African-American

I try to blend in by wearing the latest African fashions. My assistant had to cut a wider neck hole so my bulbous melon would fit through. It was very humiliating.

I have been living in Africa for over half my life and I think I am now turning African-American. My bloodline is all American – a rich combination of North and Central which will ensure I grow up to be both practical and passionate. But now the air I breathe, the food I eat (almost constantly), the dirt I roll in, the music I hear, and much of my adoring public are all African. I must admit I have never fully understood the term “African-American,” which is nothing more than two distant spots on a map bound together by a hyphen. Even though it makes no mention of the color spectrum, it seems to denote skin pigmentation. I find this curious and I wonder if I share similar experiences with others who use this label.

For example, now I eat African-style with my hands whereas before, I recall sipping genteelly from a boring, sterilized bottle. Africans are famous hand-to-mouthers, literally. Some of the favorite dishes are yasa poulet and tiebdienne. The first is chicken, the second is fish. They both are mixed with rice and share a similar tomato-onion sauce. It is a wet, messy meal and Senegalese grab it with their right hands, squeeze it into a sticky ball and pop it in their mouths. I find this utterly squishy and entirely delightful. I’ll never go back to the bottle again.

I wonder also how many people can say they have experienced the unique African plague of mango worms. These are not actually worms but big, disgusting larvae from some kind of fly or other menacing bug. They grow from eggs that hatch right under your skin. This is a joy usually reserved for pets and my poor Gazelle gets them regularly. But I was lucky enough to experience first-hand one of the little suckers holed up in my own head in an apparent attempt to ride to fame on my coattails. He grew silently but painfully right in the back of my skull and we shared many adventures together until I awoke from a nap one day to find he had left me just as silently as he came. It turns out my assistant smothered the red welt with Vaseline so the poor larvae had to come up for air and then when he did, my assistant pulled him out with tweezers. Sometimes life can be difficult here for adventure travelers, but even more so for mango worms who think they can live a comfortable life stowed away in a celebrity’s noodle.

You can see that I have also abandoned the American and possibly Australian transportation method of riding up front like a baby kangaroo. Now I ride African-style in the back of the bus where all the cool kids sit. I kick back in my comfy wrap and let my assistant catch all the bugs in her teeth for a change.

I don’t know, maybe being African-American is more complicated than all that. Besides, there will probably be too much explaining to do if I check that box on my college application forms. All I know is I am grateful for having the opportunity to sample the best and worst life has to offer on both continents, no matter what my skin color. And I may never be a master of race relations, but at least I don’t have one of these in my parlor.

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Paris

Paris, France – The primary purpose of this trip was to uncover evidence of the widely held American suspicion that the French dislike us and that they are snooty. Naturally, my first stop was the Arc de Triomphe, which was conveniently located just a few blocks from my tiny apartment. A curious monument in a country that has lost every war it has ever been in, not to mention the World Cup. I believe the monolith is really meant to symbolize the French triumph over letting it bother them. Despite being perpetually in second place, the air of superiority that they have managed to maintain is impressive and indeed monumental.

But I was pleasantly surprised to find that the French are delightful hosts to visiting dignitaries, even Americans. My assistants ordered every baguette and bottle of wine in their broken, accented French and every time the response was the same -- politeness served up in flawless English. And the French clearly agree with tourists of all nationalities on the long-held belief that my adorableness transcends cultures. From the banks of the Seine to the heights of Montmarte, people from all walks stopped to pay their respects and make faces as they passed me. The apex of attention came as I snaked my way through the line to ascend the Eiffel Tower surrounded by a Japanese tour group. As I repeatedly passed their ranks, I proved to be a much bigger draw than the tower itself. Crazy elderly women made undignified tongue gestures and otherwise cool adolescent boys were wooed by my cuteness. Like a pin-up girl in a war zone, I entertained the troops and posed for multiple pictures.

Some mistakenly believe the root of French pride stems from their vast achievements in painting, sculpture, theater, philosophy, architecture, fashion, dance, cuisine, and political thought. I guess these things have a certain importance, but their true contribution lies in the shopping district of Paris. At one point, I was so overcome with emotion by a sale bin of shoes that I climbed inside and enshrouded myself in the glory of French culture.

After debating de Tocqueville's philosophy and comparing theories on Sartre with some locals at a corner cafe, I began to come to the conclusion that the French have been getting a bad rap. While it is probably true that they will not be convicted of smothering Americans with love, they certainly appreciate beauty and class when they see it and they saw it everywhere I went. As if that weren't enough, they've built one of the most photographic capitals in the world. I'm including some of my favorite pictures below for my loyal fans.

My American-made carriage was among the largest vehicles on the streets of Paris. There, even the ambulances are diminutive. I am not sure to what type of "urgence medicale" this little car is designed to respond but I suspect it is exclusively for midgets who fall into trash compactors – an uncommon, albeit regrettable occurrence.

This car really cracks me up.

Caught up in the allure of all things Parisian, I enjoyed a picnic of baguette and cheese at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I’m a teetotaler myself but I allowed my assistants to taste a sip of wine, which turned out to be a habit they were reluctant to break.

Every girl should have a stroll down the Champs Elysées on her birthday at least once in her life.

Sometimes it rains unexpectedly in Paris.

Paris is still a city of romance. My natural magnetism brought out the handsome and swarthy older men, but even though I walk around without pants, I am a shy girl when it comes to love.

For reasons I was not able to discover, the French are very clear about where they want your weiner dog to walk.

Until next time, peace to all. Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler