As most of you know, I recently got back from a trip to Togo. I’m still sorting through thoughts, and still posting blogs related to the trip. To read all of my Togo entries, click here.
Leaving Togo was hard.
As we shouldered our way through the crowds at the airport, I felt dizzy with emotions. I hated saying goodbye to my new Togolese friends–especially as one whispered to me “I already miss you” just before I was herded through security.
Sitting on the plane, my head ached with the things I already missed. I missed the smell of the mothballs that rolled around in the cupholders of our van. I missed the fine coating of red dust that covered everything. I missed the smiles and the handshakes and the hugs and the waves and the small hands slipped into mine.
Six hours later, when our plane landed in Paris, I stumbled through customs, crumpled and dazed. The bus we took to the hotel felt too big, the roads too smooth. I shivered in the artificial cold of my hotel room, collapsed into the too soft bed.
I woke to the sound of too loud voices in the hallway. I staggered to the bathroom, and stood under the steaming water. My mind, my body, my spirit, everything rebeled. I cried as I watched the last physical remnants of Togo wash down the drain.
Later, I dressed and set out to wander the streets of Paris. I found comfort in the worn flip flops I slipped onto my feet. They were still coated in the soft, red dust I had walked through for a week. But a wrong step off of a curb, and I gasped as cold water sloshed over my feet. Not at the shock of the temperature. But at the shock of how quickly those shoes went from a memory to a simple pair of shoes, purchased in a rush from Old Navy.
I felt raw. Everything had been cleansed. My skin. My clothes.
Who knew cleansing could hurt so bad?
