When I was younger, I never quite understood people who didn’t like to travel. Why stay home when you could be elsewhere? Of course now, I get that there are a lot of different impediments that come with every trip: long plane rides, communicating in foreign languages, annoying people. But if you can get past all that, it’s worth it. Travel is finding beauty in places that are not always luxurious. It is finding a home in communities that are not home. It is tasting foods that feel different in our mouths and hearing mouths speak words that sound different to our ears. Last summer, my mom and I embarked on a trip to Dar es Salaam for two weeks. When I brought this up in conversation, it went something like this: “Dar es Salaam? Is that in
…show more content…
Outside, I heard the shouting of vendors, trying to find amusement in the irony of selling pajamas at 3 am. “American” was a big name in a city like Dar, but it felt loose on me, drowning me with its baggy sleeves and modernity when I really just wanted to fit into what was smaller but too unfamiliar and torn to be comfortable. Pulling out my earbuds, I flip through my playlist for a song I can fall asleep to, eventually settling on “27” by Fall Out Boy. If home is where the heart is...
Dawn arrived after I had barely gotten a couple hours of sleep. Bits of last night’s dinner conversation had revealed that we were going to the beach today, and I was dreading it. I hated swimming, and who knew what kind of bugs could be found on African beaches? I wore jeans and a long sleeve shirt, leaving the bathing suit my mom packed at their apartment. The ride there was hot and rocky. As drove, the grey worn asphalt turned to dirt and rocks. Every so often a ditch would appear, sending my and Zohra’s heads crashing into the roof of the backseat. At one point we passed a couple of kids, no more than seven years old, working on the road with shovels twice their height. “Look,” my mother said, as if to mean Aren’t you grateful for what you …show more content…
“Look at the sky. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an African sunset.” Looking up, the first thing I saw was orange, blazing across the sky with streaks of yellow highlighting the best shades of it. Squinting a bit, I catch a rosy red skirting the edges of silhouettes of the banana trees lining the road. The outermost edges of the sky are pastels, ranging from salmon pink to a shy lavender around the ends. I struggled for words but couldn’t find any, and soon realized I didn’t need them. When we got home that night, Zohra and I stayed up until 4 am, partially because of my jet lag and partially because we had far too many stories to exchange, as if someone had pulled a stopper on four years of bottled up memories that we never got to share. She told me about her sporting competitions and going to a private school with some of the most spoiled kids in the country while I entertained her with prank ideas and interpretations of concept albums. We snacked on Zanzibar lychees that were spiny on the outside yet sweet on the inside, and a bag of Cheetos I had brought with me from
Outside, I heard the shouting of vendors, trying to find amusement in the irony of selling pajamas at 3 am. “American” was a big name in a city like Dar, but it felt loose on me, drowning me with its baggy sleeves and modernity when I really just wanted to fit into what was smaller but too unfamiliar and torn to be comfortable. Pulling out my earbuds, I flip through my playlist for a song I can fall asleep to, eventually settling on “27” by Fall Out Boy. If home is where the heart is...
Dawn arrived after I had barely gotten a couple hours of sleep. Bits of last night’s dinner conversation had revealed that we were going to the beach today, and I was dreading it. I hated swimming, and who knew what kind of bugs could be found on African beaches? I wore jeans and a long sleeve shirt, leaving the bathing suit my mom packed at their apartment. The ride there was hot and rocky. As drove, the grey worn asphalt turned to dirt and rocks. Every so often a ditch would appear, sending my and Zohra’s heads crashing into the roof of the backseat. At one point we passed a couple of kids, no more than seven years old, working on the road with shovels twice their height. “Look,” my mother said, as if to mean Aren’t you grateful for what you …show more content…
“Look at the sky. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an African sunset.” Looking up, the first thing I saw was orange, blazing across the sky with streaks of yellow highlighting the best shades of it. Squinting a bit, I catch a rosy red skirting the edges of silhouettes of the banana trees lining the road. The outermost edges of the sky are pastels, ranging from salmon pink to a shy lavender around the ends. I struggled for words but couldn’t find any, and soon realized I didn’t need them. When we got home that night, Zohra and I stayed up until 4 am, partially because of my jet lag and partially because we had far too many stories to exchange, as if someone had pulled a stopper on four years of bottled up memories that we never got to share. She told me about her sporting competitions and going to a private school with some of the most spoiled kids in the country while I entertained her with prank ideas and interpretations of concept albums. We snacked on Zanzibar lychees that were spiny on the outside yet sweet on the inside, and a bag of Cheetos I had brought with me from