culture shock, basically

I step off the plane in Dulles and gawk at all of the Trump paraphernalia. Why is America insane?

Puddle jumping through airports selling Gucci handbags and overpriced manicures which would feed a family in our village for a year, my stomach churns at the opulence. Have you nothing better to do with your wealth America?

I chit chat with all the people in all the beautiful homes and see a common thread in every conversation – buying the house, getting the promotion, planning the next vacation. After the 24^th time, its all rather predictable – the American dream is alive and well and I’m unsettled. You know nothing done in vain lasts, right, America?

This place lacks purpose.

This place lacks community.

There are literal walls going up between us all the time, but that fits right in with the theme – the self-made man, what he can consume, what he can acquire, what he can achieve.

Zambia is not like this.

I look at my calendar with obnoxious frequency.

Six weeks left.

Then five, then four.

Two weeks to go…

It’s not all bad, I suppose.

I mean, these houses smell like cinnamon rolls.

My fingernails have been clean for a month.

Restaurants actually have what is on their menu.

My GPS and I are never lost.

Stunning landscaping.

Indoor carpet.

“There’s an app for that.”

My mother is in the same time zone as me.

A M A Z O N    P R I M E. This is no joke.

Everything is so… functional!

Mildly shallow, materialistic, individualistic. But oh so comfortable.

I could actually get used to this.

I guess I have.

It’s possible I’ve been too hard on America. I mean, you do treat me pretty well.

And you are generous.

Can I really hate on that?

Sigh.

My seven weeks are up and I’m going HOME!

Wait, home?

Well, that is where my heart is, isn’t it?

I sure am going to miss America’s pampering though…

Ah Zambia.

You’re grass is so green and your air so clean.

Strangers talk to me on the airplane, and why yes, kind man you may absolutely hoist my overweight bags onto that cart for me!

The steady stream of people showing up at my door to welcome me back.

The constant laughter of kids just outside.

Sleeping in MY bed.

These things are what make life good.

I think I’ll go pick an avocado and then take a stroll down the bush path to catch up with all my favorite people.

Wait, what?

Why is the village calling in the witch doctor?

Seven funerals in seven weeks?

Why hasn’t the land for the school been settled yet?

Could this be any less efficient?

Why does my husband have malaria again?

Everything is so… dysfunctional!

Warm, welcoming, meaningful. But oh so frustrating.

America is not like this.

It’s possible I’ve viewed you through rose colored glasses, Zambia.

And now I guess I have to RE-get-used to this.

I mean, if things were totally different, I suppose we wouldn’t have purpose here, so can I really hate on that?

Sigh.

Admire.

Despise.

The cocktail of good, bad and ugly twists up your sensibilities and sometimes your intestines and the question why have I chosen this? is painfully dichotomous.

Jet-lag drunk accessorized by disillusionment and disorientation.

This is culture shock, basically.

And it doesn’t last forever.

A good long nap is therapeutic too.