Interlude

I started my service with every intention of exclusively vacationing in other African countries. After all, when else would I have the opportunity to do so? A close Peace Corps friend suggested Ghana, so we spent some time looking for the cheapest plane tickets and cooing over stunning google images. But somehow, our plans never materialized. 

Why? Well, to quote my friend: "we had to get out of Africa". I don't miss San Francisco or the Bay Area, but I do get intensely homesick for France--a place I've never called home. For some strange reason, it usually hits me like a ton of bricks in the cookie aisle of the toubab food store. I have but to lay eyes on Petits Ecoliers or Prince biscuits to be transported Proust-style to another temporal dimension infused with nostalgia.

It's true: I dreamt of broccoli, pizza, and guacamole. I wanted to spend time with family in a familiar setting. But most of all, I needed to reconnect with the part of me that's always carefully hidden in village. So I booked a ticket to Paris, and I don't regret it.