There aren't many places in our society where the cereal aisle attracts as much conversation as it does among Returned Peace Corps Volunteers. There were at least half a dozen times during our Close of Service Conference, six weeks before I left Mali, when we were cautioned of the perils of visiting the supermarket upon first arriving back in the U.S. after our service ended. They warned us of the feeling of being completely overwhelmed by the massive variety of flavors, styles, shapes, and colors of cereal we would have to get used to again when we walked back to those food emporiums. One epic cereal aisle, 5 shelves high, 300 feet long, and packed full of different things to pour milk into and eat for breakfast – breakfast, of all meals! One speaker at the conference openly admitted to breaking down into tears while contemplating whether to buy the Corn Flakes made by General Mills, Post, or the generic Shop Rite variety. Corn Flakes, one of (in my own personal opinion) the blandest, most simple and unexciting cereal products in existence, and there is still too much of a variety to contemplate, while in Mali, I would wonder hopefully if tonight's dinner would be millet porridge with a saltier okra-powder sauce, or the slightly peanutier sauce variety, and then be disappointed to discover that it was in fact the peanut supply was low and there wasn't enough money for salt, so we were stuck with straight okra paste.
For me, though, it wasn't the cereal aisle that first took my breath away. It was on my second day in Tunisia, my first destination on the long and windy road back home, and I went to the central market in the Tunis Medina, the old city where the most interesting and traditional markets were located. My travel partner Zac and I saw a giant decorated warehouse surrounded by hustle and bustle and decided to see what all the commotion was about. We walked in and it came to me as a slow realization. I looked forward and I saw an apple cart.
"Oh, sweet! Apples!" was my initial reaction. Next to it was a cart of differently colored apples, and next to that, a third variety, and next to that, yet another variety. "Sweet! Tons of apples! This must be the apple guy," I realized to myself, and then I looked further and saw another guy, further down selling just as many apples in just as many sizes and colors: red, green, reddish green, green with a red fade, yellow, green with a yellow fade, red with a yellow fade, smooth, speckled, round, oblong, ovular, lopsided…And at each apple seller's stall, there were also carts of just as many varieties of pears, peaches, nectarines, figs, oranges, dates, clementines, lemons, prickly pears, pomelos; and they were literally everywhere. And don't get me started on the vegetables. All in all, this was a gigantic produce market – it could easily house a football field – and all I could think was "In my entire life, I will never be able to sample each variety of fruit they have here," which was sad, because enveloped as I was in this world of smells and colors, I just wanted to hitch up in the middle of the market and do nothing but sample this Garden of Eden for the rest of my life. This coming from a world where a good produce section meant that at the best of the season, you could find an entire gross of bananas or mangos that were still ripe, if you ate them in the next 2 days.
I'm writing this article because one the most common questions I've gotten since arriving back in The States about 6 weeks ago has been "How is your adjustment to America going?" My usual vague and concise answer to this loaded question is to say that America is a pretty easy place to get readjusted to. The answer is usually met with a chuckle, and it really is true. We live in the lap of luxury, compared to the rest of the world, recession or not. Not everyone is doing well these days, but for the most part, and especially where I was coming from, simply arriving in Italy on my way home to find that even the cheapest youth hostel has hot running water in every bathroom was like G-d himself was cutting me off a little slice of Paradise every time I went to take a shower, and even now, those little things are all I really need to stay happy. That and my CD collection playing pretty much all the time.
Another answer that I was fond of at first was that America has not drastically changed in the two short years I was away. I liked that answer in the beginning; it was a good smartass answer that gave people an honest opinion that nonetheless might have come as a bit of a surprise. Sure, the political atmosphere has changed, with Tea Parties and Health Care taking up headline space everywhere, but the Mid-East is still in crisis, and unemployment rates are still scaring the bejeesus out of everyone. The fact is that when I left, there was a big election right around the corner and I got back just in time for another one. When I left, it was Hannah Montana, now it's Katy Perry. When I was a senior in college in 2008, people would kill time by watching the best YouTube videos and sending them around, and as soon as I got back, those same friends were telling me about all the new YouTube videos that have become viral sensations while I was away. Harry Potter has retired and surrendered his throne as the king of teenybopper literature to the sexy vampires in Twilight. The last few years leading up to my departures, everyone was buying the new iPods, as they grew ever sleeker, more functional, and cheaper, with the iPhone becoming the pinnacle of American technological achievement. Now, everyone I see has phones with internet-ready touch-screens, innovations that went from luxury-class to pedestrian in only 2 years. And, The Simpsons, after 23 years, is still making new episodes.
What I'm trying to say is that, like a teenage vampire romantic-thriller novel (and the subsequent television series/major motion picture spinoff), the details may change here and there but the basic story remains the same.
But as I've taken time to really live here in America, remembering what everything is like, getting accustomed to how everything works again, I start to miss the things that I knew I would miss about Mali, and it becomes just a little bit harder to be here than it was when I first returned. And I'm noticing that when it comes to readjusting to life here, the big differences are not in how the country is different, but in how I am. To borrow a line from Pearl Jam's song, America has changed by not changing at all. I'm the one who has started to become slightly offended when random strangers don't greet me on the street anymore. I'm the one who is shocked to see someone eat apples without chewing them all the way down to the core, tossing out at least 20% of the perfectly good and edible fruity center. And I'm more frustrated than ever by the fact that I need to get out of my pajamas and into jeans and shoes to drive to the closest 7-11 to get juice or eggs, rather than walking a minute down the dusty path in whatever outfit I like (although luckily, while living at my parents house, I haven't really had to do much shopping, but it's the principle of the matter!). Perhaps more than anything, I miss the fact that I was getting paid to basically do whatever I want. While it's a paltry stipend by American standards, I was making far more money than any other locals in my village and I could basically set up my own schedule, work or not work at my leisure and if I had a little extra saved up every few months, I'd skip out and go on another cool exotic vacation somewhere in West Africa – the cheapest place to travel imaginable.
I try hard not to romanticize my time in Mali and to remember all the problems I faced over there, and trust me, there were problems. But there was something about that simple life that I can't get away from, and the knowledge that I won't be able to replicate that ever again is almost enough to make me want to go back…almost.
For now, I'm doing my best to keep a little bit of Mali with me here in The U.S. I still listen to my Malian CDs, I speak Bambara while chatting with my other Returned Volunteer friends, and a couple times with the Malian parking garage attendants who my Dad patronizes downtown when he goes to work and with merchants at the recent Mali arts and crafts expo in Philly. And one of these days, maybe I'll even break out the apron and make some good old fashioned millet porridge and okra-paste…
…okay, maybe not.
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