Over nine months, we had seen thirty-four countries, on five continents, learned of innumerable languages, cultures, foods, and climates. It had been a groovy, shocking, scary and moving surprise, at every turn. By June, all travels and eye-openers would be behind us.
Except for one: we were heading home, but to where? The family, or travel agents,would have to choose our new home. Forget negotiating hotels in Arabic, cafés in Thai or flights in Swahili, we had to decide -in English!- where we would live next. A tall order for anyone, but when Daddy presented his wife and gaggle of teens the voting ballot, we knew there was no way out of it. We would have to choose.
The options were dynamic: 1) a village near Nairobi, 2) a farm in Tuscany, 3) the island of St. John, USVI, 4) an off-season dude ranch in Jackson, Wyo. and 5) a small town in New Zealand. We had been to most of these locations; Daddy reviewed the pros and cons of each. We’d never heard of Jackson Hole, newly opened resort touting “the best skiing in the world,” Daddy said.
When the votes were tallied, Jackson Hole won unanimously! Overwhelmingly, we wanted to be “normal” American teenagers, back in high school, doing those stupid things teens did. We’d be heading to all-American small-town Wyoming… We had NO idea what that meant, we had a lesson to be learned. But first… the Summer of Love was ahead of us, a time to catch up, get hip, get stoned.
Crosby, Stills & Nash: Just a Song Before I Go
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