The Collahari

For those of you whose e-mail I don't have!

2010-05-13T12:26:00.001+02:00

Greetings from South Africa!

3 1/2 weeks
3 countries
12 destinations ( 10 planned, 2 unplanned)
2 tents
1 new tire

I'm writing from the headquarters of the Bitou 10 Foundation in Plettenberg Bay, South Africa. It's the first location where we've had free, fast internet and the first place where I've been able to sit and collect my thoughts (sort of.) As of yesterday, we are staying in the guest cottage of David Matthews (not the singer, his uncle.) David's wife, Hillary, is the Executive Director of the Bitou 10 Foundation, an organization whose mission is to change the "educational landscape" and implement Nelson Mandela's vision of how "young people and educators set about learning and teaching."In short, they are trying to undo everything that Apartheid did to education. I told Philip yesterday that, the small amount of time we've spent in South Africa has given me a much greater appreciation for Botswana, a place where the color of my skin matters far less than it does here. As we were driving to the Matthew's house yesterday, past another township, I asked Phil how the country was supposed to move on from the history of Apartheid rule when not much has changed. I asked this as if he would have the answer. I don't know who has the answer but it's like nothing I've ever seen. I won't spend this e-mail dwelling, promise.

Thus far, our trip has been AB-SPLEND-TER-MAZING, a word created for the sole purpose of describing our trip.

We got drenched sleeping in our tent the first night as thunderstorms rolled through Blyde River Canyon. This marked our first sleepless night as well as the first amendment to our itinerary as we were planning to stay there 2 nights but decided to head to the nearest city with a Cape Union Mart (South Africa's REI) to purchase a new tent. Our new orange tent treated us quite well up until 2 nights ago in Port Elizabeth when gale-force winds caused our little tent to bend in ways we didn't know possible. Add to that our forgetting to close the the "door" completely, leaving only the screen between us and the winds and we were in the midst of a veritable tornado of sand, or, more fittingly, a sandbowl. Cape Union Mart has become our sort of refuge as they are everywhere. We go in there for one supply or another and share our recent tales with staff who pretend to be interested. So, after this sandbowl experience, we went there not with the intention of buying a new tent but rather, to buy some long underwear for me who, naively thought that South Africa (being a part of Africa which, to me means, HOT) doesn't really have a Winter. But, it does, and we are in it. As we told our tale to the woman helping us, she pointed us in the direction of the manager who offered to replace our tent. Even though we knew the sandbowl experience was a result of us not zipping it properly, we accepted his offer and brought ours in the next day for a brand new one.

The beauty of South Africa's landscape is beyond description. We've already covered 5,000 km in our Corolla, recently re-named "White Simba" and, for a car with 740,000+ km, she's running beautifully. We had a tire replaced in Durban but, aside from that, all other repairs have been performed by Philip, a headlamp and some superglue. It probably goes without saying that Philip and I have gotten to know each other a lot better and, like each other even more than when our trip began. We haven't made any profound discoveries about each other. For instance, I've learned that he's very indecisive when it comes to simple matters like, asking him if he wants a piece of gum. Yet, when it comes to the big stuff like, "Philip, should we go up this hill that is at a 90 degree angle, muddy and full of potholes, in a 1996 Corolla with 740,000+ km on the odomoter?" His response, a quick "Hell Yes!" He's learned that I prefer peeing on the side of the road rather than going into a roadside bathroom. Together, we've learned that campgrounds set amidst natural surroundings is more preferable than the noisy backpacker places. And, overall, our tent is much more comfortable than any backpacker's bed we've slept.

Mozambique was wonderful. Maputo, full of it's Art Deco architecture teetering between disrepair and shambles as a result of the war that raged through there in the 1980's and 90's, was stunning. Although, when I described it to my brother, his response was, "you think that's beautiful? That sounds depressing to me." We learned a few words in Portugese and I learned that my stomach just can't handle per-peri with every meal. Our drive out to Tofo was our first introduction to roads in disrepair. Potholes strung together with tar is the most fitting description. A 4 hour trip turned into a 9 1/2 hour trip but, the unspoilt beaches of Tofo were well worth it. Philip and I managed to run up debts with various vendors at the markets since the nearest bank was a 10 minute (and hundreds of potholes) drive away. They'd keep a running tab for us and we'd make a run to the bank our 2nd to last day to pay them. The people of Mozambique are warm and friendly and it was refreshing to feel that warmth after the akward exchanges in South Africa where many blacks and whites still don't really know how to act toward each other.

We're not even halfway into our adventure and I have a novel's worth of stories but, those are only being written in pen right now.

Sala Khale!
C

Pictures

2010-05-01T15:09:00.003+02:00

Plenty of pictures are being taken and will be shared once we manage to upload.

Time

2010-05-01T14:37:00.006+02:00

"Is it Saturday or Sunday" the man asked me in a thick Hungarian accent. I thought for a second and realized that I had no idea it was even the weekend. One of the first things I lose track of on the road is Time. On the road, Time is measured by experiences and stories shared. This morning, at the backpackers in Durban, I was having a conversation with a woman named Fiona whose past month of travel was described to me in great detail but any time I interjected and asked when these happenings took place, a puzzled look fell over her face and it was clear that it would take too much time for her to piece it together chronologically. Having only been on the road for two weeks, I find that I'm still pretty precise about the order in which things occur but I imagine, like Fiona, my stories will lose that element sometime soon.

At this moment, Philip and I are at Antsty's Backpackers in Durban. It's a surfer's lodge outside the city centre on the bluff. While the city of Durban is gearing up for the World Cup, Antsty's staff are doing the same as they are expecting their bungalows, dorms and campsites to be at capacity (about 100 people) the entire month. Right now, there are 6 of us. We're using our time here to stock up and clean up in preperation for our next excursion, the Drakensberg for 5 days.

When in...

2010-05-01T14:16:00.003+02:00

I've always felt the best way to experience a new place is taking part in the everyday activities of the locals. These past two weeks haven't allowed much room for anything more than "touristy" stuff so, Philip and I decided today was the day to break out of that mold. We spent our afternoon in Durban getting a new tire put on our car. We bought our chariot 6 weeks before the beginning of our 4 months of travel but it wasn't until we were outside the city limits of Gaborone that Philip noticed the odometer as the last digit changed every mile rather than every tenth of a mile. We purchased our car thinking it had about 74,400 kilometers under it's belt but, if we he was reading correctly, the car that was going to be carrying us throughout southern Africa already had 744,000 km. Upon realizing this we thought two things: our first thought was, sometime between 1996 and 2010 the odometer had been tamepered with; Our second thought was, well, if it's lasted this long, why would it crap out on us now? We still aren't sure which thought is more accurate but, our 1996 "fong kong" has already carried us 3,000 km without any problems - the tire was bad when our trip began.

Alive and, well, Spectacular!

2010-04-25T14:08:00.002+02:00

I'm sitting in an internet cafe (above a local bar) overlooking the Indian Ocean. The water is, as Philip put it, the color of 2000 flushes toilet bowl cleaner. Surfers abound and Philip has decided that, lessons bedamned, he is renting a surfboard tomorrow and trying his luck on these gigantic waves.
We are one week into our travels and already have a lifetime's worth of stories: a soaking, leaking tent that wound up in the garbage after our first night of camping in Blyde River; our drive to Tofo (current location) on roads which were more like potholes strung together with tar; and my new obsession with "organizing" our car and tent only to find that, when I am finished, everything is in a pile that is impossible to navigate.

Just a glimpse into our past week.

Our Chariot

2010-04-02T14:39:00.009+02:00

In Fifteen days we will be packing our lives into our pride and joy, Jalopy*.

Our "fong kong" 1996 Toyota Corolla will carry us 10,000 kilometers through Botswana, South Africa, Swaziland, Mozambique, and Namibia.

The rest of our journey through Tanzania, Zambia, and Kenya will be via bus and train.

P+C+Africa - short form

South Africa

blyde river canyon (april 17) > kruger > maputo > inhambane > mlilwane (swaz) > durban > drakensberg (amphitheater and cathedral peak) > coffee bay (may 5) > plettenberg bay > knysna > oudtshoorn > wine country > cape town for a week

Namibia

fish river canyon (nam) > luderitz (ghost mining town) > sossesvlei dunes (june 1) > swakopmund > skeleton coast > etosha game reserve > windhoek > trans-kalahari back to gabs

South Africa

world cup opening ceremony in jo'burg

Kenya

18-hour bus to lusaka > 44-hour train to dar es salaam> 10-hour bus to mombasa >chill in mombasa> 14-hour train to nairobi > hike lower rift valley > meet gramps in nairobi

Tanzania

go on crazy safari in serengeti, ngorongoro, loliondo (june 30) > zanzibar (stone town and outer beach) > dar es salaam > gramps leaves

Zambia

we get on 44-hour train to meet mom in lusaka > mom's conference > vic falls for colleen's birthday (july 23)

Botswana

chobe > fly back to gabs with mom, show her around > jo'burg for a few

South Africa

hiking in drakensberg with mom > mom leaves from jo'burg

Botswana

pearl and kyle fly in (aug 1) > rock out in bots with them > everyone leaves (mid aug)

Links have been provided to the places where we have already booked campsites.

*Jalopy is the name of the original Allison Warbington's cat.

Mark your calendar

2010-03-31T18:34:00.009+02:00

We just returned from the final night of the DITSHWANELO Human Rights Film Festival. For the past eleven nights, in the Maru-a-Pula A/V Centre, the community has been watching and discussing films depicting some of the atrocities people inflict on other people.

The festival really got me thinking.

If I were to put on a music festival, who would I want to perform?

I would begin the event with Gellieman. My favorite Belgian teen.

Then, keeping with the international theme, I would have Wing. No one can do the Beatles justice like Wing.

I would track down all the members of Musical Youth and sprinkle them with fairy dust so they'd turn into their childhood selves.

Then, to mix it up a bit, Girl Talk would deliver some of his mash up masterpieces.

Finally, Wallpaper. would headline. Wallpaper. It's a sentence. It's a statement, not a word.

Date: TBA

Time: TBA

Location: TBA

Driving Miss Daisy

2010-03-10T20:56:00.006+02:00

"So this is why people don't know how to drive here," I said, as we drove past another Driving School sign dangling from a tree branch. The area, usually a barren and dusty chunk of land, takes up no more space than a corner gas station back home. Sometimes we'll see cars slowly moving through the course made up of a few strategically placed cones. Usually, it's just a few people sitting under the tree making conversation.

Little did I know, I was setting myself up to become the butt of my own joke. Not only did I become a driving school patron, I managed to get kicked out.

Monday marked the end of our second month in Botswana. We celebrated by purchasing a 1996 Toyota Corolla with the earnings of Phil's teaching gig. When he asked about my competence with a manual car I should have elaborated beyond, "yeah, I can drive it." What I should have said was "I did 'learn' to drive stick well enough that if someone were inebriated and couldn't drive, they'd have a slightly better chance making it home alive if I were to drive their car." Much to my surprise, all the matters having to do with driving a manual pale in comparison to driving on the opposite side of the road.

I am driving a car where everything is reversed. When I indicate a turn, I flip on the windshield wipers. My instinctual looking to the left to make sure my car is centered has already cost us one trip to the body shop, after I ran into wooden posts on the side of the road about 50 yards from our house. The curbs have been spared a beating thanks to Phil's reminders that I'm about to hit them. The roundabouts are just another term for "death trap," and the fact that Batswana started driving around the same time they were blessed with electricity, well, let's just say they make "Massholes" look like the poster children of safe, responsible driving. By this point, my mind is already saturated with things to remember.

Now, let's add the element of remembering to shift gears. Exactly.

After 2 test runs on the road, we decided that we'd go to a driving school where I could safely practice out of harms way. It was late and, although it was dark, the cones were still visible. About 15 minutes into my lesson, while I was on a hill (dirt mound) practicing shifting into 1st, a car sped up to us and a man started yelling, "you're in my office, this is my office, you owe me money." Phil calmly got out of the car and, after several dismissed apologies, finally said, "if this is your office, show me the lease for this land. If you show me the lease, I will pay you." Everyone got a chuckle out of this and he let us go, without paying.

I've never experienced the feeling of not being able to jump in a car and go. I taught myself to drive at age 12 and have an unremarkable history of incidents. But I'm determined to drive so, to keep myself sane, I simply look back two months ago, when I was flipping out because I hadn't mastered the language, didn't have any friends and had no work prospects lined up - by day 5. Then, I look to where I am now and know that with time, I'll be Driving Miss Daisy.

To: Andrew Taylor

2010-03-09T09:07:00.002+02:00

Subject: Meestah Tayla

Good Morning, Andy.

Phil has been sick since the wee hours of this morning. I'm pretty sure it's food poisoning from veggies we bought at Pick n' Pay (I know, I know.) I think we've finally learned our lesson about shopping at the inferior stores.

He let Judy Brown know that he won't be able to teach today.

Don't be alarmed if Florence visits your office. She is upset that I'm not rushing him to the hospital and said that she is going to "go tell Meestah Tayla so he will bring Pheel to the hospital." I'm trying to assure her that I am taking care of him and, if he doesn't get better, we will bring him to Princess Marina, but she's still having a difficult time with my approach.

Kindly,

The Devil

Modipe Hill

2010-03-07T16:05:00.008+02:00

It looked much bigger in real life.

The standard "I'm climbing a hill" pose.

Always my favorite picture.

"I don't want to cross Meestah Tayla!"

2010-03-01T19:05:00.005+02:00

Florence shouted this phrase during our first "sewing lesson." We had been in Gaborone for more than a week, but had been living with Andy a.k.a. Meestah Tayla, for only a few days. I still didn't know much about him and, being a guest in his house, wanted to make sure I didn't "cross him" either.

Andy, who has a degree from The Columbia Journalism School, has a knack for storytelling, especially when it comes to describing food. He primarily shops at Woolworths - unrelated to the one in the states. This one is a high(er)-quality clothing retailer and grocery store started by two Jews in Cape Town. In fact, as I type and Phil prepares dinner, Andy walked into the kitchen and asked "are these eggplants perfectly ripe?" One night while Andy was hosting one of his bi-weekly classical music appreciation dinners he announced the menu:

"Tonight, we will be having Israeli tomatoes which were handpicked by Palestinian refugees who were recently re-located from the West Bank, topped with mozzarella fresh from the hills of southern Tuscany and drizzled with a robust olive oil, cold-pressed from the finest Mediterraean olives. The wine is an organic limited-vintage pinotage from the cline or small Karoo, sulfite-free, of course. For dessert, we have some light and refreshing lemon sorbet made with lemons ripened on the sunny hills of Portugal which will be topped with berries known to be high in antioxidants."

Andy puts his rhetorical talent to good use, writing a weekly column about education in the Botswana Telegraph. The column released to the public today is titled "How to praise kids without ruining them." When describing his most recent column to me and Phil he says, "I just tell it like it is. Some people don't like that. They flinch in the face of the truth. But this is journalism of courage. Not for the squeamish, not for the timid, not for the faint-of-heart. But for the bravest among us."

And then there's Florence who has a rhetoric all her own. In addition to helping me learn Setswana, she is also teaching me her native tongue, Kalanga. When I asked Florence how to say "no" in Kalanga she gave a blank stare followed with a timid, "I don't know." Knowing I am asking the wrong question I press on, "Florence," I ask, "do you like snakes?" Her eyes widened as she uttered, "ah-ah." Florence is an operator. In addition to working for Andy, she sells air-time from her 3 cell phones (there are 3 networks in Botswana.) In fact, she frequently sells air time, while working for Andy, to the guards and groundskeepers of Maru-a-Pula. Amidst her drive and entrepreneurial spirit, Florence does have a weakness, she is deathly afraid of snakes. Andy has proposed that her productivity is inversely proportional to the number of reported snakes on campus.

Florence and Andy's paths rarely cross; He is at the school before she arrives and her day ends before his return. Luckily, I've been lucky enough to spend enough time with both of them and thought, "why not write about the two people whom I've come to know so well?"

Today's Headline

2010-03-01T09:21:00.003+02:00

One of the best parts about traveling is the ability to check-out of everyday life, but that can only last so long. In an effort to familiarize myself with local issues I picked up the daily paper. While most of your newspapers are plastered with headline stories about the floods ravaging Haiti, earthquakes in Chile and the healthcare debate, I was reading about women getting impregnated by snakes, a sex starved wife filing for divorce and a chicken sentenced to death.

When asked if there are things I miss about home, very few things come to mind. But having my fingers smudged in black ink after reading the New York Times is certainly one of them.

Top Thusa

2010-03-01T08:07:00.004+02:00

The word, "thusa" means "help."

Last Thursday, Phil received a call from a colleague who was frustrated after being told by a Kodak Photo House employee, "we don't know how to rotate images." Before he knew it, Phil was standing behind the counter giving the employees a lesson which consisted of, "Okay, now, click here, then here. See. That's it." In the past seven weeks, Phil has proven that persistence and the ability to rise above frustration will usually produce results. Fortunately, after one wild goose chase to locate a fuse for a massage pillow and four return trips to exchange a tent, we've discovered a few gems along the way. These discoveries prompted Phil to begin a blog about people and establishments who "get things done" in Gaborone.

His narratives will add an additional glimpse into our lives over here.

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson,

2010-02-17T17:14:00.000+02:00

Jesus loves you more than you will know (wo wo wo)
And so do all of us who know you!

Happy Birthday, Katie!!

The haircut(s)

2010-02-15T13:26:00.005+02:00

Conversations during a power outage

Ayanda, moi and Phil

Short and Short

A tale of two haircuts

2010-02-12T18:16:00.003+02:00

As Phil and I were driving home, I turned to him and said, "you're a the best boyfriend. I mean, most guys would be really annoyed that their girlfriend had two haircuts in a row." He chuckled as I continued, "but, I guess you know after one year together that hair is a serious matter for me." We both gave an even heartier laugh as he requested I elaborate on the "best boyfriend" part.

A few hours earlier, I walked into Hair Scene and the stylist, Dingy was waiting for me. As I walked to his chair he gave me a confused look and pointed me towards the back of the salon to have my hair washed. I politely smiled and said, "aren't we going to talk about my hair first?" He returned an even more confused look and said, "yes, after we wash it." I should have left at that point, but I convinced myself that it wasn't a big deal. After the wash, I went to his chair and he dropped a few magazines in front of me. "Ee(yes), I come prepared," I said with a smile as I pulled out the old worn-out photo that is my go-to when describing how I want my hair to look. He barely glanced at it and put scissors to head. Fortunately, Dingy was feeling conservative and took off very little length. When he took out the mirror to show me his masterpiece, I politely said, "can you take off a little more length, layer it so it isn't so heavy and maybe stack it a little in the back?" He responded with a swift, "Sho" (sure) and began chopping again. But, once again, nothing changed all that much except my hair was 1/4 inch shorter. At this point I figured it'd be best to cut my losses and get out of there, which is exactly what I did. I thanked Dingy and immediately went to find Phil who was doing some grocery shopping.

On the way to find Phil, I was having visions similar to the scene in The Sound of Music where Julie Andrews in frolicking in the hills, except, in my vision, Julie Andrews is replaced with my beloved stylist in New York, Nelson. I had visions of him running towards me, scissors in hand ready to do what he does best.

As I wandered into the grocery store in a daze, I walked towards Phil who could immediately see in my face that I was in distress. After several attempts to make me feel better, which worked pretty well, he asked if I wanted to go to Noel, stylist to the pickiest of the picky in Gaborone. Luckily, he works out of the same shopping center, tucked away in the back where those-in-the -know go to find him. We walked in and I immediately launched into the events of the last hour and he swiftly had me in a chair with his protege chopping off my locks. I tried to tell him exactly what I wanted and, in an accent I couldn't quite place (maybe French mixed with Afrikaans) he sternly said, "if you want the cut you are describing you must let me do what I think is best."

Again, wildflowers, rolling green hills and Nelson popped back into my head.

To my surprise, as his cut began to take shape, I was impressed. In fact, by the time it was blown out, I really liked it. Not necessarily what I would've asked for but happy with the result. To my surprise, when it came time to pay, he charged less than Dingy. Add to that a slight discount for all my troubles and both cuts turned out to cost less than what I pay in New York.

Mochudi

2010-02-12T13:23:00.000+02:00

A student from Stepping Stones, an after-school program in Mochudi
where I will be volunteering 3 days a week, assisting their counselor
in serving the complex needs of the adolescents who attend the program.

Florence

2010-02-03T07:40:00.002+02:00

I almost forgot we were in Africa

2010-02-02T21:28:00.004+02:00

Until today.

As the rains continue in Gaborone, the grass grows higher and frogs are everywhere. Although this represents beauty and prosperity, it also means that the frogs are eaten by the snakes which are impossible to see in chest-high grass. In the past few days, the air has been buzzing with word that a black mamba is living in our yard. I was sitting at the kitchen table this morning drinking my usual hot tea when I heard Florence yell, "Pheeeel! Colleeeeen! Come here!" I jumped to the window and saw Florence leading Phil to the dirt road in front of the house. When I caught up with them, they were looking at the distinct tracks left by the black mamba. A few moments later, we were joined by one of our favorite groundsman, Johanni, who pulled up in his truck and jumped out to take a look. We didn't spot the snake and the hunt continues.

Living in Gaborone allows me to quickly seek out the comforts of home if I choose. Living on the campus of Maru-A-Pula has reinforced that even more since an electric fence and 24 hour guard allows us the security and luxury of leaving our doors wide open if weather permits. But today, as the three of us walked back to the house somewhat shaken up, the door was shut tight behind us and will likely remain that way until the snake is caught by the Botswana Defense Force's snake expert, "Poison," whose number is now on my speed dial.

Before we left for Botswana, the usual parting words we heard were, "have fun and be safe." With crime rampant in Johannesburg and having a knowledge base formed mainly by stories in the news, I never thought that the importance of keeping my doors shut would have to do with a snake.

This post lacks a title.

2010-01-27T09:41:00.003+02:00

It's another sunny, humid day in Gaborone and the machetes used to cut the grass can't swing fast enough. The landscape here reminds me of the Florida Everglades and I still have a difficult time believing people when they say, "pretty soon this will all be dead and you'll see nothing but red and brown dirt."

Life here is beginning to take shape. The homesickness I felt last week has vanished (sorry, Mom) and the structure-less days that left me feeling lost have since begun to feel like I hit the jackpot. I have banished the word "should" from my vocabulary and replaced it with action or, in some cases, inaction. I'm doing what I want to do - not what I "think" I "should" be doing. Since I haven't finished a book in almost two years, I have decided to read Anna Karenina - all 838 pages. After a chance meeting with a doctor from Baylor's pediatric AIDS initiative, which led to a subsequent lunch with his wife and a tour of the Pediatric ward at the local hospital, I will be meeting with the volunteer coordinator tomorrow to discuss volunteer options.

Looks like I'll have to set an alarm tomorrow.

Go Siame.

Evening

2010-01-26T20:57:00.001+02:00

From the backyard

Busted at the bus depot

2010-01-26T19:42:00.009+02:00

Wanted: Dead or Asleep.

We finally boarded the bus that would take us from Johannesburg to Gaborone. Little did we know that the actual departure time of 7 a.m. really meant "we'll depart when the bus is full." I wasn't surprised. Phil had already made me painfully aware that the concept of time is much different in Botswana (and South Africa) than it is back home. Things take time. Our days of successfully completing a 2 page list of things to do in one day were behind us. However, what we witnessed while waiting for our bus to depart was something neither one of us could have prepared for.

We saw a man stumbling across the parking lot who was clearly drunk. It wasn't long before law enforcement were involved and ready to make an arrest. However, in the middle of the process, the man decided to lay down and take a nap. If we were watching this back home, one of two things would happen: the police would drag him away or the paramedics would be called in. However, at the Johannesburg bus depot, neither occurred. The police officers just stood there smoking cigarettes and chatting amongst themselves. Occasionally, they would look down to make sure the man was still alive. Sometimes their conversations were interrupted by a passerby who wanted to give advice about what they should do with him - an exchange that usually ended in laughter. At one point, a woman who was comfortably sitting on a couch which clearly did not belong on a sidewalk surrounded by buses, walked over and checked the man's pulse. It appeared that everything was under control, I guess.

We haven't seen anything like this in Botswana, but we're keeping our eyes peeled.

Fat Cakes

2010-01-20T14:17:00.003+02:00

We met Will for lunch and the three of us were enjoying each other's company when the full Coke can I was holding slipped right out of my hands with no warning. I had just finished eating a fat cake and I was a human oil slick. Think of a fairly plain, slightly sweet and very greasy doughnut and you have a Fat Cake. Traditionally known as magwinya, they are a staple here and are usually eaten with some type of meat. There is no doubt that if fat cakes become a staple in my diet, I will become a fat person. I can't get much more honest than that.

It happens all the time. Someone gains weight and we say they look "healthy." We don't like what someone is wearing, what they cook, their new haircut and we say "it's different." We call newborn babies, who rarely even look human, "cute." We do it all the time. I do it all the time. We get so accustomed to not speaking the truth that, before we know it, we aren't even honest with ourselves anymore.

Two weeks have passed since we boarded the plane in Atlanta. Phil and I are fortunate that our last month in the states was divided between his family in south Florida and my family in Marietta. I was certain one full month of quality time with family and close friends would be a sure-fire formula to ward off any potential feelings of missing home, but once again I have been shown that some things, no matter how much I try to prevent, just can't be avoided.

The concept of being homesick conjures up images of me as a young child leaving home for camp or sleepovers, not an adult who has made the decision to travel abroad. But that's not quite right either. In fact, thinking like that makes me no different than the person who looks at the huge pimple on my chin and says, "ah, I can hardly see it." Missing home, culture shock, feeling out-of-my element - these are all phrases I have used to describe the simple fact that I'm homesick. Fortunately, Phil took the honest approach and called out my avoidance of the truth. And, after that realization, I'm not homesick anymore. Go figure. So, for now, let's honor that simplicity and call a doughnut what it really is - a Fat Cake.