CHAPTER 1

the key to the house

I love to travel.

But I'm also terrified of traveling.

As I embark on yet another trip, I carefully enact my various goodluck rituals. I check to be sure that my Turkish evil eye bracelet is stillaround my wrist. If there's turbulence during the flight, I'll rub the turquoiseglass beads to keep the plane from falling out of the sky. In azippered pouch inside my purse, I place a handmade necklace I musthave with me at all times to be protected from illness and sudden death.I received it at a Santería ceremony in Cuba, where the hypnotic beat ofthree batá drums summoned the ancient African deities back to earth.Carrying these talismans, one evocative of my Jewish heritage and theother of my Cuban heritage, I ready myself for travel.

Before I go out the door, I drop my car and office keys on a sidetable, since they won't be of any use while I'm away. But I say to myself,"Take the key to the house. Don't go anywhere without that key."

The legend is that Sephardic Jews took the keys to their houseswhen they were expelled from Spain over five hundred years ago. Centurieslater, living in other lands, they still had those keys in their possession.Tucking my house key in my suitcase, I honor the sad love forSpain that my exiled ancestors clung to.

Of course I know perfectly well that my stay-at-home husband,David, will open the door on my return. (In fact, he always drops meoff and picks me up at the airport.) When we were young, David andI went everywhere together, but now that we're older I'm the one whotravels. He stays behind in Michigan, cuidando la casa, as they like tosay in Mexico, minding the house. Even with the assurance that Davidawaits me on my return, I fear that if I don't bring my key a catastrophewill happen that will prevent me from coming home.

I may rack up miles flying far and wide, but travel isn't something Ican treat casually. My departures are always filled with a looming senseof finality. Minutes before take-off, Mami calls, wishing me well in sucha choked voice it seems she's uttering a last goodbye. "Please call mewhen you land, Ruti, don't forget," she says. By the time we hang up, I'mtrembling. Then I turn around and call my son, Gabriel, in New Yorkand make him totally nervous. "Bye, honey. Love you, honey," I say, asif I won't ever see him again.

Then it's time to power off. There's nothing left to do but hold mybreath as the flight attendant shuts the door of the plane. I'm immediatelyovercome by a sense of tender solidarity, bringing me to theedge of tears, as I glance at my fellow travelers: the businessman whohelped me squeeze my bulging suitcase into the overhead bin, the tiredmother clutching her crying baby, the tattooed young man clasping hisheadphones, waiting to be up in the air so he can listen to his music, thelovers holding hands like schoolchildren, all of us united in the beliefthat it's not our day to die.

Yes, I'm a pretty neurotic nomad.

What's funny is that in spite of traveling heavy with my doubtsand worries, just give me the flimsiest pretext to get on a plane and gosomewhere, and I'll rush to pack my suitcase. Not that packing is easyfor me. Faced with the quandary of what to bring and what to leave, Isuffer deciding what's got to stay behind. Is it too melodramatic to saythat packing is a rehearsal for death, when you can't take anything withyou? Traveling, you can take only a couple of things, and this gets youused to letting go of the material world. It sweetens the coming of theinevitable departure. You abandon the weightiness of your existence soyou can be light on your feet as you move about in a new place, meetnew people.

I go to other places for the same reasons most everyone does: to seekout a change of scenery and feel a sense of enchantment, to learn aboutthe lives of strangers, and to give myself a chance to be someone I can'tbe at home. We leave behind the creature comforts and familiarity ofhome in order to explore alternate worlds, alternate selves.

Travelers are those who go elsewhere because they want to, becausethey can afford to displace themselves. Immigrants are those who goelsewhere because they have to. If they don't displace themselves they'llsuffer: their very existence is at risk. They pick up and leave, sometimesat a moment's notice. The journey is wrenching, often dangerous, a lossof the known world, a change of scenery that creates estrangement, anuneasy dwelling among strangers, having to become a different personagainst one's will.

I'm now a traveler, a professional traveler. Until I went to college,I had no idea there was a profession called cultural anthropology,in which it's my job to spend extended periods of time residing elsewhere,doing fieldwork to understand how people in other places findmeaning in their lives. From the first moment, I was seduced by theprospect of being such a traveler. And so I set off on this odd career,and everywhere I went I found a semblance of home. The kindness ofstrangers was a great gift. I would not be who I am without it.

So now I'm a traveler, but I always remember I started out in lifebeing an immigrant. We left Cuba when I was four and a half and mybrother,...