Landing in Africa

The plane touches down 45 minutes early, to the delight of my new friend who sits beside me, juggling two babies while telling me about the beautiful richness of his homeland. And how happy he is that an American is travelling there on vacation, "just because." He tells me that Bill Cosby has a house in Ghana, but I imagine people like Bill Cosby have houses everywhere.

Turns out I was dead wrong about Ghana -- it is third-world, or "developing" or whatever euphemism is used to describe a place where there may or may not be toilets available at the local pub.

Had an eye-opening experience yesterday at the local arts market, where I was led down an alley and in every other corner, there was a family watching me, and he pointed to beyond a concrete wall, and when I walked past the wall -- what was I expecting? -- I saw just a floor and some more concrete wall. And large openings in the concrete floor that served as drains. I think I actually said, "OK!" out loud, in shock.

It is warm here and for that I'm grateful. The wind and icy temperatures of New York were punishing and at one point last Friday, I couldn't even feel my face any more.

Here, it is very tropical and moist. I visited two museums and walked around a bit. Nobody is that surprised to see a foreigner - I saw three of them yesterday at the bank. One of them was a full-on ex-pat, a short white guy in his mid-fifties, wearing a brown and white local dress with a matching cap. However, I am the recipient of many kissing sounds and inquiries regarding my marital status, but I have not received any outright proposals as the guide books promise, and I wonder if, like in America, there are two types of girls: the type you marry, and the type you ____ and if even in Africa, I am the type of girl you ____.

Lodgings are a bit ... run-down. I have a room to myself. I wish I hadn't booked a room to myself, but I'm only spending two more nights here in the city before I leave to the beach hut I've been dreaming about.

Little girls with outstretched hands - remind me of Mexico. I press some coins into her tiny hand.

I compose a letter to Marcel in my head, the beautiful man at the piano bar on 51st St and 8th Ave. I write it like this: Dear Marcel, I don't know if you remember me, but we talked for a small while outside the piano bar, and you told the guy who was begging for change that you had been where he was: poor. And you told me that you taught high school history and you came from Brazil, and you found your way out of poverty through sports at the University of Kansas, and you asked me how long I was staying in New York and I said that I was leaving in two days, and you looked a little disappointed, and that's why I didn't give you my number, because you said, "People come and go all the time," but I wonder if you believe that maybe happiness and love are possible, even with a stranger? If you believed, then I would believe too. Your eyes were dark and beautiful that night, and I think I might have fallen in love with you; you looked like the person I dream about being in love with.

Here in Accra, the noises of the taxis so different and yet so similar to New York, I feel not at all a part of things, but somehow very separate and I start to crawl inside of myself, and I dream about work and I think too much and I walk back to the hostel and surprisingly, only get a little bit lost, and the smell of burning sage and sewer is overwhelming.

I have big travel books of all that I am supposed to see, but I find myself here and I don't know where or how to go.