The contiguous forty-eight United States aren’t so big. Only six hours the long way, which conveniently is the capacity of my PDA’s battery (enough to watch a Hindi film, listen to MP3s, and read e-mail). The country even shrinks on the return trip.
So why does it seem like another country whenever I step off a plane? Is it because 3,000 miles takes a full week to drive by automobile and half a year by Conestoga wagon? Is it because being three time zones away makes it hard to call home at a reasonable hour? Is it because land use is different, because people don’t walk or ride trains, because they drive American cars and make me rent them? Is it because the land looks different, the light looks different, the water flows the wrong direction to the ocean? Is it because they aren’t Commonwealths, because they ocassionally send Republicans to represent them in Washington, because they watch Fox News, because taxes are higher outside of Massachusetts? Is it because the people are so helplessly, infuriatingly nice?
I actually think it’s the discontinuity. Get on a plane in one place, surrender your liberty for six hours, disembark, and you’re in a place where you drive someone else’s car, live in someone else’s space, follow other people’s traffic rules, etc. In one place I have a wife and a cat and friends; in the other, they’re just as dear but very far away.
Of course, perhaps there really are multiple countries in the U.S. But I don’t think so.
