full-circle feeling of reverse culture shock can be the most rewarding part of a journey too, when the dots finally connect between two distinct contexts.

Why then, does reverse culture shock manifest as a comparison game for so many of us?

In my last edition of Ferg’s Focus, I wrote about a phenomenon I call the Storyteller’s Impasse. Common among home-comers, the Storyteller’s Impasse can be reached from a number of sources, the strongest of these being the use of travel experience as an attention-seeking trophy instead of a means of learning and satisfying long-held curiosity.

See if any of these examples of reverse culture shock ring a bell:

“When we spent a week in Chile’s wine country last month, we never drank wine with preservatives in it, and I didn’t have a single hangover either.”

“In Florence, I ate just as much pasta as this but I wouldn’t gain any weight there like I do here in the U.S.”.

*8:00 PM* “This is sooo much earlier than when I used to eat dinner in Spain.” 

Familiar? They are to me. In fact, they’ve each slipped out of my gob before.

It’s not all our fault. Reverse culture shock can be so powerful. Here’s another personal example that came in my first few days back from Brazil. 

Each time I bought fruit at the grocery store, I was possessed to tell my little brother how much cheaper it was in Brazil. Kiwi? 20% of the U.S. price. Bananas? Try 4 cents on the dollar. Açai bowls? Forget it—borderline offensive. You want how much for a cup of coconut water?

I didn’t realize how insufferable I was being until I walked into the kitchen on my fourth day back home. My little brother was cutting a mango.

“You know…” I started.

“Chaz, stop,” said Tyner. “NO ONE CARES HOW MUCH THIS MANGO COSTS IN BRAZIL. I get it. Fruit is more expensive here. You’ve made that clear.”

If I was a dog, my tail would’ve fallen between my legs. I had just embodied a level of traveler braggadocio that I consistently poked fun at.

These types of surface-level observations of cultural differences can rob us of the opportunity to introduce complex cultural conversations to our community back home. Instead of talking to my brother about the Brazilian diet and why the nation’s economy and values on health support it, I opted to bring up pennies and pineapples.

Going back to those original culture shock moments, we can (and should) still convey those observations from the road albeit in a way that invites our audience into thoughtful discussion. This is best done with questions rather than a dead-end statement:.

“I noticed I didn’t feel hungover the day after drinking wine in Chile last month. They said it has something to do with the preservatives in ours. Have you heard about that?”.

“I don’t understand why the pasta in the U.S. is making me put on weight. I didn’t have this problem in Florence. Do you think it’s the flour here?” (Opportunity for deeper discourse about mass-production food practices.).

*8:00 PM* “This dinner feels early—I’ve been eating later in Spain. Isn’t it weird there’s a 2-hour difference between our dinner times?”

There is nothing inherently wrong with cherishing memories from a semester abroad or vacation, and I would be an absolute hypocrite for claiming that sharing stories from the road is a red flag. It’s best to be aware when we’re oversharing though—or sharing for attention rather than from inspiration.

The Depth of Relationship

My coming home from Latin America illuminated some cultural nuances of its own. I took note of one when in Buenos Aires. 

Despite the city’s size, I found the residents of Buenos Aires to be some of the most receptive (and interested) communities I encountered on the road. Be it the metro, a cafe, or a park, it wasn’t uncommon to spark a conversation with a stranger only to become friends and meet up later there. Once I noticed this warmth and receptiveness in Buenos Aires, I started to find it in almost every place I passed through. There was consistently a sense of genuine interest and openness to meeting other people that is not as strong in the U.S. as in Latin America. 

The difference is less so in the initial conversation too, and more on the emotional investment strangers are willing to make in each other. I consider Oklahomans (my home) to be among the warmest in the States, but it’s a different type of warmth. 

Generally in the United States, new relationships are approached with more apprehension. You can be welcomed by a stranger gracefully and with a smile, of course. Making that stranger into a friend you grab a coffee with later is another subject though. 

I found the opposite in Latin culture. My list of friends I met abroad stems from salsa dance classes, long bus rides, and asking how many more kilometers it is on foot to the next town with accommodation. The potential for deeper social interaction was simply more welcome in those cases. Or less taboo at least.

Your Schedule is Open

Since being home, I have been disappointed with the discomfort spontaneity brings to those around me. Natal, Brazil, was a telling experience. 

Hardly anything noteworthy in the five weeks I spent working in a hostel there happened as a result of a planned event. Rather, each day brought about a new idea. Cookout? Samba tonight? Make dinner together? Caipirinhas in the local plaza? 

Remarkably too, no one batted an eye. The procedure was simply to drop preconceived plans, recognize quality time with close friends and family was more important than anything, and say yes.

Instead, I was astonished once back on U.S. soil by the way we opt for scheduled nights out, scheduled calls to friends and family, scheduled free time, and even “scheduled laughs” as Nassim Taleb put it in his flagship book, Antifragile. 

Spontaneity is so foreign to the U.S. that I recently had a friend say he appreciated me because “when you recognize you have free time, you’re always available for a last-minute invite.”

To me, that response should be second nature when it involves our inner circle. 

Growing Gratitude

One of the lead, contemporary mythology scholars and father of the renowned “hero’s journey” storytelling structure, Joseph Campbell once wrote:

The practice of confronting challenges while traveling solo, if nothing else, generates a sense of feeling alive. Perhaps that “aliveness” flows from the inherent friction of uncertainty the road holds within it.

Left with 100% of the responsibility for solving our own problems, life begs an answer to the question: “What are you capable of now?” The human condition has extraordinary potential in most of these instances, and it is exhilarating to gradually push past the outer limits of our abilities in unanticipated, stressful situations.

My experience suggests that the closer one is to death, the clearer the true “problems” of the world become—they know real friction because, for better or worse, it is a pre-emanating undertone in their lives.

So, in the absence of friction, is it possible to fabricate our own just to chase that feeling of being alive?

There was a moment in Minas Gerais, Brazil, when a homeless man burst into gracious tears after I gave him a bag of cooked rice and hard-boiled eggs that I wasn’t able to eat before a flight the next day. 

Another time, I met a young man toting a backpack twice the size of mine (and three times the weight I realized when he let me try it on). He was walking across the Argentinian border home to his wife and three-year-old, part of the 24-hour commute he makes every 14 days to work in Chile rather than in Argentina’s failing economy. There I was walking across it for kicks.

The Amazon River’s residents received me in their homes and shared the last bits of food in their ice boxes. 

I watched Salta’s citizens scramble to buy U.S. dollars from the black market peso man right after I exchanged mine for a double rate. 

Friends in Salvador, Brazil, refused to walk to certain grocery stores after nightfall for fear of opportunistic crime.

Experiences like these make complaining about preferred pronouns or venting about Monday spin class changing from 6 PM to 6:30 PM seem empty, if not ungrateful.

Gratitude is a baseline value that grows in most travelers from Europe and the U.S. when in rougher, developing economies. But it doesn’t always stick when home. It’s easy to slip back into the comfort-driven, manicured lifestyles we are blessed enough to enjoy here.

When life gets too good, it inevitably becomes predictable. And predictability is boring. That is what makes me wonder if our industrialized societies—those that produce, among other goods, certainty in life outcomes and structure—allow us to invent certain problems for the sole sake of having one. 

Bad Travel Review of the Week

Workshopping a new series here: each edition, I’ll include a “bad travel review” I find online and dissect it in Ferg’s Focus. This week’s takes place in Cali, Colombia, where I’m currently writing this edition.

In Cali, the valley edges rise up in green hills around the southern Colombian city. At the summit of one particular hill, there is a statue of Christ, similar to the well-known one in Rio de Janeiro. 

To get to the top, there is a road to drive or a hiking trail for the more active types. I was told on my first day here that odds were high for a robbery in ascension and not to bring anything valuable. Sounds like this poor chap didn’t receive the same advisory.

Rule of thumb around here says be aware of two guys riding a bike together—the city has prohibited men from riding as a passenger as a means to curb the amount of bike assault duos. Looks like the hills offer some cover. 

Either way, this reviewer does urge fellow hikers to “Enjoy! :-P”

Danger is not as rampant in most parts of the world as sensational news outlets like us to believe. That being said, certain areas can be more risky to walk through than others.

I like to think of it like this when I’m walking, hiking, or even jogging through somewhere with a risk of a mugging: what am I realistically willing to lose?

My life? Big no. My phone? I’d prefer to not lose again. Some pesos? Not ideal, but it wouldn’t cripple me. Those questions make what I bring along clear.

Bringing minimal belongings in these cases indeed eliminate the risk of losing possessions, but it also provides a much more enjoyable experience by taking any sense of worry out of us.

Also not sure where the “take a cap” plays into this, but maybe this lad came back down with a sunburned face in addition to no belongings.

It would mean a lot to share this newsletter with friends that find this whole solo travel thing interesting. You can do so by copying the subscription link on the button below or forwarding this email on.

More adventures brewing…

-Ferg