Twenty Hours of Travel
Three meals, three continents, one long-ass day.
Bridget Jones is on the telle, doing her thing for the second time, this time with Dutch subtitles. I’m in 31C, laptop out doing my thing, writing my website while hurtling through time and space at some ungodly speed. Now over the Atlantic, soon to be in Washington DC, with Saharan sand still staining my shirt.
Last night, in the heat of Accra, I had my last African meal for a while. Large crayfish, called lobster here, with chips and a Star beer, all severed with a side of heat and a sheen of sweat. Then it was on an overnight flight to Amsterdam, where a -8C stiff wind reminded me that winter was still alive while I wandered streets looking for breakfast.
With an omelet, toast, and tea warming me, I saw Amsterdam in a new light. The soft light of dawn that in the half-dozen times I’ve passed through was never so weak against the chill I felt in my bones.
Too much tanning in Africa has thinned my blood, which is a good thing since I am now on another ass-busting clot-forming eight-hour flight to Washington. Luckily, I’m on KLM, which rocks cuz coming down the isle is the ice cream lady. Yeah, that’s right, ice cream, and we all scream for ice cream!
Next up will be a snowstorm landing and Immigration in Dulles, then a long taxi ride to work, where lunch and thee weeks of unfinished business awaits.
It’s back to the daily grind for Wayan, with only memories and tan lines to remind me of my three weeks in West Africa. Memories from sunrise on the Sahel, to sunset at Pointe des Almadies, with mid-day at Labadi Pleasure Beach in between.
Tough life, I know.