I returned home in 2006 after living in Brazil for two years. I reveled in being able to shower without needing sandals, in the foods I missed, and in being around my family. But there were things I missed about Brazil. Perhaps most unsettling to me was how rude Americans are.
It’s not as if everyone got in my business or said nasty things to me. On the contrary, everyone was kind and left well enough alone, which was precisely the problem. There was far too much personal space. I’d felt lonely for two years because no one called me by my first name: everyone called me by the title Elder because I was a missionary. By the time I was heading home, I missed my first name and the familiarity that goes with it more than flirting, dancing, or ranch dressing. But when I got home, I was an island.
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