The END of an ERA!

Three days from now, the 4^th of May 2012, marks the one year commemoration of that one time, in George, South Africa, when I was hit by a car while jogging. I bet you’re dying to know how I’ve progressed throughout the year, but let’s get one thing straight first: this post, although recompensing for a 7-month void in activity, will be devoid of any and all theatrical recapitulations, morals learned along the way, and themes that hint at the “end of an era.” This post simply serves as a potential, natural conclusion to Renee on Ugandan Time, because this post, unlike any that can follow, will actually take me back to Uganda, a place in which I should not think to find myself again for quite some time.

Two and a half weeks ago I was on a plane from Chicago O’Hare International Airport en route to Entebbe, Uganda. My 25^th birthday passed in a haze of faux-darkness-induced slumber, an 8-hour time change and a 2-hour layover in Istanbul: we left on April 13 and arrived on April 15. I didn’t mind, though, birthdays aren’t my bag. A most unlikely companion sat next to me, the very person who disdained my willful persistence in joining Peace Corps, employing every tactic imaginable to inhibit my departure (I won’t tarnish her benevolence, but picture my pack and a baseball bat): my mother. But I was thrilled to have her with me as a travel buddy. This was the opportunity to show her the country I grew to concurrently love and hate so intensely!

And show her I did. She experienced Entebbe with its botanical garden rife with vervet monkeys; Kampala with its traffic, humidity, only Baha’i Temple on the continent of Africa, crumbling infrastructure, swarms of people, and foods hailing from the Middle East, Asia and Africa; the Southwest with its hills, crater lakes, cool breeze and face-upturning sunshine, fertile earth, exquisite fruits, slackened pace, and familiar faces and names of people and places that I’ve recounted dozens of stories of over the past 24 months; Queen Elizabeth National Park with its lions and grazers, muddy warthogs and herds of elephants, the Kazinga Channel demarcating Lake George from Lake Edward, the Equator, beautiful four-star lodges, alarming safari vehicles and pleasant boat rides; Fort Portal with its air of a bygone prime; and Jinja with a serenely beautiful sunset over the Source of the Nile and African drumming late at night to conjure up fantasies of tribalism and bush warfare. She met Peace Corps friends on their way to further adventures across the globe, kind Ugandan strangers, my students and fellow teachers at St. Thomas Secondary School, the villagers of Bururuma, many of whom, one year forgotten, are still family to me, and dozens of other people that made America appear small and far away, an island nation inhabited by a minute subset of the population. I’d like to think she learned a few things along the way, but I’ll leave that testament to her.

As for me, I learned a buttload (Fools! Your thought you were free from any educational musings on my part, but I suppose you can’t escape a good finale…). I realized that I had been unhealthily idealizing Uganda for the past year. I was ripped from my home and work with no notice or hope of return, unable to say goodbye, missing out on final projects and kids’ growth, forcing my dear boyfriend to clean up my mess and wander the same dusty roads without me. I existed in a fantasy state; I needed desperately to return to Uganda, if only for 10 days, to say the goodbyes that I never got the chance to say.

Yet I worried that “hello” and “goodbye” would be difficult to undertake within such a short period of time. But, luckily, Ugandans live quite transiently. Immediately upon disembarking from the plane, greeted by Arwen’s frantic jumping and Brennan’s curly blonde mop poorly hidden behind a dais, it felt more akin to a two-week absence than a 12-month expanse. The feeling continued throughout the trip. Sure, some things have changed. Three of my closest friends/teachers have welcomed little bundles: Enid with 4-month-old Alicia (Keys), Winnie with 1-month-old Cleverly (hilariously sounds like Clifford when said with a Ugandan accent), and Sanyu expecting in 5 months (she married Robert, the father and the man who so kindly buzzed my head so many months ago, this past weekend!). St. Thomas Secondary School has 250 additional students whom I know nothing about, as well as 2 new buildings and a new gate (gates are such an important part of Ugandan schools; I suppose because they not only keep out the riffraff but serve as the first glimpse of the potential within). But old and new welcomed my mom and me wholeheartedly. We received beautiful crafts, two trees planted in our honor, and numerous foodstuffs; we gave candy, presents, 60 new boys’ and girls’ soccer jerseys and our tears of happiness. It was comforting to witness everyone’s health, happiness and determination, and even more so to learn that I wasn’t forgotten.

I definitely will not be forgetting anytime soon. But I am finally capable and content with moving on (literally, I’m off to spend a few months in California soon), and in California I’ll be writing more about Uganda. I suppose that means that I will actually not be moving on... This definitely is not the last you’ve heard from me, so if you thought this was my conclusion, you were wrong! I fooled you again!

But thanks for reading.

The westward sun shining silver on the lining of the clouds as the leaves change their shade

Two weeks ago was the All-Volunteer Conference for Peace Corps Volunteers in Uganda. One-hundred and sixty kids, adults and beyond-adults (I don’t think anyone fits into the “adult” category, or would do so only begrudgingly). Last year’s conference was a Glee mash-up of corporate seminars and Spring Break pool parties. I can only imagine that this year’s proved equally as flawless. Yet it’s okay that I wasn’t there; surprisingly. True, I did have one day where I conspicuously sat alone at Jacob’s pool, feeling the isolation acutely. But in general, I become more accepting of a fragmented life in the U.S. every day. As follows is my scorecard, if you will, of those adaptations that have been facile, difficult or, if I was expecting the opposite, simply surprising.

First, those I jumped into with the fortitude of a cannonball into a cool pool on a 90+ day:
- Vegetables. Living in a village in which only cabbage, tomatoes, onions and pumpkin can be purchased with any regularity resulted in my continued over-consumption of broccoli, zucchini, red pepper, mushrooms, spinach, sweet corn, cucumbers, you name it, I’ll eat it.
- Tap water. What? No boiling or chlorine-concentration required? AND fluoride is included? Nyongeza! (Bonus!)
- Anything but the Daily Monitor or Red Pepper. For a country reticent about sex, they sure do print a lot of suggestive material in their nationally-syndicated newspapers. “Oranges help promote boob health.” Please, for the love of all that keeps me sane, please somebody pass me a Wall Street Journal!
- Fitness centers. True, I had no reason to rejoin a gym until the crutches became a little bit less obtrusive, but the wait was well worth it. The day I’m able to participate in a spin class will be a monumental occasion. Heck, I’ll even relish running on the treadmill again!
- Driving. I foolishly presumed I’d have nary a need for an automobile for, oh, 3-4 years after returning from Uganda. Not so. Things are far away! And after being hit by a car on a public road, the chances of buying a bike look scant for the time being. But anything’s better than a matatu jockeying down the road at breakneck speed, 10 over the 14 person capacity. Punch the gas and shoot for 65 in a 25; that’s what I’m digging these days.

Next, those I needed caution and uncertainty for; a gradual entrance into a scalding hot tub:
- An iPhone. I’m used to the internet being static, transmitted from looming cell phone towers at the acme of the steepest hills in the country. Don’t see a tower? Chances are you won’t have internet access either. But 3G iPhones: are you trying to tell me that you can check your email while you’re sipping on a boat drink from a raft in the middle of a pool? It may not be wise, but damnit I’m gunna do it because I sure as hell can. This is America. Although the constant barrage of Facebook status updates as a result ought to go.
- Shorts. And not just because my quads hadn’t seen the sun in 15 months. True, I was protecting you, the general public, from that display, but it honestly came down to a shift in societal norms. Shoulders, freely-growing armpit hair, breasts: all fine. But show a little kneecap in Uganda and you’re branded a hussy. I still prefer my flowing skirts and basketball shorts to anything more constricting…
- First impressions. Meeting new people is swell; I generally delight in the opportunity to understand where a person has been and where they’re heading. But lately all of that has been overshadowed by a powerful distaste for having to explain where I’ve been and where I’m heading. The interest of a first meet-and-greet is too superficial for me to really concede anything. Yet this will improve with time. Hopefully…?
- The dollar. Whoever denies the U.S. Dollar’s strength need only move to Uganda where it’s ratio against the Ugandan Shilling is $1:3,000/=. Having to pay the equivalent of 25,000/= for a mediocre lunch is terrifying. It does not help that Peace Corps left me with so little annual income that I’ve actually been denied a credit card. “No, sir, $6,000 per year is not a gross underestimation.”
- Consumerism. An obvious successor to my previous concession, laying out the dolla bills for anything now is a bit tricky. Add to that the swift propulsion into a credit-based society from one that is cash-based, and the result is an overly-prudent citizen. I am not helping reverse this recession.

Finally, those I met with the surprise of stepping into an unexpectedly warm lake:
- Ice cream. My favorite food group, without question. Yet parasites and a district teeming with cows but somehow devoid of dairy (blame it on the poor nutrition), leaves me with a queasy stomach and a knack for locating the Tums aisle in the store. But I will persevere; ice cream is too important for anything less.
- The ultra-conservative Tea Party. What is this? Where did this come from?
- Friends. I’m not sure if I’m capable of reconciling the draw to two groups of people, separated by half of the U.S., the Atlantic, and all of West Africa. Solution: everyone come to Chicago!!!
- Showering. I was asked the other day if it’s true that I had to bathe with one water bottle’s worth of water in Uganda. While this is a gross exaggeration of the sacrifices I made, I still can’t justify waiting until the water has reached an optimal temperature before stepping in; what a waste! However, I may be singing a different tune come winter...

So for now, I’m still maneuvering this transition as if driving a grocery-laden cart through an overcrowded Wal-Mart. But, instead of being frustrated, all I really need to do is shop at Target, right?

Anthem

Almost Everything

Also, while I sit at home reading book after book, bearing the Chicago humidity for the sake of a tan, Jacob sends me poignant reminders of those I love and miss in Uganda. A video of my "family", whom I've mentioned frequently and with adoration in past posts:

Family

In order of appearance: Uncle (Fr. Charles' uncle; no one calls him by any other name, it may be Bonafest...), Winnie (my counterpart/bane/sister from Chicago/best friend), Kakulu Mukulu (Peter, whose house is a pile of bricks but whose humor and compassion are fully-manifested), Fred (Fr. Charles' Uncle), Sanyu (my dearest friend), Rosie (Fr. Charles' housegirl and my neighbor; she secretly waters my plants, leaves me food and washes my clothes. She's either really kind or thinks I'm incompetent, I'd say both), Somaya (my pseudo-daughter and playmate who won't leave my side), Robert (my brother and biggest helper), Muhumuza (my second brother and stubborn little punk), and finally Uncle (again!). Missing: Kakulu Muto (my youngest brother and monkey that refuses to leave my back unless it's to hold my hand as we walk along) and Brenda (Sanyu's younger sister and my accomplice in ganging up on Sanyu when doing almost anything).

Thank you for meeting them.

16/06/2011

I don’t want to write. You’d think I would. You’d think the words would just be pouring out of me, ready for anyone to soak them up like the last bit of soup with the last bit of karo. In the middle of the night, when the vicodin has worn off, the nerves regenerating in my foot are sending intense pangs all the way up to my hip where I’m reminded of the fact that my skin graft donor site can’t go longer than two hours without a dousing of lotion before it feels like I’m ripping the skin off again should I shift positions, the bottle of Tums on my nightstand is empty after attempting to quell the damage done to my digestive tract from 4 weeks of IV pain-killers, 4 surgeries worth of anesthesia and 15 months of parasites, and sleep is the farthest thing from my mind, you’d think I’d haul my netbook up off the floor and onto my chest and just write. But what is there to say?

Should I talk about the fact that orthopedics tell me I’ll never run a marathon again? Or that the bones in my foot are hardly visible on the X-rays for all of the plates and screws shrouding them from view? I know! There’s the fact that all of my friends and family in the States are moving on with their lives: looking for jobs, cities, apartments and grad schools while I’m treated like a 13-year-old in my parents’ house; a burden that can’t even carry its own food. Nah. Maybe I could expand upon my feelings towards never being given the opportunity to say goodbye to anyone in Uganda, let alone the fact that I left a house, wonderful friends, a job and responsibilities for the future. And how I want, desperately, more than anything in the world, to get back there yet doctors tell me it could be anywhere from 4 months to a year before my foot is functioning anywhere near properly. Oh, but the surgeries? They’ll continue forever. I could write about how it feels being stuck, in so many ways, here in the States while my boyfriend is in my village (MY village!) in Uganda right now, working in a clinic and experiencing everything we were supposed to do together. Somehow that doesn’t pulse like a good writing topic, either.

So I think I’ll just go back to bed.

Three Weeks in the Life: woke up, got hit by a car...

Day 1: Ask Joe Mathias or John Emami.

No just kidding, I suppose the logical place for me to start is at the beginning, so that’s where I begin my script… A classic dilemma: whether to eat before a workout or not. And the classic reasoning: an athlete needs energy, but doesn’t want to throw up; wants to stay nourished, but remain slim. But for me, I was regretting the piece of whole-grain bread I’d downed at 6:50am in preparation for a 9-mile run for none of the above reasons. Rather, the bread was a lump in my stomach keeping me from surgery at noon. Because at 7:30am, as I was running along a two-lane country road in George, South Africa with my friend Joe, I was hit by a car from behind, as it made its way into the wrong lane and even onto the shoulder to recklessly pass another car. My right ankle and foot were shattered, obviously implying the total destruction of my running shoe. Gruesome details aside, I was finally ushered into surgery around 7pm that night. But those 12 hours leading up to surgery bore unbearable pain (don’t think me a wimp, it hurt like hell), two hospitals, two uncomfortable-to-the-max car rides with me strewn across the backseat, x-rays, a CT scan, multiple morphine injections followed by morphine-induced vomiting, expensive calls to PC and family, a conversation avoided with my injurer’s lawyer who showed up at the hospital in an attempt to defer blame, and unforgettable kindnesses displayed by my two good friends, John and Joe. How lucky I was to be travelling with those boys.

Day 6: It was an active day, the most active I’d been in six. I’ve learned the best way to avoid the 4am baths is to not be awake and ready for them. Sounds obvious, but I wasn’t keen on inconveniencing the nurses at first. But if you act like you’re the one being interrupted (as if 24 hrs in a bed doesn’t present enough opportunity for sleep), then the nurses will back out with a humbled “we’ll come back later.” So today 6am was able to tick by before I wrestled myself from my reverie. A solid night, considering what was anticipated: off goes to bandaging and a check at the progress is made. Dr. Barrett, my orthopedist forced me to pull my nose out of the Sudoku blocking my view of my foot, and I’m glad he did. Even though the stitching, wiring, bruising, swelling and oozing make my foot look more like a prop in a horror film, I can at least understand where my pain is coming from now. The worst part, and immediate concern, is for the extensive tissue damage done to the back of my heel (where initial impact and the hard back of my shoe made for a poor combination in exemplifying skin’s resiliency…).

Day 15: I’ve got the nuances of the hospital down. But that won’t give me anxiety over leaving when I finally can go. George Hospital has been caring to a truly great extent, but get me out! 15 days in a bed; 15 days in pain; 15 days of sleepless nights and hospital food; 15 days waiting for the next step: a next surgery, a next doctor, a next excruciating hour of bandage removal and replacement to check the progress. But it looks like Thursday’s my day! I can say goodbye with a heartfelt “thanks” to all the fine nurses and hop (ugh) on a plane; off to Pretoria, where I’ll spend a day in PC care, finalizing plans and filling paperwork for my COS (that would be Close of Service, an acronym which the pang in my gut tells me I am far from accepting as indicative of my case…). Even Rob has already been here for 11 days. Currently out enjoying the beautiful mountains by bike, as he should, he’s been a great comfort. He’s no mom, but his consistent candy-, email- and story-times have safeguarded my sanity. So he helps me move in 2 days: the critical moment between surgeries. My 3rd surgery was a damaged-to-the-point-of-death tissue-removing procedure in preparation for a skin graft. The area of concern being the swath of heel from inner to outer ankle, with little muscle and fat, will be tricky; the graft needs an excessive amount of time to settle. Which essentially means a few more weeks in the hospital after the graft surgery is done upon my return. Oh well, at least I’ll be a little more entertained than I have been for the past 15 days (I rue the day John and Joe left! [Day 7]). I think I’m going to start studying for the GMAT to keep my mind from wandering to the cruel truths lying beneath this injury, keep my mind from missing Uganda. But for the next 2 days, at least, I’ll be preoccupied with helping PC arrange for my travel. Ambulances, business class seats for my foot’s extension (far-from-worth-it perk), a speedy layover on account of a vacuum-sealed bandage with a 24hr battery life, and enough pain killers to prevent the altitude-induced swelling from reaching unbearable levels (“Who? You mean the man with the morphine shot? My dad? Sure… he’s a certified nurse…”): logistics I’ve always desired managing. How lucky for me!

Day 18: I flew to Pretoria two days ago. First leg of my journey completed. Today I catch a 8:10 flight out of Johannesburg, arriving in Atlanta 18 hours later and Chicago 4 after that; with time changes and layovers that puts me squarely in the backseat of my mom’s SUV-thing at 11am Monday morning. The Peace Corps South Africa headquarters are what’s tying me to Pretoria: all PCVs with serious medical cases find their way here to recover and receive care that can’t be found in Uganda, Rwanda, Morocco, Madagascar, Zambia, Swaziland, Lesotho, you get the gist. So we’re an interesting crew here; broken jaws, fractured skulls, food poisoning-induced arthritis, abnormal blood tests. Oh Africa. How I’ll miss you… But even though I’m coming home, and anxious to see friends, family and a good-looking boy, I’ve set my sights on August/September to find me back at St. Thomas Vocational Secondary School in the boonies of Uganda. Luckily all I’ll have is time in the States; time to dedicate to sitting in a hospital bed waiting for a skin graft to take and, more importantly, time to dedicate to rehabbing to make me run again. And for support with that, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with those I care about in the U.S. To those in Uganda: I miss you already. To those in America: see you folks soon!!!

One month til Jacob comes! (Author's note: this post has nothing to do with Jacob's coming)

Happy Easter! It may be a few days post-peeps-overload for you, but Easter here’s a 4 day holiday: Good Friday, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday, Easter Monday. That’s a lot of mass. For most… For me, it meant a lot of yoga and The West Wing. Where was I in 1999 and why wasn’t I watching The West Wing? That show is fantastic. Yet the fact that there are 7 seasons could seriously impede my work, heck, bring it to a screeching halt; but I’m in luck (I disagree with you, Renee, this is bad luck!): I only have the first season on my computer. The West Wing’s off the air, I acquiesce, but is 30 Rock? It shouldn’t be. Tina Fey’s comedic genius mixed with perverse and often inappropriate bits that would never make the cut of a West Wing taping, make that show perfect for a rainy, or frustrating day. Can you see I’ve spent my time wisely as of late?

In my defense, I’ve been on holiday for the past week. School term ended last Thursday. No more students (I miss them)! No more books (There never were any)! No more teachers’ dirty looks (I ruffle a few feathers)! But really, it’s been nothing but final exams, staff meetings and report card filling since my birthday (take note: April 14. I’ll be 25 next year, that’s HUGE, people). So I’ve passed my second birthday in Uganda. This one, though, has the last beat. I spent my 23rd in bed during training, nursing an unfortunate bout of giardia. I spent the 24th eating cake surrounded my lions. You might think that that kind of thing’s made only for a Malcolm in the Middle episode (F I need to update my pop culture references), but it can and did indeed happen. Here’s the long and short of it: Hayley bakes me a delicious chocolate cake, from which I really only got a small nosh because tradition has it here that the celebratee has to serve the celebrators before his or herself. Hayley has an office staff of around 15. I noted, to my dismay, that on any normal day there are about 6 loitering around. I can only conclude that the cake memorandum had leaked. So during my 5 minutes ever employed in servitude, Brian and his girlfriend Kristen showed up. (Get this story: Brian came to Uganda w/ me a year ago as a PC volunteer. The SAME DAY, his long-term girlfriend Kristen left for PC in Paraguay. Her visiting the past few weeks was the first they’ve seen of each other in over a year. A-frickin-dorable). They were meeting up with Benjamin, Hayley’s coworker and Queen Elizabeth National Park safari game guide. Now, I had finished my work there, and when the two of them offered up a free tag-along position on safari, how could I not jump into the car at the opportunity?! And luckily I did, fore it resulted in the coolest lion experience I can imagine. I don’t think Benjamin was supposed to go off the path like that…

It would logically follow that if two birthday have passed with me straddling the Equator, than two Easter’s have also elapsed. Not true! Easters are screwy. But yeah, two actually have, ha. This one was a little strange. It was the first “big” holiday I spent alone in the village. Obviously I wasn’t alone. I spent 3 hours in a church service to which we preemptively brought our own chairs. That should tell you a little about how overcrowded it was. (Ugandans are also opportunistic Christians!) Strange though: the 3 hours swam by pleasantly because my favorite little sister, Somaya, filled my lap… and also my heart…? Gross, I hate kids and I hate sentimentality. But it had to be confessed. I can’t get enough of my extended family here, even though Easter met me with a profound longing for the Vuillaume family traditions. Or maybe I just wanted my hidden chocolate eggs and quarters. 24-year-olds are still entitled to Easter baskets!

Easter ended in a homemade, hearty meal prepared lovingly with my family, which included everyone’s favorites (and ALL of mine: cabbage, millet bread and groundnut sauce). Much like everyone’s at home Stateside, I’m sure. And I actually have been doing some work. But more on that later; the project’s not finished and I’m hitting the road, than the air, than the sea in South Africa for a few days. How better to celebrate our official 1-year-as-volunteer mark, than to… well I actually don’t know what we’re going to do in South Africa, but we’ll sure as hell figure it out as we go! Nelson Mandela, the Zulu and braiis: let us in! (Us being myself, John and Joe; should be an interesting trio) Catch ya when I get back, please don’t anticipate Egypt-like accounts. Better yet, please pray that I DON’T return with Egypt-like accounts. Happy Easter and Happy Spring, kids!

Happy, Shift, F7: content, contented, pleased, glad...

How did this happen? How is the slowest year of my life actually over? And how is God’s name is this year going so fast?! Maybe it’s because I make vegetable curry every night for dinner such that the days have blurred together (seriously, I’m eating vegetable curry right now). Nah, try again. I haven’t blacked out in a malarial state of semi-being. Therefore, that has to mean that I’m actually happy; I’m enjoying this year! Holy balls. Who gave me permission to do that? Blame it on my students: they’re audacious little bastards. And Jacob: he’s an audacious bastard. And myself: I’m just audacious.

Truly, though, I welcome Mid-March (Mid-April, Mid-May, Mid-June…) with my solitary favorite phrase in vernacular: kulikyo, welcome back! These months are greeted with smiles (hi Smiles, thanks for reading) partially because I’ve nestled into a groove and partially because I’m legit keyed-up about the future. I’m hating teaching computers, and admit to that fact unabashedly to everyone within earshot at least once a week, but I’m loving my students. And the perpetuity of high school is unavoidable: I’m a Junior Peace Corps Volunteer thanks to the February group of Freshman, teaching for a Sophmore year in a school with new Freshmen at whom I catch even myself treating as the noobs right along with all of the older St. Thomas Students. Send me pennies, I have no reservations about throwing them. Just kidding… I’m their teacher… Yeah… Sigh… But I think I’ve come to fill the role of older friend/advisor to many of these kids, and I’m more than okay with that. I’d much rather encourage them to forego studying to instead play volleyball, netball, football or just shoot the shit. I spend too many 5:00ams a week threatening to beat boys and girls alike in sprinting, plank and push-up competitions (I’ve got the planks and push-ups but I’m better off feigning my starts when it comes to sprinting with the boys: they don’t fear the beach ball-size divots and cow patties [ugh, beach balls as well] on our ‘track’). I get to talk to whomever asks about good study habits (I still wish I could turn it into a career…) and when I planned an International Women’s Day program, be damn sure that it included games that involve as many people as possible getting drenched by as much water as possible and a girl’s football match, as well as lessons on puberty, menstruation, sex, HIV/AIDS and pregnancy. For the boys as well. Although maybe I should rethink my strategy; I did get a chunk of my arm gouged out by an over-zealous Drip, Drip, Drop contestant… I’m lying, it didn’t even bleed.

So when I say that I’m content, I’m being honest. Despite the fact that two of my good friends are moving away: Kakulu and Deacon Dez. Dez is becoming a full-blown priest (trust me, there are half-blown priests) this weekend. His ordination celebration should be hilarious, judging by the inside joke we share naming nothing less than a cold Guinness as “His Life.” But he’ll be heading his own parish soon, and so, alas, I lose my best guy friend. So drink a Guinness for him on St. Patty’s Day, and wish him the luck of the Irish in becoming as much of a Fr. Gavin as a non-Fr. Gavin can become. Then there’s Kakulu, damn him! This morning, after his ritualistic morning teasing, this time inviting me to tea in his house which is presently a pile of bricks, he squeezes me into a big hug and says, “when you’re in Kampala, call me.” What?! I look left: there’s a rolled-up mattress at his feet and a suitcase the appropriate size for an American’s weekend getaway. “I probably won’t be back these ends for a year.” Shit. “Couldn’t you have told me BEFORE the day you were leaving??” Nah, that’s so not Africa.

But it’s all good, I’m happy, right (have you caught the theme yet)? Yep, despite needing to recharge with the next-best comfort food after cereal, a peanut butter and honey sandwich, following most typing lessons with the “freshman”, all gauges still read “Renee’s happy!”. I’ve reached the point in my service in which I’ve come to the realization that Give! Give! Give! is just as appreciated by the community as Give Sometimes and Do What You Want the Rest of the Time! So I read a lot. I’ve become addicted to moon salutations and headstands. I ran out of new sudokus, thus I pen my own. I decided to learn how to play chess, thinking I could one-up Jacob in something (no such luck, he knows… but thankfully my determination to beat people at things can’t be deterred by minor setbacks like the fact that he knows how to play and I don’t); good game, reminds me of Carl. I brainstorm hairstyles for the impending hair-growth. I think about travelling quite regularly: off to South Africa and Rwanda with friends before the end of May. I think about life post-PC. Call the press: I’ve decided firmly how I’m going to spend my readjustment allowance (read: pittance) of like $6,000! A good road bike for the streets of Chicago, GRE and grad school apps, and flying lessons in San Diego via the airport near Elizabeth’s home where I’ll spend a lolling few months. And what of the time (may it come idly swiftly) when the school year has ended, I’ve packed a lone pack (not much should return to America after a sojourn in Africa. Plus Winnie’s already laid dibs on my mattress), and saluted the great continent? Well, I think an Ashram in India will welcome me with open arms and a chorus of “oms” for a few weeks. But I’ll be damned if I’m not home before my 25th year comes calling. April 14, 2012, people, see you then.