Innocence Again

but You knew the whole world belongs to the meek

here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come. -Hebrews 13:14

foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.- Jesus Christ, Luke 9:58

in my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, i would have told you. I am going to prepare a place for you. -Jesus Christ, John 14:2 

while we were growing up, my family took full advantage of our multi-cultural life-style: associating with multiple nationalities allowed us to maximize our list of annual celebrations. we spent the fourth of july at the american embassy for a barbecue and pool party. on september 26th we spent our day off watching fireworks and waving flags for yemeni independence day. october 3rd had us at the german consulate for a sit down dinner to celebrate german unification. in november we burned guy fawkes at school. “remember, remember the fifth of november,” we chanted like good british school girls, “gunpowder, treason, and plot!” later that month we would commemorate God’s provision for the mayflower pilgrims on thanksgiving day. 

we remembered our Savior on christmas day and followed that with boxing day. pancake races on ash wednesday ushered in lent, and beautiful sunrise services on Easter morning concluded the season each year. but we also dressed up for eiid al at’ha and eiid al fitr.

maybe this explains my confused identity, but i think it also illustrates how richly blessed my life has been. i’ll always be german for the world cup and my kenyan flag still hangs in my bedroom. but today is america’s birthday, so for today i’ll take on that identity. today i’ll be proud to be american (…cause there ain’t no doubt i love this land). God bless the USA.

Toilet routines are not something you normally think about. You just do them. You sit (I suppose gender may or may not alter this component), you pee, you wipe, you flush. But when you travel gets more complicated for several different reasons. Firstly, toilet routines vary by toilet shape and size. The western sit-down toilets with fold-down seats require a different set of behaviors than do squat-potties. And the intricacies of squat-potty behavior depend on the size of the hole you’re squatting over.

Secondly, there is the question of what you do with the toilet paper. Here most countries fall within one of two categories: paper flushers and non-paper flushers. Most of Western Europe, North America and the places I’ve been in Africa are paper flushers. But many places in the middle east and eastern Europe are not. Here you must remember to place your used toilet paper into the trash can (most bathrooms will have one conveniently located next to the toilet), or you will pay dearly when the pipes clog and there is backflow of sewage into your house.

The first few days of switching between these regions tends to be both frustrating and embarrassing (but do try to remember that people in America don’t appreciate your toilet paper in their trash). Don’t let it fluster you too much. you’ll be potty trained in no time. 

i set one today. in cross-airport inter-terminal sprinting. i started with a fifty minute layover to get from terminal C to terminal E. bad weather stalled my flight, reducing transit time by twenty minutes, and gates close fifteen minutes prior to boarding. get out your TI-84 plus and you can figure out that that left me with fifteen minutes to get through the passport control, the security check, and fight the physics of the textbooks in my backpack to run, yes what a marvelous sprint, to my boarding gate.

unfortunatly, i ran so fast that i beat my luggage to america by a good twenty four hours.

“final call for flight number AF 8339 to Paris, boarding now at gate number 6”. nasal sounding intercom announcement with awkward pauses resulting from the automated piecing together of flight numbers and destinations provide a soothing background noise for my frantic, suit-case pulling, passport-clutching run across terminals. ”would the following passengers please procede to their gate immediately”. there is something relaxing about the sound that helps me focus as my sleep deprived eyes, burning and bloodshot, scan the overhead signs for directions. the accompanying threat that my ”luggage will be removed from the flight” if i don’t board within fifteen minutes, is hardly daunting. i am at home here. a missed connection simply means a few more hours spent trying to sleep on the marble floor behind the benches at gate 8.

i was just a few weeks old when i discovered the bustle of international airports and the smooth rumbling of jet engines for the first time, and they have been among the closest things to consistency since. safety instructions are engraved in my brain in multiple languages to the point where have succesfully posed as a flight attendant demonstrating the procedures on a dare from a fellow traveler. i know the intricacies of seat to seat calling, the expected etiquette in immigration offices, and the art of sweet talking around paying for overweight luggage. i can tell you where dunkin donuts is at dubai international airport, how to shuttle to john f. kennedy international airport. 

i’m from airports. airports are my home. 

ironically i am a terrible flyer, as i get motion sick at the slightest hint of turbulence, and tend to announce it to the rest of the cabin through the indiscrete reverse peristalsis in my esophagus followed by the spewing of whatever late night meal was just served in foil-covered plastic containers. yet when it comes to traveling, the comfort of familiarity takes the bitterness out of the gastric acid. the truth is that the wooden floors of Keflavik International Airport, the crowded narrow hallways in Dublin, the strong smell of sewage in Sana’a, the permanantly upbeat music that greats you at Jomo Kenyatta are all so much a part of my mobile life that it’s hard to imagine what it would be like to not always be running through terminals and leaving on jetplanes.

when you’re a nomad there are only a limited number of people who know you in context. i’ve found that most of the people you come in contact with,-even if they become close friends-tend to like you better without the strange pieces of world that you carry with you. they don’t know what to do with them, wheather to admire their beauty or pity you for having to carry their weight. they don’t understand how they create your thoughts and infiltrate your grief and joy. you learn to display or hide them to your advantage, but most people don’t know how they work to make you. it’s really only your and your fellow global nomads who aren’t a little afraid of all the parts of planet wearing holes in all your pockets, and who understands why you still keep them around.