Dearest Rachel –
It seems odd to focus on the flights to and from any given destination when I write to you about traveling; really, it’s the least interesting part of the whole trip. Then again, the process takes the better part of a day either way – be it the trip to and from the airport, the discombobulation (and ‘recombobulation,’ as Daniel puts it) of going through security and customs, the downtime at the gate, the reclamation of luggage afterwards, and of course, the flight itself – so there’s something to be said for giving it some attention. Besides, its ostensibly boring nature affords me the time to sit and write, especially since I’m not as likely to sleep through these trips like I used to.
Not that I won’t try, now and again.
Still, let’s start at the very beginning (“a very good place to start,” as you might intone, with or without a slight singsong melody). The morning itself was kind of relaxed, or at least, it was supposed to be, since we didn’t need to report to the “puente de encuentrada” (the “meeting point,” which I kept reading as “puente de encanta,” the point of enchantment) for an additional hour, compared to the rest of the week. Nevertheless, I still found myself waking up before five in the morning – probably annoyed by the dream I already told you about. The early wake up allowed me the opportunity to vent to you about that, even as other topics made their presence known in my head as well.
It also gave me plenty of time to get washed up, dressed, packed (more or less) and off to breakfast as early as ever. I don’t know why I bother, since even more than half an hour after opening up to us, no one else is there from our group. But I still feel the need to finish and get back to the room to go through other parts of my routine – brushing my teeth, checking what news there might be, and otherwise taking care of the last bits of packing – before leaving the room for good. I expect to be back again in January, but I can’t expect to have the same room – or if by some miracle I did, that any of the stuff I’d inadvertently left behind would be waiting for me.
Dad has trained me well, honey; I still felt a slight twinge of guilt in keeping the others waiting when I locked the room up and headed downstairs with only ten minutes before the vans were to arrive. Except that, when I got there, there was only one van, and only one person in the group sitting on the stoop waiting for everyone else. Ten minutes early was actually too early; go figure.
By nine, however, everybody and everything had arrived, as if on cue. Suitcases were loaded onto the truck, there was a moment to circle up and pray – both for the place we were leaving and ourselves as we were leaving – and we bundled ourselves into the two vans for the ride back southeast to the airport from whence we’d come less than a week before. The last seat claimed was the shotgun seat; amazing how, as kids, everyone calls dibs on that position, but once you’re grown up, you’re too old to concern yourself with stuff like that anymore.
Still, it gave me a chance to ask Douglas, the fellow who heads up operations on the ground as to what a truly typical week would be like for him and the students without us there; after the last three weeks, it would be interesting to see if they would be able to adapt to what passed for “normal” again. The answer he gave surprised me; somehow, I expected there to be classes on a daily basis (although I guess I was curious as to how they managed to balance the various grades, between what we would refer to as middle school and high school). But as it so happens, two days a week are spent on classes for the middle schoolers, two other days are for the high schoolers, and the fifth day is spent with students of all ages engaging in either a pila build or a No Hungry Home walk. Coming from a tradition of compulsory, five-day-a-week classes, this doesn’t seem like a lot, or even enough, but compared to the fact that many Honduran children finish their education to work once they finish the sixth grade, it’s still better than that.
He and I continued talking for a little while about finance classes I’d conducted. It occurs to me that while I didn’t come out and say anything explicitly in class, I talked to them about investing money and building credit in a way that simply assumed that the kids will succeed to the point that they will eventually have the funds to do just that, and they appreciate the implications of that assumption. I suspect that it also helps that I never insisted on a specific investment or budgeting strategy (apart from a strong recommendation to never use a credit card for more than could be paid off at the end of a given month); the use of money, in terms of both purchasing and investing, depends on one’s values, and that is a personal decision, as far as I’m concerned. It’s possible that the students saw my trusting them to make their own determinations as a mark of respect.
Upon writing this out, it occurs to me that this wasn’t as intentional as all that; I simply don’t trust my own knowledge or understanding enough to say “this is what you should or shouldn’t do,” but if they saw it as respectful, I certainly won’t argue with it. Indeed, I might lean into it, going forward.
On the other hand, Douglas mentioned that one of the high-performing students has been asking about cryptocurrency, and what my thoughts are on the subject. I tell him how you and I attempted to dabble in it at one time (you might recall it), but that our brokerage didn’t offer anything it considered so risky, so we stayed pretty much on the sidelines. I told him about Warren Buffet’s rule of not investing in a field he didn’t understand (which referred to the dot-com bubble economy of the mid-nineties, but applicable here), and we both agreed that investments that seem too good to be true often are. So while I still refrained from any definitive pronouncement, I offered an opinion that might be worth bringing up come January.
Yes, I expect to be back come January (although probably not during the summer, given that Daniel and I have made plans for the Nebuta festival next year). At this point, I’ve basically vowed that, for as long as I’m still able to do so, I’ll be going to Honduras at least once a year, taking a cruise once a year, and flying to Japan once a year. Anything beyond that is negotiable, but that would be what I consider to be a minimum, given both our plans and savings. I hope you don’t mind too much, since you aren’t around to enjoy this – although, as I’ve said so often before, I’m sure that whatever you’re seeing and doing over there must make the little joys we experience down here seem so small in comparison.
From here, the first leg of the flight was basically uneventful. I may have even nodded off, thanks to an actual souvenir purchase at the airport of a neck pillow in Honduran colors. But a fair amount of time was also spent drafting this letter, as well. So at this point, I should probably apologize for its ever-growing length.
Upon arriving in Miami, I started to get messages from both Mom and the boys; she’s just checking up on my out of typical parental concern, while they’re insistent on picking me up when I arrive in Chicago, regardless of the fact that I warn them that it’s going to be rather late at night. Honestly, I think they just want the excuse to get out and use my car – not that I blame them, especially given the state of both their vehicles, but still. In any event, it was apparent that they would not be talked out of the errand, so I at least made a point of letting them know when we were about to take off again, as our flight had been delayed, just like it had been on the way down. Although it may have been less of a delay than I realized; the time on our boarding passes read one time, but the display screen displayed a different one. Maybe the one on the ticket was a boarding time rather than a departure time.
In any event, the last leg of this long trip back was the least eventful of them all, resulting in me not being motivated to finish this letter until now (which is fine, as there wasn’t much to tell you about the weekend since getting home, unless you count the family getting together after Sunday services for a meal, just like old times, because of Bill’s birthday). As before, I may have nodded off after all, because it didn’t seem all that long.
There were no mixups en route to getting out of the airport, either; no lost or misplaced baggage or anything like that. The plane sat outside of the ‘wrong’ gate (which was occupied by another plane) for a few moments before being rerouted to another, during which time I was keeping the boys appraised of the situation, but by and large, it didn’t feel like such a big deal, since we weren’t kept sitting there for all that long. And once we made it to the baggage carousel, everything showed up right away, leaving me actually waiting for the boys as they made there way to the airport to pick me up.
At least they were willing to turn the car over to me as soon as I got everything in the back; and for my part, I was perfectly able to make my way home, explaining as much as I could about the various events of the week. It’s a good thing I make a point of writing you these letters, though, as I might have had difficulty describing everything in a suitably succinct manner to them.
Not that this letter has been anything like succinct, in comparison. So I’m going to let you go, and get on with this new week now, with the usual request that you keep an eye on me and wish me well, as I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 