Jet Lag Memoir

The exhilarating feeling of Return.

Sights: shantyshack bars with dirty, partially lit signs and poorly dressed men sitting outside, smiling with bad posture. Wandering goats and children. So many places qualify as killer “dive bars,” based on Portlander, “Hipster” criterion. [pointless hand gestures ] It’s all so, like, spontaneous, so random…totally digging the artsy vibes. The street kids are, like, so creative. Burning tires to use the metals for cash. So raw. Totally be down to trip on glue with them.

Smells: Ocean, garbage, burning tires. The welcoming sense of déjà vu fades quickly here.

Sounds: Islamic chants in hypnotically melodic Swahili from mosque softly amplified throughout Oldtown, 2am. Lullabies seeping into upstairs bedrooms.

Nostalgia: makes my insides feel warm and fuzzy. Ludicrous to feel this way? I, a white American, getting “back to my roots” here? Surely it’s absurd to walk around, surrounded by black Africans I don’t know, and feel at home. I should be the mgeni here, the stranger, a consummate outsider. But what is an outsider? To be socially alienated, hopelessly distinct? Such feelings don’t exactly dissolve when living in the U.S. In academics, one’s analytical framework, daily thinking habits, diverge from the majority of Americans. I guess if you don’t mind being the center of attention, and like to fancy yourself as independent and original, then far-off, exotized travel is the thing for you. Of course, if it were tourist season, all pretense of novelty would be shattered.