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When I was a little girl, my mother loved to travel. Summer after summer, she led us through explorations of the European countries, to expose us to different cultures as well as to satisfy her own restless heart. Being a child, I appreciated only what my short life and attention spans would allow, much to my mother?s dismay. I was always on the lookout for the familiar, i.e., a Burger King in lieu of authentic Italian cuisine, was bored silly touring a 17th century castle in Scotland and found the Eiffel Tower to be quite large indeed, that being the full extent of my observation. Nonetheless, I do remember the specifics of the people we met on those worldly jaunts. I remember Henry who ran the front desk at our hotel in Geneva, a small-in-stature half-balding sweetheart of a man who shuffled, not walked, and seemed to enjoy his job or life or both very much. I remember the Parisian woman who giggled a little at the sight of my mother frantically combing her pocket translation dictionary. I remember walking past a tall Italian man with his arm around his girlfriend or wife who verbally scolded me (in Italian) for accidentally but carelessly brushing his lady friend?s arm. Scolding, in any language, is universally understood. I remember the stoic guard?s face at Buckingham Palace when I tried to make him laugh. To his credit, he didn?t and most certainly had the whole deadpan thing down to an art. I could go on and on, but it?s remarkable to me that what I recollect most about those trips are not the distinctions of the landmarks, as much as the eccentricities of the people surrounding the experiences. We inspected every historic structure from Stonehenge to Pompeii and while I do seem to recall feeling perplexed at the former and somber at the latter, my most vivid memories remain the fellow tourists and locals we met along the way. The faces are almost as clear to me now as they were then and the only explanation I can come up with leads back to my childhood need for familiarity. Though in many cases they did not speak my language, nor I theirs, commonalties seemed to bridge the cultural gaps. Having the innocence of a child, I didn?t seem to notice the differences. Obviously, I was aware of the very prominent ones, such as accents, cuisine or even fashion or native dress but the similarities far outweighed the disparities.

I learned at a very young age that people are people, regardless of their surroundings or nationalities. Customary rites, sects and even classifications don?t constitute what we are indigenously. Those are learned things, the assertion of which became even more solidified for me when I turned 17 and my mother took me to the beautiful island of Madeira, Portugal. I fell in love with a born-and-bred boy who worked as a desk clerk at our hotel. Our cultures, religions and upbringings couldn?t have been more different, but we shared a love of each other?s language (when I returned home, I promptly learned to speak his), the beauty of the island, motorcycling, dancing, playing cards and most of all, feelings. We shared many of the same fears, anxieties, and joys and we expressed those emotions in very similar ways. The fact that he was from one of the most poverty stricken areas of the world solely dependent on the tourism from the most richly endowed, wasn?t a thought for either of us and was only called to our attention by a few adults in our lives. Thereafter, it was quickly forgotten. He had nine first names and I had one. He lived with his entire, very large family in one house and I lived with my mother, father and sister. He was raised a Catholic and I a Protestant. But we laughed at the same silly jokes. We cried equally sad tears when I boarded the plane to go home, and we had a mutual love that was young, but very real. We crossed divides, cultures, and vicissitudes and for that summer, we were just two kids in love, two people. He was the familiar in that foreign country. I guess I can thank my mother for showing me early that diversity may mean difference, but it also means variety which, as we?ve been told, is the spice of life. That expression may never be truer than when it refers to people, to the familiars in our lives.

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