Peripatetic estrangement

One of the civilizing effects of travel is often thought to be the exposure to different cultures in order to develop an appreciation for the global and realization that the local is, well, indeed, local, and not the only way to skin a cat, so to speak. Hence, the Grand Tour that the gentrified encouraged their (male) progeny to embark upon before settling down to run their estates, or the updated "year off" or "year abroad" backpacking through Europe that is supposed to perform a similar function for the more nouveau gentrified classes in North America.

I won't argue that time in another country is not valuable. It certainly helps to remind you that there is indeed more than one way of doing things and whether the cultural differences you encounter are only mildly odd or downright baffling in their strangeness, they can be enlightening.

[Having read that last sentence, you'll notice that I used the word "can" rather than "are" since in this age of all-inclusive resorts and whirlwind Europe-in-a-week (complete with tour guide) travel options, one can remain blissfully unaware of those differences if one so desires]

But there's also an estrangement that happens when you return home. I know my parents spoke of the "reverse culture shock" they experienced when we returned from our two year stint in Brasil. Since I was young, I certainly noticed differences (though the things I noticed were no doubt very different than the ones my parents did), but for the most part, there was little "shock" in them.

When we returned from living in the U.S., I certainly noticed cultural differences, particularly in the media and in accents, but even traveling to the Caribbean last year or Europe, there was a moment - when I first got into my own car actually - when I felt estranged from my own culture. Most of that seemed to be centered on the enormous size of our vehicles here, which seemed bloated and bullyish as I navigated streets near my home.

But there's also a sense of a shifting pace that contributes to that estrangement as you move from the pleasure- and transport-centered activities of travel, to the more circumscribed and sedentary activities of work and house maintenance. The vivid everyday activities of the other country are slowly replaced by the mundane and repetitive sameness of the same city, job, and house as you slip back into the ordinary. It's not a bad thing, just a strangely transitional place to be.