19 December 2011, 7:54 am, Lisbon, Portugal
So, I probably should have started this blog when I was
still in Bamako, but I didn’t really give the whole traveling experience too
much thought. Of course, that was dumb because I’m on the trip I’ve been
planning since June, and I can’t believe it’s actually happening. I’ve been so
excited I couldn’t sleep well for the past few weeks and I’ve had sweaty palms
since I woke up yesterday. At around 8 last night my friends Kristin and Emily
and I left the Bamako stage house to many hugs and cries of “Eat lots of cheese
for me!” to hail a cab. Kristin is going home to America for the holidays, and
Emily is meeting her parents and sister in London. Although their flight left
about three hours before mine, we split a cab to the airport. The ride is only
about 20 minutes, but it’s way on the other side of town, which makes the fare
higher, around 5,000 CFA, or ten dollars. I’m poor, so it made more sense to
just go with them. I’m glad, though. I was so nervous and excited, and even a
little sad about leaving Mali. The last time I drove that way was when I
arrived in Mali, nearly eleven months ago. It stirred some nostalgia, which
surprised me, but also reaffirmed that I really do love Mali on some level that
isn’t always accessible to my living-en-brusse consciousness. For Emily and
Kristin it was slightly more poignant, as this would be the last time they
leave the country before they leave for good. As long as twenty-seven months
sounds, it’s really not. It’s even scarier to realize how fast life comes at
you once you have to actually pay attention to making plans for the future. But
I digress. This is a happy post about me going to Rome to see Matt, and my
feelings and experience getting there.
Once I finally checked in, I had to wait four hours or so
until my flight left. Even in the Bamako airport I was beginning to feel the
change in culture. I was no longer stared at by every Malian, and I wasn’t
scoffed at for using French. I was I was so tired, so I decided to lay down…
Only to be woken up by a very kind Malian guard who reminded me that I actually
had to board my flight in order to get to my destination. Huh. Funny how that
works. So, I was one of the last to board (how tragic would that have been, missing my flight?), and
had no problems from there. It was weird. And cool. And I blew some of the
guards’ minds by giving them a nighttime blessing in Bambara. And I felt
another pang of love for Mali.
When it finally circled to the runway and straightened up,
that’s kind of when it hit me. In that moment after you stop driving at what
seems like a snail’s pace across the tarmac and right before the pilot guns the
engine and you’re mushed back into your seat was when I smiled for the first
time in the past seven bleary-eyed hours. I had been looking forward to this
moment for six months, and it was finally here. I had a moment’s flashback to
the same realization when I left village almost a week prior. It pays to have
that emotional memory of “Hey, your trip’s starting, and you’d better remember
how this elation feels when the sadness of its end finally hits.” Drawing every
moment out of this trip is going to get me through some future hard times, I’m
sure of it. And so I left Mali.
When my flight began its descent, I peered out the cold
window to a stunning sunrise with layers of the most extreme colors: murky
ocean, blood red, neon orange, peach, salmon and cream, all stacked with milky purple
clouds in between. Flying can be beautiful, but just how lovely, I had forgotten.
We circled down over the early morning lights of Lisbon and my brain kept
repeating one word: electricity. I
couldn’t help but swallow a giggle: so many lights! Street lights, headlights
zooming through the morning’s commute, lights in homes, Christmas lights! And
my goodness, how beautiful the sight of a green lawn! It was next to the ugly
landing strip, but it was the greenest grass I’d seen in over a year. I wanted
to run barefoot in it, despite the fact that I couldn’t feel my toes. Spoiler Alert:
it’s actually winter here.
Can I just take a moment here to talk about Portuguese? To
be honest, I never really gave the language much thought. But who is the US
has? We aren’t near Portugal or Brazil or Cape Verde, and it was never an
option in any of the high school language labs I ever heard of. So, besides the
character “Aurelia” Love Actually I’d
never really even heard the language. It’s beautiful. I hear and see the
Spanish in it quite clearly, but there’s a kind of curvy S sound that sneaks onto
the ends of some of the sounds, making it almost sound eastern European to my
untrained non-linguist ears. I like it. And Lisbon seems cool. I wish I could
explore more.
So that leaves me here, in the Lisbon airport. I’m in the
EU. I’m in the Western world. Now I’m going to tell you a secret: I’m
overwhelmed. Present tense—still being overwhelmed, à la 10 Things I Hate About You. Could this be culture shock? Surely
not, but my brain is flagging something about this experience as “foreign,” regardless
of the fact I’m in a European airport, a place I’ve been before. There is just
SO much to look at and take in. The funny shoes, children jabbering in a number
of exotic tongues, the fifty-somethings with bizarre hair colorings, the track
suits and funny-looking men who all kind of look like Sarcozy.. yep, I’ve
arrived squarely in Europe. I can’t imagine how a Malian who’s never left the
country might handle this. So many lights, and pretty buildings and roads and
it’s so clean smelling! Well, maybe
not clean smelling, but there’s a
distinct lack of shit and piss and burning trash in the air. And the food, OH
the food! Restaurants and bars and bistros and cafes! I know that airport food
is generally terrible and overpriced as a rule but it’s still amazing to me how
much I want to buy the ancient-looking Neopolitain sandwich behind the counter
of “Tasty Snacks.” I resist, despite my body’s confused travel hunger. I swear
to you, I stopped and stood in front of the Pizza Hut for a socially
unacceptable amount of time. Forget that it’s 7:30am… I can have cheesy bread,
if I want it. CHEESY BREAD. FOLLOWED IMMEDIATELY BY A PASTRY AND SOME
BEAUJEALAIS. I may never leave the terminal Yea, I’m definitely more than just
whelmed.
So, now I’m about to board my flight to Rome. I will be able
to see the Mediterranean in the morning light, and perhaps even get a clear
aerial view of The Eternal City as we approach. Saying “I’m going to Rome for
Christmas” sounds so terribly uppercrust of a lowly Peace Corps Volunteer from
Tennessee. But I’m finally figuring out what this means for me: a vacation, a
time to reconnect, time for falling in love again, an entirely new culture to
explore, and an experience of a lifetime.
TEN HOURS LATER
Welp, I finally made it, y’all. I’m in the apartment in
Trastevere, clean (first hot shower since February, NBD), and somewhat drunk,
as I found the grocery store, and therefore cheap bottles of GOOD RED WINE. (I
know my mom and dad are real proud of me right now.) But seriously, I cannot
believe it. I made it, my flight was on time, my taxi driver was nice but
ripped me off (but I don’t care because his name was Giovanni, how could I hate someone named Giovanni?) and besides a blustery hour I spent in the shade of the
apartment complex I could see but couldn’t get into, I’ve had a pretty freaking
awesome day. I mean, I’m in ROME, ITALY for goodness sake. I’m newly obsessed
with: winter boots, the Italian language (a language in which you can
farcically pretend you’re a native speaker and you fit in because if you
exaggerate the last syllable and throw your hands and look disgruntled, you fit
in, it’s that kind of awesome), and small, white dogs. Such good winter
accessories. Oh, also, everyone here has SmartCars and I pretty much swoon
every time I see one. Did I mention I am having my first legit red wine in
like, eleven months? This is kind of a big deal. Also, I’m listening to Bing
Crosby’s White Christmas Album, so it’s pretty magical. MAGICAL.
Ten days in Rome, six days until Christmas, twelve hours
until Matt lands, and ¾ of a bottle of Chianti remains. Here’s a word problem
for you: If a Barker spends eleven months in an Islamic country then buys
herself a bottle of wine in Italy, factoring in time changes, the curvature of
the Earth and the weight of the one ball of Buffalo Mozzerella she’s consumed,
how long will it take for her to make a fool of herself on Facebook?
Must show work. Answers must be converted to the metric
system BECAUSE I’M IN ITALYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
