A Perfect 10

Okay, I'm sitting in Amsterdam's Schipol Airport eating a jamon serrano and olive sandwich, and my stomach is already reminding me that IT'S still on Eastern Time, or in other words, "What the hell are you putting inside of me at 2:15 AM???"

I'm halfway through the journey to Nairobi. And while I'm not exactly a slave to numerology, I'm thinking about the number 10 this morning. My flight is scheduled to leave at 10 AM. I am the 9th of 10 children. We arrived at Gate D-47; I'll be 47 in October, which is the 10th month of the year.

And this is my 10th journey from the US to Africa. I've been to Ghana once, Ethiopia four times, Nigeria twice, South Africa once, Uganda, and now Kenya.

Now, I'm not suggesting that I suspect everything to turn out perfectly because it's my 10th trip. But so far, I'm batting a thousand. Sitting at the table right next to me is this incredibly cute younger man named Malik, who's been flirting with me like crazy.

Sure, he's sitting in a stroller, and he's 14 months old, but my heart has melted and is puddling on the floor right about now. He looks like a human Hershey bar with big limpid eyes, and perfect little teeth like tiny Chiclets, and outrageous dimples. His mother is feeding him cereal with her fingers, but he barely notices because he's so busy grinning and peeking at me.

Looks like I still "got it like that" with men. At least men under the age of 2. But something tells me my luck may be changing.

Anyway, I'm scheduled to arrive at Jomo Kenyatta Airport at 7:00 PM. But by the time I get through Immigration, bribe some strapping young Kenyan to risk a ruptured disc lifting my deadweight luggage, and make my way to the Sarova Stanley Hotel in downtown Nairobi, it'll likely be 10 PM. Okay, I'm running out of 10 metaphors, so I should probably wrap this thing up.

Besides, I've got about 10 minutes til this laptop battery dies. More later, from downtown Nairobi.