ROME

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