back.

Flying back is always interesting. It's just that it's so exquisitely different than flying there.

Flying back means I've reached the end of some chapter, of some sort of adventure in my life.  

And I kind of hate that. 

Mexico was my first adventure. I think that's where I learned how to really live life passionately, how to put some "azucar" in everyday exeriences.I learned I loved going out late at night, listening to street musicians, talking to the locals, dancing, playing with kids. I also learned about drug trafficking, poverty, and corruption. But more importantly, I figured out how to see past all that--to see the glory in a building covered with graffiti, to see the loveliness in a culture hidden behind stereotypes. My last day there I was about 98% convinced that that summer had been and would be the best summer of my life. 

Europe was the second adventure. At the end of the school year that year, I felt like my fuel tank was this close to being empty. But then I walked around Europe and it was just so full of beauty. I wish I could capture it in pictures or words, but nothing even comes close. I experienced everything in a way that just touched and filled my soul. Plenary lectures, old bookstores, looming cathedrals, intimate performances, formal halls, Les Mis, winding cobblestone streets, flowers, glorious art, food. I figured out a lot of things that summer. A lot of things about me and a lot of things about what I wanted. I can't even tell you how much I did not want that summer to end. 

I flew back from Africa three weeks ago. I've been putting off blogging about it. There's just so much to say. 

As we were rushing to get to the airport on my last day there, my mind flashed to that morning. It had been miserably humid. Because of course, there had been rain. 

We had walked from our hostel in Stone Town to the ferry that would take us back to Dar. We waded through tiny streets swirling with ankle-deep water and filth. We got on the ferry, and the next two hours we spent on that ferry were probably the two most miserable hours I spent in Africa. 

We got to Dar. I didn't like Dar es Salaam, never had. It just felt dirty, chaotic, dangerous. And the traffic is terrible. Always.

So I thought, you know, I think I'm ready to leave now. I think I'm excited to leave now. I miss clean bathrooms, not having to buy water, sleeping without a mosquito net, and air conditioning in vehicles. Plus, I would kill for a decent hamburger and something besides fried chicken.

But later, when I was actually looking out the plane window, and I saw Dar es Salaam get smaller and smaller, I realized that I wasn't excited to leave, and I especially wasn't excited to leave now. Hopefully, I'll get around to sharing some of the experiences that made it like that in the next couple of days. It's hard to explain. I was excited to go home, but I wasn't excited to leave. 

Driving to one of the schools in Zambia.

Homes in Zambia.

It's why I'm hoping to go back someday. Mount Kilimanjaro is calling my name.