Friendship in Curaçao: The Sad (Part IV)

This is the end of the series Friendship in Curaçao: The Good, The Bad, The Ugly, The Sad.

If you've been following this Friendship Series, The Sad won't come as a surprise. The red line throughout these musings has been, after all, the temporary nature of an ex-pat's stint in Curaçao. Sooner for some, later for others, but inevitable for most: relocation.

This little group felt as permanent as the hot tarmac
on the street outside.

A promotion to the company's main branch in, say, Singapore or Barcelona or the UK. An offer from a competitor that can't be refused. A new opportunity, bright and shiny. Or perhaps it's the 90+ degree heat, year round--you just can't take it anymore. Or you miss the bustling cultural life of non-insular civilization. Having to drive in circles if you want to go for a ride longer than an hour finally got to you. You miss home. Maybe there's a family situation that requires more than your presence by Skype.

Whatever. Point is, you leave.

And here's where I--a collective I that encompasses every ex-pat you're leaving behind--wish I'd taken a page from the Antillean book and kept my emotional distance. Sure, email and Facebook make it a small world after all, and at the airport we'll promise to stay in touch, we plan visits back and forth--that's the selling point of your departure: "Now you have a home in Singapore / Barcelona / Timbuktu." We may actually do it, see each other once a year, maybe twice. But that doesn't fix the hole you leave behind, a cut-out of your silhouette in the fabric of my--collective my--life.

The reunion three years later. Patrycja, already relocated
to London, came back for a visit. Wim & Deborah
had their first baby; they left in 2012. Arno had a
girlfriend--soon to be wife. They left in 2011.

They're a fact of island life, these trips to the airport, these farewell parties, these garage sales. Our house is an exhibit of the departed: that patio set from Arno, the Cuisinart and the glass pitchers from Patrycja, a jewelry box from Carlos, the Avalon ashtrays from the other Carlos, the piano from Deborah & Wim. A testament to the friends we've made, the friends we've lost.

But I--individual I--would gladly trade in that Cuisinart and piano and patio set and whatever to have them back.