i'm going back to new york city i do believe i have had enough

The title is my favorite new york homecoming song lyric (bob dylan). Alternative title: hot showers, sushi, and green tea ice cream all have their times and places. none of which times or places seem to be in Ghana.

I left Ghana under a cloud. My good friends Zach and Timo were mugged/attacked one night after they left a club literally around the corner from our house. Timo sustained a big knife wound on his face, requiring stitches, dentistry, and drinking straws. This happened while I was travelling in Burkina with Tc. Just after I returned to Accra, another friend, Jessica, fell victim to an alleged Nigerian taxi scheme, wherein the culprits lure unsuspecting whiteys into taxis and then whisk them away to dark places to steal their money and cause other harm. Jessica wasn't hurt, but her purse was stolen, and when she noticed that they were driving the wrong way, she had to jump out of the car. You can read further descriptions of these incidents on their blogs: http://zachinghana.blogspot.com, http://timoinghana.blogspot.com, http://fierceinvalids.blogsource.com/ (guess which is whose). These and other, similar incidents reported in the expat community pretty much did away with any complacency we had about our safety in Accra. The last day or two, we were all quite nervous in taxis, around motos, and in the night. It was a sad way to leave. I don't like and resent feeling threatened, especially in a place where I otherwise experienced little other than goodwill.

However, my departure was otherwise lovely. Free mornings with Timo and Jessica, drinking tea and eating Hot Lime Pepper and groundnut paste (not at the same time) on whatever's at hand. Lots of sweeties came to the buy-one-get-one-free-pizza-on-my-last-night dinner at the Osu Food Court (sounds worse than it is, although it does have its own fake McDownalds Playland area, complete with screaming kiddos). The pizza is good though.

The next day, my last, my core crew came out to lunch with me at Haveli, a terrific indian restaurant. Happy eaters included Zach (newly back from Kenya, which was too fresh for him), Timo (healing nicely, though it still hurts him to laugh [they stole his smile: a new after-school special]), and Kris (our droll German roommate, very liberal with the antibacterial spray), plus Jessica, Candace, and Mark (all work at CDD, where Kristin worked, and terrifically likable; Jess and Mark are Obruni House staples; Candace doesn't live there but she might as well), as well as Simon, another German who used to live at Ob.H. (Kristin was still travelling in Mali.) Then we hauled my stuff to a taxi (no small job; kudos especially to Zach) and then to the airport.

I had too much stuff. Too much stuff in my checked luggage, too much stuff in my carry-ons. The fee for the too-heavy checked luggage was only $25 per bag, which is great b/c it's much cheaper than mailing it (I assume). However, I didn't have any cedis left, there are no cash machines in the airport, and they wouldn't take credit cards for less than $400. I had to put in a frantic call to Zach, who, with Jess, heroically chipped in 600,000 cedis (approx. $60) and brought it to me at the airport (Zach, Jess, Candace, and Timo were waiting for me, along with one of my carry-ons, at the hotel bar). This maneuver was successful, and I finally managed to check my bags. However, I didn't want to wait for the receipt for the $50, so I just said I'd come back for it when it was time to board the plane, and went off to join my comrades at the bar. This was a strategic error. When I came back for the receipt, they noticed my too-heavy carry-on luggage. For some reason, the fee for this was $150, and this was a fee I was not willing to pay. In part because my friends had already left and there was no way they were going to have another extra 1,500,000 cedis on them, and in part because I had none left myself, and in part because I still couldn't use a credit card or access a cash machine. However, I had heard of other ways to deal with big fees at the airport. People in Ghana do NOT like crying girls. No. Not at all. So, if sufficiently convincing, this is a very nice, if shameless, way of getting people to do what one wants. But, alas, I cannot cry on command. Instead, I discovered, I can fake the noises and the face-scrunching and the face-wiping of tears, especially with the help of a large part of a large beer, and, accompanied by moaning about my student/volunteer status, and my ruse seemed to do the trick. I wasn't sure what I was going to do if they called me out on the faking. Maybe laugh. Don't know. But in any case it worked, the lady told me to dry my tears (check! already dry!) and that I wouldn't have to pay.

The flights went by without incident, which is surprising, giving the liquid-bombing scare going on in England at the moment. I carried on plenty of shampoo and soap and what-have-you, and I was coming from Dubai, for goodness sakes, but no one said anything at all (I was ignorant of the situation anyway). I did almost miss the second flight, even though I was sitting right next to the gate, just because I didn't happen to hear any of the boarding announcements (was reading). But then I looked up and saw "Final Call," so I made it just in time and so it really isn't too great a story. All my luggage also made it, nothing even broken, I got home within a reasonable amount of time, my subletter did not abscond with all of my things, and only 6 plants are dead. Not too terrible.

I am so tired and my head so heavy and my neck so jellied that ... I am tired. I think it's around 4 am in Ghana. And I will arise again at 3:30am, NYC time, to fly to Rock Springs, WY, via Salt Lake City, Utah, to witness law student extraordinaire Sarah Jane P.'s metamorphasis into Sarah Keen P. by means of happy nuptials with one quiet Jeff.

I can't even finish all the green tea ice cream. I hope to write more about my travels with the Burkinabe Americanos, and post my photos sometime, sometime. I'll be in Rock Springs for 2.5 days, then Nebraska for 9 days, then Pittsburgh for 3, then back to New York for a week, we train our new Environmental Law Journal Rookies, school starts, and I retire with Aaron & Co. to Maine for birthday pie. then somehow the rest of the year follows along, I graduate, pass the bar, and do good work. can I get an amen, sistah?

i wonder where my checkbook is. hmm.

good night,
. . .