Something just broke

An epilogue, or epi-blog, as the case may be…

When we last left our intrepid traveler, she was en route to London by way of a brief and altogether unmemorable stay in Nairobi. After being fleeced by the taxi driver that picked her up from the airport, she spent the day napping, watching bad movies, and carefully guarding her belongings. There was little else to do, as the hotel was in the outskirts of town and not conducive to walking around.

Early this morning, she rose and begrudgingly took the same taxi, relying on the old wisdom of the devil you know being better than the devil you don’t. After a little over-priced last-minute souvenir shopping, she headed to her assigned gate, suffered two additional security checks, including an unpacking of the carefully engineered space-occupying masterpiece that was her carry-on. She was called to board, whereupon she notified the world of her movement.

Imagine then, her surprise when the huddled masses were shepherded out of the jetway and back into the lounge. Without the same pressures as the other passengers (i.e. screaming, hungry, bored children), she relaxed with her laptop. Unaware of the time that had elapsed until her laptop battery was abruptly depleted, she soon realized that it had been two hours without a word of explanation from the airline.

The captain had the unhappy task of eventually informing the somewhat irate crowd, many of whom had been monitoring the busy worker bees hovering around the craft, that an engine part had malfunctioned – an engine part that was not to be had in Nairobi, but that would have to be flown in from London on the evening flight. Timid flight attendants followed behind with paltry offerings of snacks as the travelers made their way to reclaim luggage and join the queue for hotel assignments.

Nervously, she watched as her suitcase was loaded onto the rack on top of the bus taking her to the city center of Nairobi and to the gilded halls of the Hilton. Food, beer, heated swimming pool, air conditioning, and a hot bath went a long way to dispelling our traveler’s anguish at the delay. Another bus awaits her in the morning, where two Virgin Atlantic planes should be ready to wing their way to London.

And they all lived happily ever after. 

Because I knew you, I have been changed...

It is, perhaps, fitting that the sky of Kisumu is gray and gloomy today, if only to match the pall overtaking my mood. I won’t be forced to watch the sun sparkle across Lake Victoria as we climb into the sky. The magnificent greens of the valleys and hills are but a muted pewter and not the brilliant emeralds of my memories.
Walking across the tarmac, I am thinking back on the trepidation that filled my steps the last time I was here. It seems almost laughable now. Alone, nervous, and hesistant, I gathered my strength and piled myself and my belongings into what I hoped and prayed was a legitimate taxi bound for the now infamous Sooper Guest House, all the while wondering exactly what I had embarked upon.

That first night, I stared at the ceiling through the soon-to-be familiar pores of netting, and despite two days of traveling with bare snatches of sleep stolen in economy class seats, my mind wouldn’t let my body rest. Racing from thought to thought, I saw myself struggling with patients that didn’t understand me, with responsibilities I didn’t feel confident to shoulder, with surgeons that would either expect too little or too much from me. Having spent the most recent portion of my training traveling through various subspecialties, I feared the possibility of clumsiness with general surgery. Had I only known that my bigger nemesis would be my complete lack of knowledge of orthopaedics, how much more fitful would have been my eventual sleep.

On the first full day, exploring the town, I smiled blankly when offered ugali or chapatti with my meal, squirming at the sight of the whole smoked tilapia and not even understanding the diction, choosing nothing to accompany my timid roast chicken rather than the unknown. It was not long before I was rolling the white maize polenta between my fingers with my lunch of fish and cabbage and snacking on the flat bread with my mid-morning tea.

Like the meals, patterns became established, and once my jetlag was abolished, the routine became comfortable. A bumpy ride in the little yellow tuk tuk, past the raw wooden stalls lining the roads, dodging bikes, motorcycles and matatus to arrive at the hospital compound. Swinging myself over the wooden railing and into the changing rooms, to emerge in scrubs and boots to work either with hurried abandon or at an anesthetist’s leisure. Tea and mandazi, lunch and ugali, a mad dash back into civilian clothes for an afternoon soda in between cases before summoning my little yellow tuk tuk again. Dinner, perhaps a beer, equally as relaxing with new found friends or alone with my thoughts.

There were memorable and happy deviations. Visiting a village, playing with its children, being welcomed into homes and conversations. Watching the efforts on behalf of one woman’s memory making very real changes in people’s lives and attitudes. Venturing forth, relying on the hospitality of almost perfect strangers to explore beyond my little coastal town.

My perspective on medicine shifted, in ways I couldn’t even begin to anticipate. I had developed certain frustrations with American medicine, in that it often seems our resources aren’t necessarily dedicated to maximizing good quality patient-years. There are inequalities in care, but it’s generally a difference between good and better. Not so here, the difference is between good and none, between life and death. I’ve lost patients for lack of monitoring, for lack of labs, for lack of available anaesthetist. Every medication, every operation, every thing that is done here has purpose and is needed. It may make my frustrations and irritations worse when I return home, but my hope is that it will give me the resolve to be honest about the type of surgeon I want to be.

In short, some amazing people gave me their friendship; patients gave me their trust. Chance, fate, or God gave me so many wonderful new experiences. My heart is so rich and full of the gifts I have received that it becomes easier to forget the not-so-happy memories.

With childlike fascination, I press my forehead to the window pane beside me, unblinkingly scanning the ground until the sun warms my face, the clouds are beneath my feet, and the dirt and dust of Kisumu have melted away.

Kenya has enchanted me – I will return…

Best to take the moment present as a present for the moment...

Though today could have been a difficult one, I was given the opportunity to realize how much my visit here was appreciated. Without exception, every single person to whom I said my goodbyes today asked, “When are you coming back?” My heart swelled with gratitude for the experience.


The day started by meeting with Dr. Juliana, the hospital administrator. We spoke about my time here, giving feedback on what I feel are their more immediate and attainable needs. Hopefully, I’ll have the chance to coordinate with the surgical team that is coming in February. Interestingly, it was at this “exit interview” that I learned that I had performed a hernia repair on her uncle. Strong show of faith in her hospital. She remarked that he was amused at the thought of a male Kenyan surgeon working side-by-side with a female Mzungu surgeon. Luckily, he recovered nicely.

After that, I ventured into the main theatre, where I was chastised for not informing them of my departure in advance. They missed a chance for a party and they love an excuse to have a party.

Wandered the wards to touch base with the interns and to check on the baby I had operated on the day before.

Rapenda and Kariuki, the men's ward interns

Muchela, the women and children's ward intern

Took my last ride in Mike's tuk tuk. He put up with so much from me. Having to turn around to stop and buy things on the side of the road. Being on call for whatever random hour I got done at the hospital. And perhaps his biggest struggle as a Kenyan, picking me up on time in the mornings. ;-)

A final lunch with the MCI team at a swanky guest house called Le Savanna, joined by the pediatric surgeon I worked with so often. Not sure if I had mentioned it before, but as part of the public health initiatives here, hand-washing has become a strict pre-meal ritual. And I mean ritual. It’s either fingerbowls or hot towels or a waiter carrying an ewer of hot water and a pump bottle of soap. Today’s method, however, was new. Hot water was poured into ceramic jugs near the tables, and we all left the table to wash.

Merciline, Ben, Dr. Ongong'a, and Beldina

Surprisingly, I have managed to pack everything into the small amount of luggage I brought with me. Hopefully, it will all still meet the weight restrictions for Kenya Airways and Virgin Atlantic!

We attempted to celebrate one last sunset at Kiboko Bay, but the weather didn’t cooperate, and there’s no reason to fight the mosquitos without the payoff. We ended up instead at The Clarice (no fava beans or chianti... anyone?), the luxury guest house we had last visited on the night of the ::grumble:: burglary. Couldn’t leave Africa without a drink (or two) of Amarula.

I am spending my evening as I have spent so many, writing my blog, looking at photos, having a drink with Beldina. Later, I will sequester myself in my mosquito net, armed with flashlight and Nook. Why should tonight be different from any other?

Promised Beldina's son, C.J., that we would have breakfast together in the morning. I would say that six-year olds get attached pretty quickly, but this thirty-five year old is just as attached. He was so proud of his first day as a Year Two today.

Tomorrow, my last blog. An attempt to wrap-up this amazing month. Thanks for sticking with me…

Everybody's got the right to be happy...

Time is ticking away! Did my 45th and likely final case today. Then went souvenir shopping.


It seems silly to mention in this land of want and sacrifice, but do you know how much it killed me to miss the Emmy Awards????? I am addicted to awards shows, and not only for the fashion like some of my friends. I genuinely enjoy the bits and the speeches. If only my computer weren’t so riddled with viruses that I can’t see YouTube… Grrrrr.

Oh, and since I temporarily have unlimited internet, I attempted to access Netflix. Guess what? Can’t stream outside the US. Bummer.

Let’s see. I did promise at some point to give a quick peek at Kenyan history. This is going to be an exercise in seeing how much I retain from reading the newspaper three days ago… ;-)

Despite the timeless landscapes and rich, enduring heritage, Kenya is a fairly young country. A product of colonial expansion, the British held on to the country, for its plentiful agricultural resources until the people demanded liberation in the form of a band of rebel fighters called the Mau Mau. Though the Mau Mau was technically defeated and its leaders were forced to live in hiding in the forests, it advanced the cause of independence (the populace was straining under frank segregation in education and opportunity). The country was turned over by Governor MacDonald to the government of the nation’s first president Jomo Kenyatta in December of 1963, amid much pomp and circumstance.

Despite the takeover, the new government left many of the British political systems in place. There seems to be some element of discordance at this point, as a portion of the country reveres Jomo Kenyatta and credits him with strong leadership that allowed Kenya to come forward as an independent nation. Others feel that his party had little to do with the fight for independence, and it was simply a matter of trading one autocracy for another. To be sure, the executive branch in this government is strong, as there have only been three presidents in the 47-year history of this independent nation.

Government has been very centralized, which has led to opportunities for corruption. Many Kenyans blame their woes on this idea of “Nairobi” whether that means the central government or the governors is unclear.

However, after years of debate and revision, the country finally passed a new consititution. Among other things, it decentralizes the government. What I have found most interesting is the range of expectations this change brings. For some, it means building new offices; for others, employment opportunities cleaning those offices. For even fewer, it means taking control of community projects, being able to control local income and revenue without watching it all go into unknown pockets in Nairobi.

It was an amazing time to be in the country, listening to the fervor of a people empowered.

That’s it for Stephanie’s History Corner. Only one more blog from Kisumu!!!!

On the soft green elliptical grass

After having attended two vastly different churches the past two weeks, I decided to see if my church could continue to provide the same constancy of ritual, of community, that I've always clung to in times of trouble. With hope for finding the familiar, I headed this morning to St. Joseph's Catholic Church in the Milimani suburb of Kisumu.

The exterior of the church, a meeting ground for the community

While much of the service was obviously similar, there were many Kenyan touches. Perhaps things are different in different churches, but I was raised in a church where the ushers were always the men of the church or the youth. Here, it was the women elders, collectively called  "The Mothers", that clearly ran the church, from seating, to offertory baskets, to presentation of the gifts. There were two young schoolgirls that were ever present in the aisle of the church, and they performed choreography to many of the recitations and responses sung during the mass.

The songs were amazing, with rich harmonies, complete with the uniquely African noise that can only be described as ululating. Unfortunately the music was often over-accompanied by what I've always referred to (my sisters will back me up on this) Fletcher Organ Company music. There used to be a piano and keyboard company that sold instruments in the malls in central Florida, and there was always some synthesized rhumba beat emanating from the store. Anyone remember that? I did attempt to record some of the music, but I'll have to play with it before I can post it properly.

The first mass was celebrated in Kisumu in 1902, as the railroad approached town, a number of the workers were Catholic and traveled with a catechist. The diocese was made official, and St. Joseph's was established in December of 1903.The church holds masses in Kiswahili, English and Luo, one of the tribal languages (of which, Kenya has 42!)

The Mary shrine

There were some changes in the mass, what I presume to be optional portions of the service. And, my search continues for a parish that actually recites the Apostle's  Nicene Creed. I think the more I recognize that I miss it, the more I realize that it is that portion of the mass that has always spoken to me. A unified group of people speaking firmly and strongly about their beliefs. I know that communion should be the most important part of the mass, but professing that belief really centers me as a Catholic. Some portions of the mass that I've always considered reserved for the celebrant, i.e. through him, with him... are recited in unison. And what seems like a deliberate change may or may not have a specific meaning (Steven? help me out here) in that they say "... shed for you and for many, so that sins may be forgiven..." instead of "...shed for you and for all..."

I took it as a positive sign that the communion hymn was one of my favorites, "Bread of Life". I know it's not exactly unique, but it was the version and tune that I remember from childhood.

So, yes, a bastion of familiarity in this crazy, wonderful country. Very glad I chose to go.

This is the morning report

So much to talk about, I have to squeeze two days into one blog, since I’m running out of time ;)


Thanks to those who commented, emailed, or facebook’d about the trials of yesterday’s blog. I shall chalk it up to life experience and move on…

Determined not to let the robbery ruin my last weekend in Kenya, I proceeded with the plans that were already in place, namely a bus ride to Nakuru. It was a wonderful day to be in Kenya, even if we were far away from Nairobi, as the patriotic fervor stirred up by the signing of the new constitution was infectious. But, I’ll leave Kenyan history and politics for tomorrow’s blog. Today, I want to tell you about my continuous wonder at the constant surprises in this country.

In a previous conversation, I was gently chided by a fellow traveler for having flown to Kisumu. According to him, the only way to really appreciate the splendor that is Kenya is to travel on the ground, and after this bus trip, I’m inclined to agree. The bus itself wasn’t anything special, except that I could get from western Kenya to central Kenya for ~$8. And that was the luxury line.

What was so inviting was that the terrain is so unflinchingly verdant. The green never stops. Even the wide depressions on the sides of the road were tumbling with wildflowers and weeds, interrupted periodically by a neat, methodical garden plot of cabbage or maize. The trees would vary as we climbed in elevation, and at one point the flat-topped canopy trees gave way to slender coniferous species until I could imagine I was on the Garden State Parkway. Eventually, we crossed into the land of tea plantations, and the peculiar yellow-green of the tea bushes would stretch in wide swaths over the rolling plains. In the distance, you could always find the white rectangles of the worker’s brick row houses and the tall metal central plant. Crossing through the Rift Valley area, the roadside shrubs and trees would suddenly thin out and you find yourself staring down into a valley with trees so dense and vegetation so lush you could swear humans had never set foot into it, only to see a woman come out of the darkness with a bucket of water on her head. And not ten minutes later, a flat meadow full of sheep, with the shepherd relaxing roadside with a hunk of sugar cane in his mouth. I spent the entire four hours with my forehead pressed to the window.

At last, we came to Nakuru. To begin with, for those who know me, the thought of staying with the family of a friend of a friend is a little (a lot) outside my comfort zone, but this whole trip is about shaking up my life, yes?

Kahenya and his fiancée, Laura, met me at the bus station and whisked me away to one of Nakuru’s nicer restaurants for lunch. It happened to be Ethiopian, so yummy. Afterward, we headed to Menengai crater, a dormant volcano (I think?) that is not far from their home. Except for the many km of switchbacks that it takes to get to the top rim of the crater. I’m not really sure what I was expecting, some small divot a couple of hundred yards wide, perhaps. Certainly not the spectacle I ended up seeing. Pictures don’t do it justice (not the first or last time I will say that). There are also many little areas in the base of the crater that emit a fine white line of smoke. Presumably little geothermal vents that the government is trying to find a way to harness as an energy source. The local tribe, the Kikuyu, Kenya’s largest, have traditionally felt that the crater harbor devils. That the steam spouts are where the devils are digging. It was the only explanation for why cattle grazing in the area would disappear in the treacherous soil. The rocks in the area are pumice and subsequently very light, and the temperature gradient between the rim and the floor causes a strong upward breeze. As a child, Kahenya recalled stories about people trying to throw rocks into the crater and, because of the gusts, being told that the devils were throwing them back.

Kahenya and Laura

The devils are digging...

After winding our way back down the treacherous road, I met Kahenya’s parents, watched some of the constitution celebrations, ate dinner and headed to bed early. It had been a long day, particularly after the late night/early morning I’d had the night before.

The next day (today), after breakfast, Kahenya, Laura and I headed into town. There is a Kenya Wildlife Bus that tours Lake Nakuru National Park, and it leaves from the Kenya Railway station at 9. Supposedly. We stayed there (and thank goodness they stayed with me) from 8:45 to 10:15, and there was nary a bus in sight. Laura finally gave up and told Kahenya just to take me into the park. She ran off to run her errands. He and I got to the park and were told that there was no bus today. Yikes. He agreed to be my safari driver, a choice he had reason to regret later. ;-)

Our safari truck, a.k.a. Kahenya's mom's gardening truck

The park was incredible, and we only toured one half of it. The side of the lake that we journey was marshland with small copses of trees and grassland. The other side, as he told me, is more traditional grassland savannah. His main accomplishment of the day is that we didn’t get stuck, and mine? Well, you’ll see mine in a little bit.

Lake Nakuru is renowned for its birdwatching, but since I know little of birds and do not have a fancy camera, I was just looking for the main highlights. Had I known how extensive the park was, I’d have insisted on coming when it opened and not leaving until it closed!

The lake itself looks like it’s rimmed in pink, with throngs of flamingoes clamoring over one another all along its vast shoreline. He took me through the marshy roads and around the baboons, and I was snapping pictures left and right. Zebra, water buffalo, water bucks, a couple of different types of antelope, baboons, hyenas, every thing I saw.

But, my goal, my raison d’etre was to see the rhino. And we found him, and he was amazing. The sun came out from the clouds, he stood up in profile, there were birds lined on his back and the flamingos were flying behind him. And my camera decided to stop working. Lens error! LENS ERROR! I wanted to cry. I was crushed. I played with it for about 10 minutes, desperate to make it work. It was that Kahenya realized he had a crazy Mzungu in his truck. I simply told him that we had to go back to town for me to buy a disposable camera. That’s all there was to it. I had to get this picture. He looked at me like I was nuts, which to be honest I probably am. I promised him that if he did that, then that was all we had to do, he didn’t have to show me any more of the park, just help me get the picture of the rhino. We had to persuade the gate guards to let us have an exemption to leave and return, and luckily Laura had her camera with her, so we caught up with her to get it and raced back to the spot. He had moved a little, but not far. And was now surrounded by a herd of water buffalo. Apparently, I was risking life and limb, because at one point Kahenya very calmly dropped his voice and ordered me to get back in the truck. The rhino was at my back and had started moving closer. Once we were out of the area, he told me that they can charge at 50 km/hr. Glad he didn’t tell me that before…

Look, Zoe! A nino!

Aunt Steph doesn't know it, but the nino is getting closer...

Gentleman that he is, he continued to take me around the park, at least up to the Baboon Cliff Lookout. And thank goodness he did, it’s on a high point overlooking the lake and the view was spectacular.

Love the reflection of the clouds in the lake

We did Ethiopian again for lunch (the other Nakuru restaurant was closed…) and I journeyed back to Kisumu. So glad I ventured forth from my little city in the west.

That's my new philosophy

Initially, the title of this blog was “No good deed goes unpunished”, but after somber reflection, I adopted a more forgiving lyric. It is with great hesitation that I include this chapter of my Kisumu adventures, knowing that many of you might be alarmed as you watch the tale unfold. I beg you to read the blog through to its conclusion and remember that a good reporter tells the whole story.

When last I left you, I was enjoying Beldina’s hospitality, laughing and eating Oreos with a cold glass of milk. A rare treat, trust me. However, when Beldina took me back to the guest house, things went awry.

My room had been burglarized in my absence. There were subtle but obvious signs that someone had rustled with my stuff, the least of which the drawer in which my valuables were locked had been stripped open. I grabbed everything valuable that they didn’t take and went back downstairs to report to the lobby receptionist, calling Beldina with my free hand as I made my way down. She turned around and came back and told me to call the owner, which I did. The men in the lobby were helpful in some ways and less so in others. Firstly, they immediately had a suspect, in that they were already suspicious of the man that had checked into the room next to mine. Helpful, sort of. They went upstairs with me, which is when we realized the balcony door was open and that the window screen next to that door’s lock had been bent backward to allow a wrist access. Then they told me that I had to go to the police station to file a report. As if I had the means and/or the desire to wander Kisumu near midnight to find the police station. Less helpful. Once they realized I was on the phone with the owner, they became a little more helpful. Beldina and the owner arrived at the same time, and we went back up to the room, where the owner and his wife proceeded to chastise me about the fact that I left valuables in the room. Because that’s exactly what I needed. Beldina started hinting about the fact that she was going to end her relationship with the guest house, and they suddenly became a little more gracious, though only barely. My recollections of most of this are hazy at best as I was in a haze, feeling violated, overwhelmed, and stupid all at the same time. They recognized that they rented a room to someone against their policies (without an ID/passport), but still wouldn’t accept any hint of culpability. We all left en masse to the police station.

Imagine a small city, with barely enough street lamps to keep the main thoroughfares illuminated. The streets are mostly deserted, as it is the eve of a great National Holiday, the birth of a new Kenya, a historic event on par with the celebrations of the independence it gained from Great Britain in 1963. The car slows as we near an ominous gathering of men in the street, fortunately it turns out to be located in front of the District Commissioner’s home and a security presence is strong. The gravel crunches as we turn onto a small back street. Broken and vandalized vans line the darkened street, and were my driver any other than the companion I have, I would be insisting we head back to civilization. The police station is neither well-marked nor well-maintained. We pull off the gravel road into the dusty soil of the station’s lot. Boda bodas and tuk tuks fill most available spaces, waiting for the off chance to transport the officers anywhere they may need to go. The station is little more than a holding cell with a small cement antechamber in which two officers while away the night. The first sits behind a desk with a massive paper ledger, into which he records the details of my situation. The second stays at the door with a gun stretched across his lap. Numbly, I stay in the broken chair he offers me, facing a metal door with a small square hole, curiously painted bright blue. As Beldina and the guest house owner provide local information and provide a little pressure in the form of Beldina’s contact with the head of Kisumu Crime, I realize that I’m staring at the town jail, and the disembodied voices yelling in Swahili (or perhaps Luo, I can’t tell) are the prisoners. A fact that becomes more real when I lift my arm from the desk and see the title of the ledger beneath me, “Cell Register”. Not exactly where I ever expected I would be in the early morning hours of a Kisumu morning.

We returned to the guest house, where I prepared to pack up and move rooms. All sense of safety had fled from me, and even with a group of people behind me, my heart started racing as I opened the door to my room. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and despite the fact that the hotel staff was trying to help, I got tremendously disturbed that they were touching my things. So much anger building inside until I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. We moved me down to a room right next to reception, and the owner left. I sat there with Beldina on the verge of falling apart. My heart was still pounding, and Beldina, reading me more acutely than I realized, called the owner and forced me to talk with him. It was on the phone with him that I finally started to lose it. Without Beldina within earshot to appease, he began again with his lecture on the error of my ways. First was anger at his failure to acknowledge that his staff already had suspicions about this guy, who should never have been allowed in the guest house. What good are all his locks and buzzers (we have to ask to be let in and out of the reception area) if he doesn’t pay attention to the clientele he admits? Then I flat out got scared, and couldn’t keep the tremor out of my voice. I told him I couldn’t spend another night at the guest house, I felt completely violated and couldn’t accept the fact that the chief suspect still had a key to the guest house. I also added that because of the theft I wasn’t in any position to pay any of the bill that I had already accrued. He made me sign the bill I had accrued, to which I added my own comments. He professes that he will submit an insurance claim for the items that were taken, but that he refuses to be responsible for the cash.

We were both sufficiently shaken up at that time that Beldina didn’t want to stop the car until we got back to her home, where I will be installed until I leave Kisumu. My anger was red hot last night, and spread over everyone. I was angry at Kenya, angry at myself, angry at a God whom I thought should protect people trying to do good things.

When I finally got my hastily packed belongings back into some order in Beldina’s guest room, it was near 2:30 before I was able to lie down to sleep. And as I fought with the mosquito that got trapped inside the net with me, I did a fair amount of soul searching. In truth, the things I had lost were just that, things. I had my health, I had my life. It could have been so much worse. Money flows in and out of my life, and though I have struggled with it, I’ve never been so destitute that I felt I needed to resort to criminal activity to survive. I have clean clothes on my back, a roof over my head and a generous layer of fat to remind me of my nutritional excesses. Perhaps my God was watching over me and kept me safe from bodily harm. This man, this thief, took away some of my sense of security, but he’s the not the first to have done that. He stole very little of anything irreplaceable. And he’s more than welcome to the Broadway audios on my iPod and the photos, videos and phone numbers on my American cell phone. He neglected to steal the power cords, and as I haven’t seen any in Kenya, he can enjoy them while they last.

And so, I’ve decided to be thankful for the things I do still have:
For the souvenirs that he didn’t feel were important enough to take.
For the passport that he was generous enough to leave.
For the fact that he didn’t recognize was a Nook was, and I still have my primary form of solitary recreation.
For the split decision to take my laptop and camera with me to Beldina’s house.
For the many friends and family that will, of course, send me their phone numbers again… (via facebook and email)
For Beldina’s friendship and her ability to see beyond my anger, urging me to stop and reflect.
For the wonderful memories of this trip that I will not allow to be tainted by this individual act.
For perspective and forgiveness.

And that’s my new philosophy.