A New Be-GIN-ning

I'd like to take a moment to extol the restorative properties of the Kenyan gin martini.

That's my creative way of explaining that the past few days have dragged me through a knothole backwards. I don't know if jet-lag gets worse as you get older, but I've felt like somebody went upside my head with a snow shovel. I can't sleep more than a few hours, and forming words is nearly impossible. Sure, I've been able to drag my carcass out of the hotel, but the minute I return to my room, the bed sings its siren song, and I'm nosediving back into it.

The only true comfort I've felt lately has been found in the bottom of a martini glass. You see, they make 'em totally different over here. Stateside, I like my martini dry as the Sahara, with a crisp bite to it. Or filthy dirty, with plenty o' extra olives marinating in the elegant elixir. But all the martinis I've had since arriving in Nairobi (I refuse to divulge how many, but just don't light any matches around me) have been sweet. I shudder to think what they're putting in them, but it's almost like drinking Kool-aid with a gin kick. They slide down my throat like the nectar of the gods, and after a while, it doesn't matter that I'm a bloated, foggy-headed, pre-menopausal insomniac.

Okay, enough with the creative license. I'm actually doing rather well, considering. And I've experienced many, many moments of wonder and delight since I arrived. Starting with the first night, after my gargantuan suitcases had been safely stowed in my room, and I shuffled down to the restaurant to grab something to eat. Sitting there waiting for my spring rolls and chicken wings (I'm sorry, but a sister can eat some chicken wings in any time zone, as long as there's a tooth left in her head), I noticed a group of guys heading over to a bandstand. They picked up their various instruments and started playing......

Salsa music. I almost laughed out loud. Not because they were playing badly; they were actually quite good. But it was totally insane to be sitting in downtown Nairobi listening to six Kenyan guys play Salsa.

And then there was this afternoon, when I decided to take a quick tour of the Sunday crafts market at the Ya Ya Centre. I'd like to tell you I wore my "Obama for President" cap to keep the sun out of my eyes, but I was actually angling for the "Diaspora Discount" on anything I bought.

Worked like a charm. But more than that, I'll never forget the smiles, the handshakes, the thumbs up from just about every vendor. Everyone wanted to know what state I was from; I spared them my stock diatribe about being a disenfranchised DC resident. After a while, I felt like a rock star just walking down the aisles, smiling and waving and fending off offers to trade my cap for some carving or piece of jewelry.

It felt like I was being welcomed home by family. Sure, most people can tell right off that I'm American, and in every African country I've visited, that's always created an automatic barrier of sorts. But the excitement and pride Kenyans feel about Barack Obama must be eroding that barrier for African Americans, I think. Today, at least, it made me feel less alien, less like a vaguely familiar interloper.

Overall, things have been going really well. On Friday, I met with some of the staffers at the Nation newpaper, where I'll be working. It's in the Nation Centre, this really cool skyscraper about a half a block from the hotel. And the hustle and bustle of downtown Nairobi is just like any major American city. After Gulu, I freakin feel like Dorothy at the gates of Emerald City! Exploring downtown today, I realized that half the crap I stuffed into my suitcases out of desperate fear of a year long deprivation is readily available here. There's a coffee shop in the Ya Ya Centre that beats all hell out of Starbucks.

And here's the real kicker...after years of swearing I could never live outside of "The Big City," over here, I'll be living in the suburbs! The apartment I'm renting is in an area called Westlands, just outside the city. There's a gym with a sauna and a steamroom, and a pool onsite....so convenient if I ever want to drown myself in a hurry. Last night, I had dinner in this Westlands hotspot called Gipsy's that serves some of the best grilled calamari I've ever eaten!

Clearly, I am rendered totally giddy by Nairobi...at least for now. But I'm not hopelessly naive. It's never quite far from my mind that one of the city's nicknames is "Nai-ROBBERY." But I'm a big girl with a big job to do.

At least I'll be properly fortified. Syrupy martinis, anyone?