Home

As the lights of Dakar disappeared into the night, I came to grips with the fact that this adventure was over. I was going home, wherever home was. As I read Howard Zinn, I realized that a part of me had really loved this country. I slept and read my way through the first flight, and the next few stages of the trip went by without a problem. I arrived at the airport in Florence, where I was greeted by my parents and my little brother. We embraced, and they gave me fresh fruit. I was home. Upon arriving, I showed my family the presents I had gotten them. I went to my room, laid on the mattress, and, after a long, hot shower, I FaceTimed Anjeli. Already, the familiar dynamics were put back in place. This was a reassuring return to normal. I then had a lunch consisting of prosciutto, pecorino cheese, bread, and tomatoes. That was another stark reminder of the differences. However, after the lunch, my mood took a turn downhill. I became idle and bored, and I missed the constant activity of Dakar. I found myself missing the city more and more. At dinner, my dad and I talked to our family about Layenism, Islam, and the strange traits of the religion. For example, we told our family about the inescapable recitations of the Quran, recordings that ranged from the beautiful and musical to the loud and jarring. I have a passion for Layenism, one that is both ironic and not. My ears will forever perk up at the mention of Sedyna Limamou Laye, and his portrait will hang in our house. 

In all seriousness, my return has been very traumatic. I miss life back there. I have a very nostalgic, not entirely accurate view of my days there. I remember the sands of the village, but I forget the hopelessness and the disgust. That can be a good thing, as I will remember the great times I had, but it can also prove to be problematic, as I will lose the very formative experiences I had during those hard times. 

In any case, on the plane yesterday I selected my favorite and most significant photos from the trip. They're below, in no specific order

Departure

Where am I? I'm in paradise. I'm in an unobtainable, unreachable, ever elusive, promised land. I'm sitting in a plane, listening to Bob Dylan, calm and proud, with my book in my lap and the city a world away. This begins the time of reflection. I've said my goodbyes to the family and I've walked the sandy streets of Yoff for the last time. This adventure is behind me. As I sit here in this still plane, I am already home, for better or for worse. In a few hours, I'll land in Paris, and after a short flight to Florence, I'll be in Italy. As soon as I land, I'm eating a tomato. And then a shower. And then, I'll have to think. The stage of fear and stress has ended. Now begins the one of reflection. 

Today, I woke up after a largely sleepless night. I took my last shower, waited firmly lady breakfast, and met up with Isabella. We said our goodbyes, I gave her the computer, and I thanked her. Afterward, I met up with Babacar. We went to the Marché Sandaga, where we bought a tablecloth for the family. After this was accomplished, we stopped by a small café, where I had some amazing grilled thiof with plantains. There, we had a conversation about the trip as a whole. I recorded it, and I'll either post a transcript of it or the recording as a whole. It was a conversation that ran for more than an hour, so it's not exactly light reading material. However, it was a great conversation that served to help me reflect on this trip. When I get home, I'll have to write about my experience at ImagiNation Afrika, and I'll have to send Babacar a transcript of the conversation. We then headed to the airport, where Babacar bought me a Senegal soccer jersey. This was a gift, and it made me very happy. We headed home, where I spent my last hours with the family. 7:00 came. The unreachable hour was upon us. I said my goodbyes to the family and told them to visit us. It was a great moment, a very bittersweet one. I will miss them. I got into a taxi with Babacar and Mustafa. As we drove through the streets of Yoff for the last time, I discovered that there is a part of me that truly loves this city. As the plane is speeding down the runway, I can only think about how amazing this experience has been. I'm coming home, but in some sense, I'm also leaving home.

So good bye Dakar. It's been one hell of a ride.

The Family

Today is my birthday. As of tomorrow, I will be closer to being 30 than to being born. I feel very young, but I can't come to grips with the fact that soon, everyone will be turning 16. We're so old. I'm going to be graduating before I know it. I'm scared. In three years I can legally get executed in most states. That's too much pressure! I'll end up killing someone out of stress. 

In any case, today, I woke up and got ready for my last day at work. I arrived there, where I was greeted by calls of "joyeux anniversaire" and by the kids. I watched a documentary about Marxism as I sat in the sandbox, one eye watching the video, one eye making sure the children weren't stabbing each other with the shovels. My day progressed a lot like the usual. Towards the end, as I tried to get away, my Italian friend, Marcia, told me we had a meeting and that I had to stay. This was an obvious lie, but I indulged her. I knew it was a surprise party, and I wasn't going to call her out on it. To my great shock, the meeting was all a ploy, and when I arrived the liars burst out singing happy birthday. We had some good cake, drank some guava juice, and said our goodbyes. I came home with one of my co-workers, to my slight disappointment. I never got to say goodbye to my beloved clandos. I went to the institute, and after a while, I came home. My family had prepared the chicken, as requested, but with it, they had put raw vegetables, salads, and raw sauces. I had to leave more than half the dish full, a deed which I think upset my host mother. After the dinner, we took photos. It was an experience, as I hate taking photos. I cannot smile naturally, and it always feels very uncomfortable to me.

From left to right: Fama Ba, Libasse Laye, Zeynaba Laye, Issa Laye, Fatou Laye, Mbaye Laye, David Villani 

The teenage girl, Zeynaba, is similar to a teenager that I know in that she's often on her phone, she takes selfies and watches TV.

The little girl, Fatou, is very sweet, cheerful, and upbeat. She's a pleasure to be around

I sleep in the same room as Libasse. Issa has been very nice, and I gave him two of my shirts (an Italy jersey and a Whitman track shirt)

I also took some pictures of the house. The house is small, rat and cockroach infested, and dirty, but cozy, with a lovely l

The front door

The room next to the front door. This is where I brush my teeth.

The corridor from the door to the main part of the house. This is where the Fatou and Zeynaba watch their telenovelas

The living room, where the father spends most of his days, and where I often go myself

I sit on the right sofa, and the father sits on the left. He puts his mat in front of him when he prays

My amazing bed in my huge, luxurious room

The print of Sedyna Limamou Laye that hangs over my room

The kitchen

The dreaded bathroom. I would have taken a picture of the inside, but it's no use going in there if I have no real reason to do so. In addition, a photo would fail to capture the smell or my stress.

The street

It's almost over. For better or for worse, I will be in the air this time tomorrow. This is currently an exciting thought for me. Who knows what I'll feel this time tomorrow. I'm almost done. I made it. I can't believe I made it.