just call me el nifto

More than a week after I developed this snotty cold, I finally took something to help clear me up. And now I’m sitting here with a pounding heart full of anxiety. I have turned to the internet for a distraction (as opposed to choosing the more grown up options of washing my underwear or ironing clothes). But it’s not helping. Now I long for contact from the non-Africa world. I wonder what exactly is at the Erotic Arts and Crafts fair. I’d really like to see Magic Slim and the Teardrops…they sound fun but I hardly recognize any other band names. Walking down cold Bloor street in a puffy jacket and long scarf would be lovely right about now. Imagine – I could just leave the house, even if it’s dark out, on my own. Hear the crunch of snow under my feet. Pop in somewhere warm, have hot chocolate. Come home with pink cheeks, the cuffs of my jeans salty and stiff. And nobody in the street would notice me. Nobody would know of my secret bland adventure.

From one of my favourite books, Self by Yann Martel, after the main character has come back to Canada from traveling:

“I was amazed at how inconspicuous I was; by Turkish standards I was invisible. This played a good part in my high spirits. It was refreshing and liberating to walk down a street unnoticed, left alone with my day-dreams; to speak and be understood right away; to look around and feel a part of things.”

My comfort lately is the realization that if I had everything I wanted, including anonymity, this wouldn’t be Addis.