Cab… strange guy…
August, 1983… After last Diary Entry…
My last journal entry about Greece dwindled into nonexistence as home became part of the foreseeable future, with broken phrases and words serving as the one reminder of my excursion to the Flea Market and a strange encounter with a Greek who had repeatedly asked, "You American? You marry me?"
The following morning the three of us were packed on a jumbo jet amid a screaming mob destined for New York, and thoughts of Greece had made way for other, more prominent images. The red pointed shoes from Athens which were peaking out of my pant legs, the in-flight snacks, the certainty that our plane would crash on the way home. . . I desired to be home to such a great degree that paranoia became a plague, and I fancied my emotions were similar to those who are threatened in a war zone; in effect, if I was not killed in Greece, I would die on the way home. It was as if Fate was not an idea; it had taken shape and lived, exuding a force that controlled relentlessly and completely.
Upon reaching New York, and transferring to a different and considerably less crowded plane, my fear dissolved. We had traveled all day with the sun, and now it had overtaken us. The lights of New York twinkled like a brilliant network of gold on black velvet, covering the city's filth with delicate grace. I watched the points of light stretching endlessly into the darkness, and knew I was home; no foreign words rolled off the tongues surrounding me, yet a balanced variety of creeds and colorings spread about the plane.
Chicago possessed the essence of the midwest; when we reached the city, I was overcome with happiness and bought a bold red tee-shirt that read "Chicago." Mom noticed my purchase and questioned me; after all, I was probably the only patient of the Greek doctor who had not acquired a GREECE tee-shirt. The way I saw it, tee-shirts made statements. Some people wanted to express how they felt, others wanted everyone to know where they had been. I merely wanted to emphasize my gratitude for being home, and red carried the message with adequate force.
One flight later, the three of us stumbled wearily off of the small plane that had delivered us to Moline. I had not slept in over 24 hours, but I still recognized familiar faces, and many greeted us as we walked into the terminal. Besides my aunt and uncle, a group from the Circle C Class (Circle in Christ from our church) milled about, holding a "WELCOME" poster and wearing great smiles. It was a royal welcome to be received by one such as I, and it assured Mom and Dad of the support which rallied in their time of need.
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Chapter 35 In Limbo
"Friends were beginning their exodus to distant places . . . it meant appraising my own life and facing, time after time, the stagnation which it represented."