As many of you know, this email is very late in coming. I left Ethiopia over a month ago, and I've been cruising France and the South of US since then. For some reason, I couldnt get myself together to write this email. Maybe it was my reluctance to admit that it was over. Or maybe it was because I've drowned myself in activity since then, not stopping to actually reflect on what has happen. But just as watching the last Harry Potter film has cleared me of my sense of duty towards JK Rowling, this email signifies the end of a chapter in the book of Van.
A History of the World, Pt 2
This is a section which I would love to write, but I'm not feeling up to the challenge yet, and I'll never send this email if I wait for motivation. You can ask me personally if you want to hear about my trip to the historical circuit in the North of Ethiopia. Otherwise, you can simmer in the mystery.
Leaving on a Jet Plane
My last days in Ethiopia were almost as to be expected. I didn't want to tell anyone that I was leaving until I had to so as not to drag out the grieving process. That's not me being sarcastic. Ethiopians truly have a way of emotions, and endlessly repeating a theme that I cannot grasp. If I told them the date I was leaving a year before, they'd start the crying and bemoaning then and not stop until I had left. So, I kept it short, and told most of my students just 4 or 5 days before I actually left. I even kept a mystery for the volunteers who only knew a week and a half before my departure. I ran from house to house of my students, saying goodbyes to parents, receiving wonderfully tacky gifts, on par with those you'd pick up at an Outer Banks "Under $5" store. Thankfully, the students I really got to know also knew I wasnt much of a crier, so there weren't so many tears. I left a horrible load of materials to be sorted by the other volunteers because I just didnt know what to do with anything with the collection of materials compiled over two years. I mean, I hadnt lived in any one place for that long in quite some time. With bags packed and room cleaned, I headed to the Addis airport, something I'd done countless times over the past two years. But this time, I learned what was on the other side of the gate. I boarded a sleepy, half-filled plane to take me a world away.
The Royal Wedding
I arrived in a city and I country I love on a sunny, afternoon. Nothing can take away the heart aches like a glance at the Eifel Tower and the prospects of a truly spectacular wedding. I had planned to stay in Paris for a night, but my friend--the bride--insisted I make my way straight down to her village outside of Lyon. An uneventful train ride later, and I was hugging and kissing a friend who I hadnt seen since her sister's wedding in the same place three years prior. It was still a fantasy to me to be able to hug someone I knew. I was a little out of sorts after such a long travel, and not being used to the Western world. I was mind-boggled by all the white people, and people kissing on the street, and exposing clothing. I felt more than awkward greeting her and her fiance's family at the dinner table. At least they were all well traveled and very kind about my reintegration into society. I spent the next few days helping the family transform their chateau into a wedding wonderland. It was an absolutely gorgeous affair with all the women donning hats (myself included) and plenty of good people and good champagne. I danced the night away with the Mexican groom's family, but as I took too liberally to the spirits, I ended up on the floor a few times. I also found some nice British friends to speak English with, and we had a good time comparing this to the actual royal wedding. We only lacked the priest doing a cartwheel in the church.
Le ciel du Paris
I didnt really have a plan after the wedding finished. I didnt even have a plane ticket. My friend's family were all amused by this, and her parents graciously took me in for a few days after all of their own children had left. I had a vague plan of traveling around until I was tired, and since it was so close, I started in Geneva. I carpooled with some strangers to the city and hefted my backpack to the only hostel I had read about in the city. As all things in Geneva, it was pristine with a formal air of gentleman stiffly waiting at the opera for his partner to arrive. The city was in all ways respectful, but seemed to lack character. I was spending my time sleeping in any outdoor venue I found. Park benches, mountain tops, etc. I was lost to my European dreaming when I was suddenly aware that I knew the girl standing beside me in the hostel. As it turned out, my old roommate's sister had also come to Geneva for a few days. What are the freakin' odds! It was fun to sit and chat and learn about american things (although she too had been an ex-pat for a little while). But we were both moving on the next morning and said our goodbyes as quickly as our hellos.
I decided very quickly that all I wanted was sleep and I shouldnt have to pay for it. So, instead of an extended European adventure, I had purchased a ticket home for the following week. But there were still some surprises left. I called my friend in Paris and she said she was leaving the city for the weekend with her friends and I was free to join them. And so, not knowing anyone save my friend, I did. I carpooled again to France, then metro, bus, and once again I was in a car with 8 strangers. It was only after 4 hours of driving that I decided to ask where we were going. Apparently, my friend's family owned a house on the coast beyond Nantes. I was excited to see the ocean again, and even more excited when I realised her family home had 14 bedrooms. I woke up early the next morning to waves crashing on the shore and salt in the air. It was great getting to know everyone, and we had a great time going on a very spirited run, then cracking oysters off the rocks, and I cooked a nice mexican dinner for the french. We stayed up half the night dancing "le roc" and singing traditional french songs. (They were singing, I was laughing at all the varieties of drinking songs) One of the girls was firm on repeating that she was "a real american girl" with a very thick french accent. In true french fashion, we rolled out of bed early the next morning to walk to mass, and listen to perhaps the worst cantor ever. It was one of those churches where you weren't sure if you had accidentally stumbled upon a funeral because everyone was old and decript and the priest has a slightly mournful look.
We returned to Paris, I with a few more Parisien friends, and they with a good earful of an American accent. I stayed with my friend a few more days in her cozy apartment under the shadow of the Eifel Tower. As some of you might know, I requested a scavenger hunt for my short time in Paris, since I had no real objective. This forced me to talk to people and encouraged such strange behavior as a headstand at Sacre-Coeur, chasing pigeons in Le Jardin de Tullieries, or drinking a Heineken on the Pont Alexandre III at 10 am. I did most of these on the morning before I left and was literally running from place to place. My last destination was the Maison de Balzac to sit in the writer's chair. I talked my way into the house for free, and then found some lovely American women to take my picture. At that point, I was unwilling to cross the velvet rope, and they were discouraging the idea as well.
Home Again, home again
My last days in Ethiopia were almost as to be expected. I didn't want to tell anyone that I was leaving until I had to so as not to drag out the grieving process. That's not me being sarcastic. Ethiopians truly have a way of emotions, and endlessly repeating a theme that I cannot grasp. If I told them the date I was leaving a year before, they'd start the crying and bemoaning then and not stop until I had left. So, I kept it short, and told most of my students just 4 or 5 days before I actually left. I even kept a mystery for the volunteers who only knew a week and a half before my departure. I ran from house to house of my students, saying goodbyes to parents, receiving wonderfully tacky gifts, on par with those you'd pick up at an Outer Banks "Under $5" store. Thankfully, the students I really got to know also knew I wasnt much of a crier, so there weren't so many tears. I left a horrible load of materials to be sorted by the other volunteers because I just didnt know what to do with anything with the collection of materials compiled over two years. I mean, I hadnt lived in any one place for that long in quite some time. With bags packed and room cleaned, I headed to the Addis airport, something I'd done countless times over the past two years. But this time, I learned what was on the other side of the gate. I boarded a sleepy, half-filled plane to take me a world away.
The Royal Wedding
I arrived in a city and I country I love on a sunny, afternoon. Nothing can take away the heart aches like a glance at the Eifel Tower and the prospects of a truly spectacular wedding. I had planned to stay in Paris for a night, but my friend--the bride--insisted I make my way straight down to her village outside of Lyon. An uneventful train ride later, and I was hugging and kissing a friend who I hadnt seen since her sister's wedding in the same place three years prior. It was still a fantasy to me to be able to hug someone I knew. I was a little out of sorts after such a long travel, and not being used to the Western world. I was mind-boggled by all the white people, and people kissing on the street, and exposing clothing. I felt more than awkward greeting her and her fiance's family at the dinner table. At least they were all well traveled and very kind about my reintegration into society. I spent the next few days helping the family transform their chateau into a wedding wonderland. It was an absolutely gorgeous affair with all the women donning hats (myself included) and plenty of good people and good champagne. I danced the night away with the Mexican groom's family, but as I took too liberally to the spirits, I ended up on the floor a few times. I also found some nice British friends to speak English with, and we had a good time comparing this to the actual royal wedding. We only lacked the priest doing a cartwheel in the church.
Le ciel du Paris
I didnt really have a plan after the wedding finished. I didnt even have a plane ticket. My friend's family were all amused by this, and her parents graciously took me in for a few days after all of their own children had left. I had a vague plan of traveling around until I was tired, and since it was so close, I started in Geneva. I carpooled with some strangers to the city and hefted my backpack to the only hostel I had read about in the city. As all things in Geneva, it was pristine with a formal air of gentleman stiffly waiting at the opera for his partner to arrive. The city was in all ways respectful, but seemed to lack character. I was spending my time sleeping in any outdoor venue I found. Park benches, mountain tops, etc. I was lost to my European dreaming when I was suddenly aware that I knew the girl standing beside me in the hostel. As it turned out, my old roommate's sister had also come to Geneva for a few days. What are the freakin' odds! It was fun to sit and chat and learn about american things (although she too had been an ex-pat for a little while). But we were both moving on the next morning and said our goodbyes as quickly as our hellos.
I decided very quickly that all I wanted was sleep and I shouldnt have to pay for it. So, instead of an extended European adventure, I had purchased a ticket home for the following week. But there were still some surprises left. I called my friend in Paris and she said she was leaving the city for the weekend with her friends and I was free to join them. And so, not knowing anyone save my friend, I did. I carpooled again to France, then metro, bus, and once again I was in a car with 8 strangers. It was only after 4 hours of driving that I decided to ask where we were going. Apparently, my friend's family owned a house on the coast beyond Nantes. I was excited to see the ocean again, and even more excited when I realised her family home had 14 bedrooms. I woke up early the next morning to waves crashing on the shore and salt in the air. It was great getting to know everyone, and we had a great time going on a very spirited run, then cracking oysters off the rocks, and I cooked a nice mexican dinner for the french. We stayed up half the night dancing "le roc" and singing traditional french songs. (They were singing, I was laughing at all the varieties of drinking songs) One of the girls was firm on repeating that she was "a real american girl" with a very thick french accent. In true french fashion, we rolled out of bed early the next morning to walk to mass, and listen to perhaps the worst cantor ever. It was one of those churches where you weren't sure if you had accidentally stumbled upon a funeral because everyone was old and decript and the priest has a slightly mournful look.
We returned to Paris, I with a few more Parisien friends, and they with a good earful of an American accent. I stayed with my friend a few more days in her cozy apartment under the shadow of the Eifel Tower. As some of you might know, I requested a scavenger hunt for my short time in Paris, since I had no real objective. This forced me to talk to people and encouraged such strange behavior as a headstand at Sacre-Coeur, chasing pigeons in Le Jardin de Tullieries, or drinking a Heineken on the Pont Alexandre III at 10 am. I did most of these on the morning before I left and was literally running from place to place. My last destination was the Maison de Balzac to sit in the writer's chair. I talked my way into the house for free, and then found some lovely American women to take my picture. At that point, I was unwilling to cross the velvet rope, and they were discouraging the idea as well.
Home Again, home again
And then I was on a plane home, back to the US, and I didnt know what to do with myself. My first thought was drinking, but that was dampened by the fact that my airlines of choice no longer offered free booze on international flights. It wasnt a good time to sleep, and I soon finished the book my mother had sent me in Africa. A poorly thought out choice of stories from children in Africa from the Oprah Book Club list. Nothing makes you want to cut your heart out faster, and certainly not a healthy read while in the reality of itall. But thanks for the present anyway mom. So I lost myself to that little video screen in front of my face and caught up on 7 hours of movies that I had never heard of. And soon enough, with a speedy tail wind, the plane touched down in DC. As anyone is welcomed to America, I stood in a long line waiting for the hopeful first words spoken to me on US soil--"Next".
I was embraced by my teary eyed parents and bombarded with questions, as to be expected. And after a short delay in the hometown, I have been traveling the East Coast since. So, I am glad to be seeing everyone again and hearing about all those delightful points of life which I have missed over these two years. So, in conclusion, thank you for your support--letters, prayers, music, and whatnot--while I was away, and I hope to see you soon.
Best regards,
Virginia/Va/Van
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