"What is the weather like?" someone asked me, after I came in the building.
"It's pouring," I said. "Also, it's sunny."
Life has been like that lately.
I sat in the Ethiopian restaurant, scooping up misser wat in torn pieces of injera, listening to friends tell stories about life, savoring the words and the spices and the company. I didn't even think to wonder if I was happy until much later. How could I not be?
I planned to ride my bike to meet a friend, but the tires were flat after the winter and the bike pump turns out to be broken. I didn't have time to walk, and I didn't have cash for the bus, so my only solution was to frantically run over to the train stop to get a new packet of tickets, and run over a block to the bus stop, and then the light on the corner just would not, for anything, change, even though I could see the bus coming closer and closer, so I finally raced across a gap in traffic, against the light, just in time to catch the bus. I was still late, though.
There was a band on the stage playing songs from the 50s, and a couple of my friends got up to dance to the music, badly, and a few older people who knew the right motions got up and joined them down in the front, and little kids ran up to dance, too, and H. and I sat back in our seats and laughed at all of them, laughter that means bliss. An Elvis impersonator began to serenade us all, and his wig started to fall apart, so long strands of synthetic hair fell in his eyes. Then we all got up and did the Hokey Pokey.
I talked to J. about what I miss about Rwanda, Liberia, Tanzania. I miss the way people greet each other, I told her, and all the different words and handshakes, and I miss the way a little kid will sometimes just take your hand and walk a mile or two with you before turning back to run home alone. I miss sitting outside at night surrounded by friends speaking three or four languages, none of which I understand, and I miss the ability to pick up a random lost tourist at the bus station and let her live in my house for six weeks.
A missionary couple showed pictures and film of their new station in Sierra Leone, and when I looked at the faces that look so familiar-almost-Liberian, when I saw the hills and the flowers, I thought, "I made the wrong decision." I wanted to go back. I wanted to go back even to Southern Sudan.
I wanted to go out tonight and do something, but not with the crowds on offer. I went with one of them, though, and sat miserable at the table, ordering only water. I was too hungry to pick out food, and I didn't feel like spending money, and after half an hour, I went home alone. I didn't want to go home, not so early, but when I got home, I was so relieved. It's one thing to sit home alone when no one asked me to do something else, but when I sit home by choice, it's lovely.
I walked along the water, home from work, talking to my mom about Oma. "You have to go home and sleep," I told her. "You can't function without sleep." None of us can. I'm far away here in Gone West, and there is nothing I can do but talk to my mom about her mom, and worry, every time I look at my phone, that I missed a call and that call was the one telling me to come back to Michigan.
There was a literal rainbow outside as I talked about what I want here in Gone West, and what I wanted there in the rest of the world, and how I reconcile the two. Or, more accurately, how I try to reconcile the two.
It's like that lately. The sunshine warms my face while the raindrops fall on it.
"It's pouring," I said. "Also, it's sunny."
Life has been like that lately.
I sat in the Ethiopian restaurant, scooping up misser wat in torn pieces of injera, listening to friends tell stories about life, savoring the words and the spices and the company. I didn't even think to wonder if I was happy until much later. How could I not be?
I planned to ride my bike to meet a friend, but the tires were flat after the winter and the bike pump turns out to be broken. I didn't have time to walk, and I didn't have cash for the bus, so my only solution was to frantically run over to the train stop to get a new packet of tickets, and run over a block to the bus stop, and then the light on the corner just would not, for anything, change, even though I could see the bus coming closer and closer, so I finally raced across a gap in traffic, against the light, just in time to catch the bus. I was still late, though.
There was a band on the stage playing songs from the 50s, and a couple of my friends got up to dance to the music, badly, and a few older people who knew the right motions got up and joined them down in the front, and little kids ran up to dance, too, and H. and I sat back in our seats and laughed at all of them, laughter that means bliss. An Elvis impersonator began to serenade us all, and his wig started to fall apart, so long strands of synthetic hair fell in his eyes. Then we all got up and did the Hokey Pokey.
I talked to J. about what I miss about Rwanda, Liberia, Tanzania. I miss the way people greet each other, I told her, and all the different words and handshakes, and I miss the way a little kid will sometimes just take your hand and walk a mile or two with you before turning back to run home alone. I miss sitting outside at night surrounded by friends speaking three or four languages, none of which I understand, and I miss the ability to pick up a random lost tourist at the bus station and let her live in my house for six weeks.
A missionary couple showed pictures and film of their new station in Sierra Leone, and when I looked at the faces that look so familiar-almost-Liberian, when I saw the hills and the flowers, I thought, "I made the wrong decision." I wanted to go back. I wanted to go back even to Southern Sudan.
I wanted to go out tonight and do something, but not with the crowds on offer. I went with one of them, though, and sat miserable at the table, ordering only water. I was too hungry to pick out food, and I didn't feel like spending money, and after half an hour, I went home alone. I didn't want to go home, not so early, but when I got home, I was so relieved. It's one thing to sit home alone when no one asked me to do something else, but when I sit home by choice, it's lovely.
I walked along the water, home from work, talking to my mom about Oma. "You have to go home and sleep," I told her. "You can't function without sleep." None of us can. I'm far away here in Gone West, and there is nothing I can do but talk to my mom about her mom, and worry, every time I look at my phone, that I missed a call and that call was the one telling me to come back to Michigan.
There was a literal rainbow outside as I talked about what I want here in Gone West, and what I wanted there in the rest of the world, and how I reconcile the two. Or, more accurately, how I try to reconcile the two.
It's like that lately. The sunshine warms my face while the raindrops fall on it.
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