"In My Mind, I'm Goin' To Carolina"

Last night, while waiting at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport for the 8:55 British Airways flight from London, I got hit with this overwhelming urge to talk to my best friend, Faith.

I was there to greet Helen, who's a good friend of my good friend Deb. They're both North Carolina gals, and I got to meet Helen earlier this year, while visiting Deb and her husband Ray in their beautiful vacation home in the North Carolina mountains. Helen has this equally lovely home filled with amazing African and "outsider art," which made me bond with her instantly.

Actually, Deb called me here in Nairobi just last week--in fact, right as I was saying goodbye to Homey the Muslim Chef from Lamu!!! I felt like a teenager, giggling into the phone while whispering, "Umm, can you call me back in 15 minutes?? Do I have something to tell you or WHAT!!!"

All the way home in the taxi, I howled with laughter as Deb gasped on the other end of the line. We talked for another half hour or so, and she even called back when the line went dead, something I've had to get used to when trying to make international calls. After we said our goodbyes and "Love ya, girlfriend", I felt really warm and fuzzy for a while. But then, the loneliness set in. I realized that, DAMN, this is what I'm utterly starved for over here.

Well, that and sex. But one thing at a time. What's probably bugging me more than the traffic and the crime and the job challenges and the language barrier and the lack of really good cheese is the absence of emotional balm that I'll call "Sista-Gurl Solidarity/Solace." I got sista-girls of every flava of the rainbow, from strawberry blonde to locked and lovely to bald and beautiful, and I adore each and every one of them. When I'm with these friends, I "exhale" in ways no man could ever induce. I feel relaxed, accepted, validated and heard.

Consider the the picture up top. The lovely and talented gal in the center, who was caught squinting, is my best friend Faith. God knew what He was doing when He made us meet, 'cause this woman has been through the fire with me, and will have my back til one or both of us checks out. I met her 30 years ago at Northwestern, and besides Julie, noone in my life knows more about why I'm the way I am than she does.

We're both in "gut it out" mode this month, because both of her parents passed in October, and of course I'm thinking of Julie this time of year. Last night, standing in the airport waiting for a newer friend, I was seized by this longing to see Faith strolling through those Immigration exit doors, smiling and waving as we shrieked into each others' arms. It would have been been more healing than a new hypertension prescription and a double martini combined (that is if I could find a really good martini over here).

The other woman in the picture is my girl Jamila, who I met when she was a high school intern in Detroit and I had just started at the Free Press newspaper there. Here's the thing about Jamila as a teenager: she was convinced she was fabulous, and wondered what the hell was wrong with the rest of the world for not acknowledging it. Of course, my motherly instinct at the time was to try and temper that bodaciousness with some mentoring support, but DAMN if that child didn't go ahead and prove herself right!! She's now the Sunday Features Editor of a major metropolitan newspaper, and the closest thing to a mini-me I will ever help produce. (I say that because, take a close look at the picture. She looks a lot like I did 15 years ago, trust me.)

In this photo, the three of us were at a restaurant on Ipanema Beach in February of 2008. I was absolutely over the moon about having survived Gulu, and got my brother Peter to let me crash at his Rio condo for a week. Oh, sure, it would have been nice to have gone with a man who would, to borrow a term I actually first learned from Jamila, "rodger me senseless" several times a day. But the next best thing was being there with 2 of my best friends. We ate Jamila's spinach crepes and pain perdu with macerated peaches and all kinds of fabulous gourmet meals each day, and took long walks on the beach, and then stumbled in and out of various joints in search of the perfect caipirinha each night. After 8 months in Gulu, half of which were spent mourning Julie, it was like the gateway to heaven.

Nowadays, when I'm chillin' in the Oasis, I realize that even peace and quiet in gracious surroundings just isn't enough to really nurture my soul. Oh, I'm always aware of how lucky I am to have a job, and a nice, clean, safe place to live, with enough to eat and clean water and electricity every day, especially in this challenged country at this extraordinarily challenging time. I'm also constantly reminded that nobody held a gun to my head and made me come here. I further acknowledge that that there is definite endpoint to this gig, and if I can hang on for 15 months, 9 more won't kill me. And I even realize that, given the right circumstances, I could probably develop friendships as strong as the ones I have back home, if I really wanted to.

But right now, all I really want to do is get in my Saab and drive to North Carolina, where I'd stop first in the mountains and watch hilarious movies and drink great wine with Deb and Ray, as steaks sizzled on the grill out on their fabulous new deck. Next stop would be Raleigh and my friend Joyce's house, to get hugs and kisses from her and her cherubim, my godson Ty and his baby doll sister Talia. In fact, that's where Jamila flew in from Atlanta earlier this month, recreating a weekend we'd all had back in April, last time I was in the States. And then I'd drive 3 hours south to Charlotte and spend endless hours laughing and crying and gabbing my head off with my best friend Faith.

But that's just a dream for now. Still, "In my mind, I'm goin' to Carolina," more and more these days. In fact, last night I called and left a long, rambling voicemail message for Faith while I was at the airport, waiting to see a face I recognized coming through those Immigration exit doors. I realized it was a lot cheaper than just calling the whole thing off and heading straight to the ticket counter.