December 3rd, 2011. I have stopped writing for myself, to remember.
Yesterday, as I stared crying in front of the bitchy counterwoman who was, ironically, also named Grace, wishing only to get on the flight to India, I measured my breaths. I started to hyperventilate, standing in front of a smudged mirror, the door partly open and cleaning lady peering in worried, and counted. I sat in a taxi, standing in the middle of a crowded highway, men selling opened water and American girl dolls, lollipops and clinking coins and kissing the air, and I stopped crying.
I missed my flight because I did not have a yellow card. I stayed in Josh and Jessica's house, he a connection through my mom in a convoluted direction, both strangers. The house was beautiful and white and airy with the fans on, clammy and dark otherwise. The beach blew salty air, the bagagi driver friendly and young, talked of tacking and sailing and Somali pirates.
The ferry was hot, sweat glowed on necks and sunk through clothes of men carting food and crates of glass bottled soda, and Swahili surged around metal poles and between steaming cars.
I slept on a mattress with one sheet, mosquito zapped at my feet. I had an omelette for lunch, and talked of American politics and the Peace Corps and of sex tourism and my grandfather.
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