I am currently staging for my departure back to the land of the big. Saying goodbye was emotionally draining and unlike anything that I have ever done. I had expected to be sad but I selfishly hadn’t really even thought about how people in my town would feel. Friends and kids crying to be left behind didn’t flatter me so much as make me evaluate my service and recognize a bond I was breaking. I left my town after a sleepless night on an early morning guagua with bachata blaring and tears dripping. Two university students were watching the inappropriately public display as blatant spectators repeating, “two years… and she was accustomed, for two years.”
I arrived to the Peace Corps office feeling and looking dumpster bound. I was tired to the point of delirium with so much vertigo, I was almost convinced I had vision issues. With a combination of adrenaline and regret, I continued to travel. I said goodbye to a training host family on the other side of the country, printed more pictures for my community and brought them to be sent back on my bus.
After a monumental purge, I have packed everything I am taking home into three bags. I have a thirty pound mountaineering pack, a smaller daypack and a messenger bag all filled with my little remaining unstained clothing and sentimental items I just can’t leave. I have even separated my travel clothes, the bulky warm stuff, ready to be worn on Friday the thirteenth.
Going back sounds delicious and daunting. I know I will have face time with my amazing family, the people who have paid an incredible sum to talk to me through a static connection. I know I will have electricity, running water and bomb food. I can’t decide what meals I am looking for most but the ability to make diverse salads and refrigerate leftovers have been frequented subjects of my group. I also cannot stop thinking about the breakfast food. I haven’t had French toast, bran muffins or cottage cheese this whole stint. Even a bowl of shredded wheat with blueberries and milk sounds incredible. I’m clearly secure in my taste buds.
My confidence in my state of mind, however, is another story. I don’t know if stores like Target will inspire episodes of panic and rage as I miss my life with my Dominican and Peace Corps friends. I question whether the brightly displayed excess of choices in malls and supermarkets will make me think about poverty and flip. New clothes, fancy phones and all of those movies and songs I have missed seem from here like a fun party. We shall see if my Spanish speaking, dirty feet, river-bathing self is going to like that crap. We will see!
Because I am checking out of the Cuerpo de Paz tomorrow with the seemingly simple cell phone turn in, I should end this blog. I am thinking, however, that a better fit for a last entry would be written in the states. Maybe I am just avoiding yet another goodbye… so be it!
