Last Hours

In about 24 hours the van will pick me up to take me to the Jeremie landing strip. (We call it "the airport," but I don't want you to think it's more than it is.) It's very strange planning out the last activities. I'm not ready to go yet. There are still one hundred questions to ask, a bag to pack, pictures to take, gifts and thank-yous to send, and a lot of goodbyes that I hate to say. Tonight there will be a goodbye party at Marie's house. We haven't quite figured out how to rotate all the right people through to make sure I can see everyone without any uncomfortable mixes, but I think it'll be all right.

I woke up to the warm glow of the sky over the water, like every morning. It's still cool for a moment, and I'm thankful, knowing that the heat starts as early as 8 o'clock or even earlier on some days. I'm mulling over the mental checklist, trying to prioritize. I won't be able to fit in everything I'd like today. There are so many places I'd like to visit and activities I'd like to fit in one last time. And I won't be able to see everyone to say goodbye, but maybe it's easier that way.

It's strange how quickly my life and routine here has become so normal to me. I've forgotten the feeling of a night in an air-conditioned house. I'm afraid that I may not be able to re-adopt my normal walking pace and may never be ontime to school again. I'm trying to pretend I'll still be able to eat a perfect avocado every day and hit the beach each Sunday at 1:30. There won't be the or children carrying jugs of water tied together and perched on their heads, or the goats and pigs running around in the sewers. And there's the ocean in constant view, and the music and dancing that are as constant as the poverty and the heat. Even stranger, though, is how quickly I know I'll slip back into my American life.