And it feels like home, like where I belong, for some ineffable reason.
The side of familiarity that saddens me some is when the journey starts to feel like travel with tedious logistics, not an entryway to something mysterious. The slight crankiness of the edgy intimacy of 17 hours on planes, a stop in the shiny comfortable Schipol to eat tiny fluffy pancakes with jam and have a good coffee while sitting in a giant teacup. Somewhere in the air of nowhere, I finally sleep, and wake bleary to find myself cuddled up on the shoulder of the man next to me.
It feels like I should be meditating or reflecting as I head here, not distracting myself with a Joanna Trollope novel on my ipad, scurrying through final bits I owe clients, watching old TV episodes while knitting on a xmas gift. There should be more of a ceremonial entry moment — but even the grandiose, elaborate visa stickers that take up a whole page in a passport are now gone, replaced by a standard stamp, Entebbe airport renovated to include a VIP Lounge and a fingerprinting device that records everyone who enters the country.
The country is in so many places at once, a dapper wedding couple in western dress in the hotel lobby, women teetering around on enormously high shoes, the middle classes of Kampala obscuring the slums and the rural edges. Finding my place, once again.