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Javier came back from the UAE, a land I mostly know through history books and news accounts. We planned to have some wings and beer, but the kids cried and we ended up hanging out at my house instead. We broke bread together. We shared a beer (or four). We shared stories. We argued about education. We played whiffle tennis golf until we both gave up on a par eleven and came back inside for some more beer and conversation, and all the while I wanted time to stand still, because I miss my best friend. I know, I know, we could have the same conversations over social media. We can Skype and Google Hangout and do everything else in the vapid online world. But we didn't. We broke bread. We drank beer. We share stories. And as my best friend left, perhaps for a full year, I was left with a huge stinging hole in my life that can't be filled with anyone else but my best friend year. This kind of trust and storytelling and arguing can't exist in the online world. It doesn't happen in a PLN. It happens over pints and loaves of bread and teaching together in the same gritty context that you call home. And that is why, as much as I love technology, I will always be at least partially luddite. I want to feel the grass beneath my feet. I want to feel an embrace of a hug. I want to see a smile from a friend that doesn't have to look like a semi-colon and half a parenthesis. Geography matters. On a night like tonight, I am missing my best friend (who I won't see for another year) and remembering that no amount of ones and zeroes can bridge the gap of the physical proximity we share. This might seem obvious, but I bring this up because I forget it in the midst of my online reality. I love having a friend in person who knows my story and knows my brokenness and loves me regardless. I wish we were in the same city sharing a pint every week.
