Home on Christmas Eve.

Dakar airport to JFK to Atlanta to Denver. Before leaving, I was treated to one last marriage proposal, one last jaay fonde joke, one last life-threatening ride in a taxi, one last look at the country I've made the habit of calling home. Then, I was swept away into airports, time zones, suitcases overflowing with fabrics and cure-dents, sunset descents through the clouds, America, airports pumping out Christmas music, my first cup of non-instant coffee in over four months, a midnight arrival, and home. Now, 42 hours later, I reflect.

I am surrounded by odd familiarity. I know all this so well - surprisingly well. How easy it was to fall back into old habits! Crawling into bed with the parents for early morning newspaper reading, fighting with brother, Patrick, about music selection and volume, absent-mindedly going to the pantry for another handful of almonds... I know my life here and it knows me. And Yet. Moments of 'culture shock' begin to emerge...I don't quite know how to define them just yet. I know that our house seems vaguely too big for its 2-4 inhabitants. I appreciate my dad and his role in the family more (untouched blog topic as of yet: the roles of men and women in Senegalese families...polygamy...the absence of many fathers). I find myself looking more sternly at our televisions. (And I am overwhelmed by commercials...oh god...what are we doing to our brains?) I am stunned by the grooming of my city: every sidewalk is even, every lawn has grass (or patches of it, keep trying, Dad), every intersection has a stoplight and every store has enough money to make change for a twenty. I find myself speaking casually about race...and maybe not in a PC way. And then I hear that I've changed.

(ok...now I must interject that, rather than the cacophony of mbalax and American rap that I am so used to hearing in Senegal's cybers, I now write this with the brilliant sound of my mother SCREAMING in the next room as she watches the Green Bay Packers make a comeback...since when do we root for the Packers? Le Vikings Fan?)

Back to changes in myself…harder to see, but also noticeably there. I walk into rooms and have the strong urge to greet every person individually – Asalamalekum. I am relaxed, very relaxed – a product of the Senegalese lifestyle? I am tan, no complaints there. Mom says I’m more confident and that my fingers grew longer (can they do that independently at this stage of life?). A woman at church said my eyes changed. The waistband on my old pants says that the ceebu jen didn’t affect me as much as once thought (alxhamdullila!). My cats say that I smell differently and my skin says that Colorado is much too cold. As it was 60 degrees today, I realize that I have a lot of acclimating to do before re-entering Vermont’s balmy winters… These changes were hard to think of. That list took half an hour and much brain activity. I find myself thinking more easily of new moments of joy, comfort, and familiarity in this old setting:

• A surprise 1:30 in-house ambush from my girls (thank you)
• The incomparable warmth of cuddling on the big red couch with Dad
• Big, happy cats
• FIBER
• Serving communion to familiar faces on Christmas Eve
• Telling Senegal stories to seemingly eager ears (if you're faking it, I appreciate the feigned enthusiasm. Keep it up... I have a lot to talk about.)

Now it’s Christmas evening. Mom has fallen asleep in the next room while Dad watches the Vikings miss an interception opportunity. Senegal has managed to weasel its way into the situation via the unwrapped gifts strewn around the room: home-made batik, wooden platters, and gourd spoons.

Santa has come and gone. My friend saw a ‘Santa’ in down-town Dakar just before we left…a skinny Senegalese man wearing a full mask of a white man’s face. Scary, my friend said. Interesting cultural interpretation, I thought. Two days later I saw a CNN special on a scuba-diving Santa in Hong Kong. He held an electric eel. Asian innovation. I have a British children’s book that depicts Santa as a slightly hostile old man who wants nothing more than to get into bed with a good pot of tea and his cat, “Blooming Christmas here again!...I hate winter! Blooming chimneys!” As a child I didn’t especially like the book. Now I must read it every Christmas. British wit. In his recent book, David Sedaris explored the realm of Santa in Poland. Rumor has it he travels with 8 black men who will either give you presents or beat you and take you in a sack back to Spain. Tell this to Senegalese Meg and she’s apt to question the importance of this posse’s skin color and not blink twice after the beating bit (Kids, wives, animals…all fair targets in Senegal. Hard to be around.) The Santa that I imagine delivered my presents is kind, rosy-cheeked (white-skinned), and jolly; he prefers reindeer to eels, and winter to summer, his posse does not beat or sack, but they can fly.

Why am I thinking so much about Santa? I think he might be my international traveling icon. Santa traverses the world on borrowed time, doing more than is humanly possible. Whether sporting a mask, scuba diving, grumbling, or gifting, Santa manages to approach the world in a generous way. He has seen it all and has cared enough to give back. Santa stretches time and resources, crossing cultural boundaries to gift the people of the world, or so my version goes. He does the impossible. In the spirit of Christmas I honor this man. He is living the international life that my post-Senegal self now dreams of:

Seeing much, doing much, giving back, and ending the day with a good pot of tea.

Merry Christmas to all.