lost in the supermarket

After two plus years, an unplanned overnight in the Newark airport, and 5500 miles from Niamey I was home.

Only it didn't feel like home, frankly it didn't feel like anywhere.

I holed up in my sister's house for a few days, terrified of having to talk to anyone. I'd been in West Africa for 27 months, and while I was aware I had changed a good deal I don't think I was prepared for how much "home" had changed. When you're away, the idea of "home" is stuck in time. The longer and further away you are gone, the worse reentry is.

After a few days I managed to go to Comp USA, I'm not sure what I bought but I remember stumbling through the check out conversation and saying something in French.

A week or so later I was all proud of myself, I'd made it to my condo in the Gold Coast and was doing better. There was just one problem ... the supermarket. It was daunting. I'd be in there for like an hour, and come out with one bag of random groceries. Living downtown without a car, I had to go every few days ... and it sucked.

In Benin, there are a handful of smallish supermarkets Cotonou (the capital) and they are generally filled with stuff you don't really want (like imitation Oreos), stuff you shouldn't be buying on your salary (when food on the street costs $1 or $2 anything pre-packaged is a bad deal), and stuff you couldn't use if you wanted (like frozen pizza ... no ovens or freezers). I generally went to the supermarche's to pick up a few things ... syrup, spices, and snacks ... on my way out of town. Say once every month or two.

Conversely in Chicago supermarkets we relatively cheap, filled with stuff I actually wanted, and convenient. This should have been awesome. But it sucked. It was the amalgamation of all the things I was having trouble with ... interacting with strangers, seemingly endless choice, and acting like I belonged.

But I didn't have a job, and I needed to eat.

Takeout or delivery seemed wasteful, both because of cost and the fact I was having trouble eating american food. I could eat my weight in ingamme pillet but only half a plate of what my excellent cook of a sister served. So I went to Jewel, every day to two. Once while stuck like a deer in the headlights in the ice cream aisle, a woman actually asked me if I was OK. Humbling.

I am guessing it took a month or two, but I eventually turned the corner :).