It’s been two months. I’m not yet settled. From Uganda’s airport at Entebbe I hopped to Nairobi then to Khartoum then Cairo. Egypt was funny. A stew of ancient high culture peppered with moments of anarchy, beautiful crumbling buildings to riot police in black with shields and bats. I guess revolutions do that. I took a train down to Luxor to see the ancient ruins at Thebes. They were neat. And on the way back, the train was delayed for eight hours because mobs were killing Coptic Christians over the train tracks. It was fascinating though. They joked about who would be president and it was funny because no one has half a clue. I got seriously scammed and apparently that’s normal. A solider dragged me across Tahir Square for taking photos. Egypt, intimidating, but also beautiful.
From Cairo I headed further east to Abu Dhabi for a 17 hour layover where I was put up by a nice fellow from the British High Commission. Then finally, after airport security discovered the puke a cat had surreptitiously laid in my carry-on (awkward), after a 13 hour flight where a poor Indian family was forced to sit under my cat-puke laden bag (sorry), I was home.
Kind-of. I was in New York, seeing old friends, walking the old haunts. But it’s different. I’m home, but I don’t yet get what it is I ought to be doing. My priorities are muddled. I want to make sense of what I did, why I did it. I haven’t been able. It’s random the things that do pop up. Random people would like to meet, a guy wants a link to this poker web site. People ask simple questions, like how was it, why did you go. You tell the stories but it doesn’t come across, the adrenalin of trucks running you off highways, diffused by the daily drivel of endlessly cycling. Some days it’s like I did something, others it’s not.
Anyways, I’ve decided to go home-home, to the land of my birth, where cows are extra happy and the Packers ply. I’m traveling the way I now know best, by bicycle. I left New York a few days ago. Hopefully, shortly, I’ll be home.