I started my senior year of college today and I have never felt more like a freshman. Attending a new school is intimidating enough, let alone when it’s in a foreign country. As an American, I know people are going to make certain assumptions about me (and I don’t blame them), so I’m trying my hardest to blend in and defy the obnoxious American stereotype. I’m a bit clueless about everything but I’m figuring it out with the help the friends I’ve made so far.
A lot has happened this week, but rather than dive into all of the big details about my new apartment, friends, and school, there’s a lot of little things I want to write about that have already made me fall in love with Cork. Like the way you walk into a pub and instantly feel like you’re in somebody’s warm home. Or the way your heels click as you embrace the 20 minute walk down the cobblestone streets to get to the nearest grocery store. Or how a rainy day is really just a constant mist that’s not enough to make your hair wet, but enough to make the ground sparkle.
It didn’t sink in that I was actually in Ireland until I was sitting in a pub, drinking cider and listening to two old men playing the mandolin and singing traditional Irish music. Up until this point, I had been walking around the beautiful streets of Cork feeling like I was in a dream, but this was the moment when I thought, “wow, I’m really here.” I had a laundry list of cities and countries that I wanted to visit while I’m living in Europe, and I know I will check a few of them off this semester, but now that I’m here I realize that I truly want to take in every second of Ireland that I can. I haven’t ventured outside of Cork yet, but this city is so beautiful in ways that I can’t even describe, and I’m sure the rest of the country will continue to amaze me.
I had always been the type of girl who was happiest in a big city and could only fall in love with a place where the sun shines, but Ireland, you might be changing me.
It has been a little over a week since I arrived at the John Felice Rome Center, and I still can’t stop pinching myself. From the aroma of oven-fired pizza on every cobblestone street to the blooming olive groves lining Via Massimi, I am starting to see why they say living in Italy is la dolce vita.
This past week of Orientation has been planned minute by minute by our trusted Student Life Assistants to give us a crash course in Roman life. We’ve toured the Colosseum, splurged on a gelateria crawl, navigated public transportation, relaxed on the beach, and consumed bottles and bottles of wine (thanks Loyola) to toast the beginning of the semester. This weekend we had the opportunity to tour the Italian region of Umbria, and became aquatinted with the whimsical towns of Narni, Spoleto, Foglino, and Citta di Pieve. Sometime during lunch overlooking Castiglione del Lago, or wine tasting at a countryside vineyard, or even reenacting a Roman battle we grew from classmates to friends as we learned about the ancient history of these fairytale-esque Umbrian escapes.
With the commencement of Orientation on Wednesday upon the Mass of the Holy Spirit, I do have to admit that I’m excited to explore Rome on my own terms, and learn more about exactly what is la dolce vita (with the help of gelato, of course).
After one long flight from Chicago to Rome, a week of jetlag, a weekend in the Italian region of Umbria, and a brief period of lost luggage, I can finally (hopefully) say that I have settled into Roma at the John Felice Rome Center (JFRC).
It’s been a whirlwind of a week filled with gelato, glasses (or maybe bottles) of red wine, and practicing Italian, but I am so excited to be in Rome for this next semester during my year abroad. I can vividly remember the study abroad information session during Loyola Weekend in my senior year of high school when I first heard about the Ricci Scholars Program. The Ricci Program allows me to do cross-cultural research between Rome, Italy, and Beijing, China. From the first moment I heard about it, I knew I wanted to participate but it feels slightly surreal now that I am actually in Rome preparing to research changes in labor law and labor organization over the past half-century.
Not going to lie, the amount of work I’m staring down for this semester and the upcoming year has me feeling a little bit stressed. How am I supposed to balance my work while trying to soak up this whole experience? Last week, every night felt like a choice between being abroad and studying abroad. I was either back at the JFRC reading and working or I was out in Rome – a beautiful city – exploring all of its nooks and crannies. Every turn around the corner was a whole new adventure… but it also felt like I was shaking off my work.
This past weekend in Umbria, however, really helped me to realign myself and my goals for this semester. At first, I was upset that I would lose a whole weekend of either exploring or studying. Yet, as we traveled from city to city in Umbria, as we saw all these hidden gems of Italy, it forced me to slow down and realize that all of last week – in trying to immerse myself fully into my semester abroad – I was completely failing at immersing myself fully into my semester abroad. That fast-paced desire to experience everything, to do everything is so utterly American. This semester is about learning from Italian history and culture, and that means not just walking through a piazza but stopping in it, not just looking at a statue but reading up on it, and not just doing some research but actually learning from it. And why shouldn’t I stop and stare for a while? Every part of this country is beautiful.
And I know that no amount of speaking Italian, eating gelato, or learning about Italy this semester in Rome will be able to make me Italian, but maybe – if I let it – it can make me a little less American.
The last time I lived in a building with communal bathrooms and kitchen was my first year at Loyola. I hated it then. I wanted my own space and privacy and I wanted to be able to hide from people I didn’t want to talk to. I knew I would never choose to live in a communal hall like that, but I also didn’t think I’d ever happen to live in one again.
Living communally, however, has been the backbone of my small time in Ghana. It’s made me question why Americans are so bent over backwards about maintaining their privacy, about keeping private spaces walled off from public spaces.
On my first night here, I spent about an hour playing games with the other USAC students who all gathered in the room that would become mine. From the very beginning, I realized that the spaces I occupy here would become shared spaces. Even the things I own here have been shared freely or borrowed indefinitely. I’m an introvert but I’ve become used to never being alone here in Ghana.
On my last night here, I was alone in my room as I packed my things to return home. The rest of the students in my program had left. It struck me that I was the last of us to arrive here, and I was the last one to leave. Now, that loneliness is breaking my heart. I’ll never again walk some few doors down and ask Laura to use her electric kettle, or walk further down the hall and ask Sharne to file my nails; Gerry isn’t here to lend me money for water, Chase isn’t here to open her door for me when I ask her to make me dinner. This community of international students has, in my opinion, become the most essential part to my well-being in Ghana.
Some of the USAC students (not including me) at the wedding of our resident director.
Beyond the doors of the hostel, a similar sense of community is laced in the air that I breathe. Vendors at the Night Market cooperate with little competition. Students preparing for finals share notes and ideas that will help them write their exam. If I don’t know where I’m going or where to find something, I’ll receive help from the first person I ask. Friends are easily made and kept. Everyone is my sister and my brother. And I became a part of these communities from the moment I stepped off the plane in January.
I’m keeping this post short because writing it is making me tear up. I am and will always be infinitely grateful for those I’ve met here who made me see the value of a life lived communally. My heart aches at the distance that will soon separate us. I want Chicago to be closer to Reno and Columbia, Las Cruces and Boston, DC and wherever the hell Sharne lives just so I can get on a train and be at your door. You all helped me become part of a home here, a home in which I feel protected and uplifted and uninhibited – a home whose dynamic would have collapsed as soon as any of acted selfishly.
To my two aunties and the USAC student staff who helped me learn the ropes of life in Ghana, thank you for being patient and kind with a clueless international student like myself. To the countless University of Ghana students who I met and talked with, thank you for answering my questions and letting me enjoy your beautiful country. To my UG professors, some of whom frustrated me, thank you for teaching me about Africa from an African perspective.
Laken and me at our Aunty Abigail’s traditional wedding. Her dress for the ceremony is made of Ghanaian woven fabric called kente.
I will keep all of you in my heart always. You’ve made coming to Ghana the best decision I’ve ever made for myself.
Last weekend, I left Accra for the first time in a while to go to Cape Coast, a mid-size city some 150 kilometers west of the capital. Cape Coast is known to many Africans and oburonis alike for its role in the trans-Atlantic slave trade, but aside from that I found it to be a bright, lively town of merchants and fisherfolk happy to see visitors.
On the rocky shore of the ocean is situated a massive castle, covered in white lime to reflect the hot sun, but weathered from years of salty spray. Hawkers, painters, vendors and their booths line the street leading up to the compound’s entrance. Akwaaba resounds from their mouths at the sight of foreigners. A tour of the property was 40 Ghana cedis for a non-Ghanaian student like myself. The price for a Ghana resident was significantly lower – around 15 cedis for an adult pass. Three of my friends and I joined a tour that had just gotten started. The group was 90% white people. It was the most white people I’ve seen here in one place outside of UG’s campus.
Our tour guide was a young man named Frances who studies at the University of Cape Coast, one of Ghana’s most highly ranked universities. We joined him and the group in the castle courtyard facing the ocean, the parapet lined with rusted black cannons and piles of mortar shells. I squinted as the sun bounced off the whitewashed walls and as mist from the waves blew into my eyes.
Courtyard of Cape Coast Castle.
Frances spoke with an exacted rhythm and tone that told me he’s done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times before. I followed him practically on his heels as he led us through the courtyard and toward a dungeon entrance. He invited us to put our heads into a 3×3 hole in the wall with a crumbled staircase that led to a dark tunnel. It smelled like must and salt and faintly of ghosts.
If you, dear reader, know nothing of the slave castles that are littered across the “Slave Coast” of Africa, I beg that you soon learn.
Established by the British, the Dutch, the Portuguese, the French, these castles served many purposes for the growing imperial economies of the fifteenth through nineteenth centuries. They housed the European merchant leaders and, later, colonial administrators who supervised imports and exports from major towns along the Gulf of Guinea – Abidjan in Cote d’Ivoire; Lome in Togo; Lagos in Nigeria; Takoradi, Accra, and Cape Coast in the Gold Coast. In exchange for the promise of European trade, the land to build these structures was sold by the African leaders whose people had lived there for generations. They were designed as commercial hubs, defensible forts, and corrals for the human livestock around which trade boomed.
Scale model of Cape Coast Castle.
This legacy was in the air that I breathed as I stepped under an arch leading to the female slave dungeons. Like before, I was met with the smell of old dirt, wet rock, and thousands of ghosts spread out across two small chambers. Our wise guide explained how young adult women were kept in these rooms for weeks or months at a time, in total darkness with no air, surrounded by hundreds of their sisters.
Across the castle were the male dungeons, made up of three chambers, deeper underground. Frances bent over and placed his hand against the wall about a foot off the ground where there was a deep stain in the rock. Here, he said, was how deep in shit and vomit hundreds of men had to stand and sleep and eat.
On the south side of the chamber were about a hundred small sculptures of men’s faces carved into stone. Many of them were grimacing, or had their mouths open in shock, or simply looked broken – literally and metaphorically. Frances suddenly asked us to look at the faces. Did they look familiar? Whose faces did we see?
A sculpture similar to those found in the male dungeons.
“You might see my face,” he said, as he looked up from the sculptures directly into my eyes.
Whose ghosts were down there? Was it his family? Was it the father of any of the Black Americans I knew back home? People I graduated high school with? These ghosts came from Ghana, sure, but also from Nigeria, and from Benin, and Burkina Faso – maybe even further inland from Mali, or Sudan, or the Congo.
I blinked tears away as I broke eye contact with Frances and with the hundreds of men who stared at me from the dark floor of the chamber.
Upstairs, we faced a huge wooden door painted black with a plaque above reading “Door of No Return.” It was this door which led to the water, where small boats would shuttle captives out to the ships anchored offshore. Countless bodies passed through this door, never to step foot on their mother soil again. Of the twenty million who were led through this door and doors like it across the Slave Coast, only fifteen million survived to see the New World where they would be enslaved (N.B. below).
Five million ghosts, not counting those who died on the march from the inland to the coast, those who died in these dungeons, or those who died on plantations in the Americas. Five million dead not counting their descendants who didn’t survive convict leasing in the coal mines, or the Jim Crow South, or the prison-industrial system of today.
I felt all these souls as I left the castle. My skin, white as the walls that were beaten by the waves, crawled.
View of the coast and the Gulf of Guinea from the Door of No Return.
Examining my position as an American who has inadvertently benefited from the stolen labor of these bodies, I am humbled, humiliated, and somber. I am privileged enough to know where my ancestors came from. I know the names given to them at birth by their people. My ancestors were not doomed to a fate such as this – snatched from their homes, forced to walk hundreds of kilometers to be shipped thousands more kilometers across the sea, and given names foreign to their tongues. Of all the benefits I reap from the color of my skin, this is perhaps the most heart-wrenching. To my Black American sisters and brothers back home, I weep with you at the number of souls lost to the slave trade.
But more importantly, I will fight with you to get back what was stolen, to hold accountable those who devalue your lives and your labor to this day. Africans and oburonis alike – we, the living – vow to uphold this.
The exterior of the Door of No Return, relabeled the Door of Return for those of the African Diaspora who return through the archway.
N.B. There is much disagreement on the exact number of people captured from Africa and brought to the Americas, due to inadequate primary materials from the slave traders. Twenty million captives is generally the lowest estimate. Most agree, however, that of the millions who embarked on the Middle Passage, anywhere from 10-20% of them died on the journey. For more information on the particular controversies surrounding the historiography of the trans-Atlantic slave trade, see Walter Rodney, How Europe Underdeveloped Africa (Panaf Publishing: Abuja) 2009 ed., especially pp. 108-120.
For further reading on the African Diaspora, especially from a Ghanaian-“American” perspective, I highly recommend Yaa Gyasi’s debut novel Homegoing (Knopf: New York, 2016).
Additionally, the literature of Ta Nehesi-Coates and James Baldwin provide insights on the contemporary experiences of Black men in America as they have been shaped by America’s legacy of institutionalized racism.
At the edge of campus on the Wednesday before Easter, Phil, Elly, and I climbed into an SUV in our Sunday best. We were on our way to the wedding of someone named Ethan from Florida – someone none of us knew.
The driver of the SUV was a young woman named Selly. She wore her natural hair and was dressed in a white lace dress that starkly contrasted her smooth, dark skin. Her mother was in the passenger seat, also dressed in white. She plugged her iPhone into the center console and played Ghanaian pop music as we drove off campus. As we introduced ourselves from the backseat, I was struck by her sudden comfort with us, three young white people whom she’d never met. I grew to be equally comfortable with her on the short ride to the venue.
The event was a traditional Ghanaian engagement and marriage ceremony. It involves the groom-to-be and his family presenting gifts of food, drink, and cash to the family of the bride-to-be. Today, the groom was not Ghanaian, and neither was his family, but he still was presenting gifts in exchange for the bride’s hand. But his family remained in Florida – so who would be able to participate in the wedding?
TL;DR, it was his sisters Elly and Anna, and his brother Phil.
Family pic. LtR: Elly, George, Georgina, Ethan, me, Phil.
The long version is that the bride, Georgina, was friends with Selly, the woman who picked us up at campus, and Selly used to work in UG’s International Programming Offices, where USAC’s current resident director Abigail is stationed. Selly petitioned Abigail on behalf of Georgina for Abigail to send some American students to act as a surrogate family for the groom. Otherwise, Ethan would have no family who could present the wedding gifts. Got it? Ethan -> Georgina -> Selly -> Abigail -> Anna -> Elly, Phil.
Doesn’t matter. On the Wednesday before Easter, Anna, Elly, and Phil were adopted family members for Ethan from Florida.
Technicalities of the ceremony requirements aside, I ask you, dear reader, to imagine being in Ethan’s position. How would you feel coming to Ghana for the first time to get married? Would you invite strangers to be in your wedding party? Would you ask a stranger to become your sister, knowing that you might never meet again?
Akosua, sister of the bride, and her partner at the drinks table.
The ceremony was lively and loud and beautiful. The bride, Georgina, was dressed in a two-piece dress woven of multicolored kente, with jewelry around her neck and adorning her hair, and she was holding a fan made of white feathers. She took my breath away, and I bet Ethan felt similarly. We were invited to sing, dance, shake the hands of Georgina’s family, take photos with cousins and sisters, invited to a feast fit for royalty. And the event wasn’t in a banquet center or a huge garden – it was in Georgina’s family home.
Now, can you put yourself in this position? Your daughter is getting married to an American man whose ways of life are vastly different from your own. He isn’t familiar in the Akan marriage tradition, and yet he still wants to participate in one. What does it take for you to open your home to him and his (albeit, fake) family? To offer them food, welcome them into your home, dance and sing with them, add photos with them to the wedding album that you will show your future grandchildren?
Tables set up under a marquee in the yard of the family house.
Phil, Elly, and I decided to leave the festivities just as the heat of the sun was becoming weak, around 4pm. I was full of fufu and jollof and sobolo with a huge smile on my face, and the three of us joked about the more bizarre aspects of the day as we waited by the house gate for Selly to come out.
She drove us to ISH and the drive back felt a lot longer than the drive there. As we left the car, I said yɛbɛhyia – see you later. Literally, it means “we will meet again.”
—————
Alone in my room, I sat in thought and wonder at the hospitality of everyone I’d encountered that day. The whole day had felt surreal, but comfortable. As Selly got to know me in her car, I felt appreciated. When Ethan asked me to fill the role of his sister, I felt honored. When Georgina’s family opened their doors to me, I felt accepted. I’d suddenly felt at home with this family I didn’t know and the family I’d just become a part of. What new kind of hospitality was this? There were no presuppositions, no judgments, no uncomfortable gazes – they welcomed me as if they had always known me as an intimate friend. Even the language of the Akan is welcoming: everyone greets you with akwaaba – you are welcome here; saying thank you, medaase, literally means “I lay at your feet;” yɛbɛhyia – we will meet again.
Can you put yourself in my position?
I navigate my small part of Accra with the language of laying yourself at a stranger’s feet, ensuring them you will always meet again. I cram myself in the back of a trotro with a stranger pressing their arm up against me. Strangers ask me where I’m from, asking me for my phone number so they can get to know me. Sometimes, men ask if I will marry them as I’m waiting in line to get lunch.
What do you do when socialization requires a level of intimacy with strangers that you’re not familiar with? When the friend of a friend of a friend asks you to pretend to be someone’s sister? When suddenly your understanding of personal space is inconsequential?
I am endlessly grateful that I am able to be here in Accra, but I think I am more grateful to those I’ve met along the way, whose attitudes of intimacy and hospitality have sometimes been challenging. I didn’t come here to be comfortable, so I don’t resist these challenges. Was Selly comfortable putting three American kids in her car to take them across town? Did Ethan get married in Ghana without his family present because it was more comfortable? Was it comfortable for Georgina and her family to open their home to American strangers? Maybe, maybe not. But what rises above insistence on personal boundaries and comfort is extending welcoming to strangers.
It might be hard for you to put yourself in my position. If it is, I challenge you to look more closely at Africans, at Ghanaians, at the city of Accra. They might be strangers to you, but they don’t bite. You are welcome here.
So, there I was, sitting in Rinaldo’s in my usual seat on the couch in the corner listening to my peers discuss travel plans for the upcoming weekend. I couldn’t join in because I had no plans so I decided I needed to go somewhere. I pulled out my computer and my credit card, searched “Rome to Venice” and booked a train ticket and a hostel for the weekend. Spontaneous and maybe even a little impulsive, I made the decision and didn’t need to discuss it with anyone. After I realized what I did, I thought, Oh my God I’m going to Venice, ALONE!! And there began the brewing of excitement tinted with unease in the pit of my stomach.
Here’s my “excited-to-travel-alone” selfie.
After a late night of cheering on the Men’s basketball team and celebrating their victory into the Sweet Sixteen, I woke up (a little hungover), packed, and made my way to the train station. I’m not an anxious person, but when it comes to traveling with a deadline, I’m always on the edge of panic but everything went smoothly and I made it on the fast train headed to Venice. With a grin on my face, I admired the hills and fields passing me by as I sped over 150 mph towards the City of Water. Four hours later, tired and hungry (the default state of being for a college student studying abroad), I arrived in Venice, immediately dropped my backpack off at my hostel, and went off to explore the narrow streets and winding canals.
Venice is a maze. Google Maps would tell me to walk down what appeared to be a dark, deserted alleyway but, when I would turn the corner, the street would be bustling with life. I thought I was walking in circles because I would pass Murano glass shops, mask shops, and pizzarias then I’d walk over a bridge and pass more glass, masks, and pizza. I happened upon Piazza San Marco, the only piazza in Venice, crowded with one half tourists and the other half pigeons. Children were chasing the pigeons, couples were dancing to live music emanating from the caffès lining the piazza, men were feeding the pigeons and trying to get tourists to pay to take pictures with the birds, and tourists were walking around with their selfie sticks, always looking up with their mouths agape. When you travel a lot, you start to notice the typical tourist giveaways.
At the East end of Piazza San Marco lies Basilica Cattedrale Patriarcale di San Marco, Saint Mark’s Basilica. Unfortunately, I was unable to go inside but I did admire the facade, which was highlighted with gold mosaics and sparkled in the golden hour sunlight. The sun was approaching the horizon and I realized that now was my opportunity to see a Venetian sunset so I frantically walked around trying to find that perfect view that I’ve seen in photos but, unfortunately, I could not beat the sun. I started back towards my hostel, meanwhile glancing at all the menus posted along the way. A woman, whose job consisted of getting people into her ristorante, advised me about the perfect Venetian dishes to try for a seafood beginner (I’m not a fan of seafood but I wanted to be adventurous). I ate spaghetti alle vongole which was spaghetti with teeny, tiny clams in their shell and tomatoes with garlic sauce. Delizioso! Oh, can’t forget the glass of white house wine, one must drink wine in Italy.
I began my second day in Venice with a cappuccino and a trip to Murano, an island about a thirty-five-minute waterbus ride from my hostel. Murano is famous for its glass production which began in the 7th century. I went to the Glass Museum and saw some ancient glass and learned the history surrounding the main product of Venice. The glassblowing process is so fascinating, I wish I could’ve seen it in person! After leaving the museum, I walked along the canals and browsed through the shops lining the water. It took lots of deliberation but I found some beautiful souvenirs to bring back home for my friends and family.
Let’s talk about transportation in Venice. There are no roads, only canals, so you can either walk or travel by water. Waiting for the bus consisted of standing on a swaying platform next to a dock and hopping on a boat when it arrived. Venice did not feel like a real place because it is so different than any city I’ve ever seen. Florence has mopeds, Amsterdam has bikes, London has the Tube, Paris has the Metro, and Venice has waterbuses and gondolas.
Gondolas have set rates in Venice so one gondola for forty minutes is €80 and you can have a maximum of six people splitting that cost. As we know, I was traveling by myself and I could not afford an €80 private gondola ride on my romantic solo trip but I couldn’t go to Venice and not ride a gondola! I scoured the internet until I came across a deal on Viator.com for a walking tour plus thirty-five-minute gondola ride for $51. US DOLLARS! Lifelong dreams were coming true that day. It was time to meet up for the walking tour of Venice and my tour guide was a Venetian with a sarcastic, dark sense of humor and I enjoyed it. We toured an area with less tourists and saw a few of the one hundred and twenty-five churches of Venice. Venice sinks about 12 cm a century so now is a great time to invest in the housing market (credit for that joke goes to my tour guide, Marco).
It was finally time for my gondola ride! I was put onto the boat with two couples and another solo rider and we embarked on our thirty-five-minute expedition around the winding Venetian canals. My gondolier did not sing or wear a fun hat like I saw other gondoliers wearing but he peacefully propelled us along. The best way to experience Venice is by water and I am so glad I was able to go on a gondola ride. It was peaceful and beautiful but over all too quickly.
After disembarking from the gondola, I wondered around a bit and happened upon Piazza San Marco, again. There are wooden walkways for when the city floods stacked all over the piazza so I went off towards the Doge’s Palace to sit on the walkways with the other tourists. I had a salami sandwich in my purse leftover from my sack lunch and I was starving so I thought it would be a good time to relax for a minute and eat. Plus, I was saving money because I did not need to buy another meal. I pulled out my sandwich, unwrapped the tinfoil around it, and took a bite but within thirty seconds of that first bite, a seagull swooped down and grabbed the sandwich from my hand. The seagull landed about fifteen feet in front of me and eight other seagulls were fighting that thief for my sandwich. I was completely shocked. Did a seagull really just take my sandwich? The other tourists around me also looked shocked and I started to laugh hysterically. I could not believe that just happened and I thought it was hilarious because it was such a stupid mistake to try and eat in a piazza FILLED with birds. If you go to Venice, please do not eat in the Piazza San Marco, learn from my mistake!
There I was in the piazza, hysterically laughing, alone, and without food so I wondered around until I found a take away pizza place. I had walked past it a couple of times during my earlier adventuring and there was a spinach and ricotta pizza that I had been eyeing. Of course, I got the pizza because it was only €3.50 and the slice was huge! I think my sandwich was meant to be taken from me so that I could enjoy that delicious pizza. It was waaaaay better than any pizza that I’ve eaten in Rome so far.
The sun was setting on my second day in Venice and I found myself at a dead-end with a perfect view of the sunset. It finally hit me that I was in Venice. Traveling is hectic and everything moves so fast that it’s possible to forget to take a breath and really appreciate the place you’re in. I felt the cool breeze on my face and I knew that if I touched the water, it would be cold. I’m not sure for how long I watched that scene but I did not walk away until the sun made its full decent beyond the horizon.
Venice is gorgeous, unique, and a little bit ridiculous and I am grateful that I had the opportunity to visit before it sinks. I’m kidding, that’s not going to happen for a while. Traveling to Venice felt unreal because it is so different than any city that I have ever seen. This small town will forever hold a place in my heart, even if it feels like just a dream.
cath·o·lic \ˈkath-lik , ˈka-thə-lik\ adj 2: comprehensive, universal; especially: broad in sympathies, tastes, or interests
Homesickness is much different than I anticipated. I’ve experienced longing, obviously, whether for a place or a person, and I know what that feels like. But being in Accra for four months is a little different than spending a couple weeks away from family in the states. Vast space and time are between me and the rest of my familiar world, and sometimes it hurts my heart. These are manageable feelings, and I know they are neither unique to me nor profound. They are just things people feel when they study abroad, and they are things that come and go.
What helps, though, is to catch glimpses of the universality of life on this huge planet.
Sunday the 25th of February, I went to Catholic mass for what was the first time in a month. Circumstances and laziness had kept me from going during my first four weeks in Accra, but that Sunday was a fortuitous one.
I’ve got fourteen and a half good good years of Catholic education under my belt, and I know what a Catholic mass feels like. It’s catholic – universal. It’s said in the vernacular (which, here, is fortunately my first language), all the prayers are the same, and it follows a playbook that saves me from having to really make any decisions during the service. During mass, whether or not I’m feeling particularly faithful that day, I feel comfortable. I feel connected to myself and those around me. And then after the hour, I feel peaceful and calm.
At home, I go to mass because it’s part of my routine and part of my extracurricular commitment. I participate in the ritual because it brings me these feelings of peace that, I believe, bring me closer to God. I also know that I have friends, even a second family, in my faith-based communities in Chicago and Ohio.
But here, I went to mass on Sunday the 25th because I needed something that felt familiar.
I have weird moments here where I feel turbulent, unsettled, and alien, when I know that I should instead be feeling like I belong. The week before the 25th was peppered with many of these moments, and I was desparately in need of an anchor. I knew there was a St. Thomas Aquinas Church on campus, a forty-minute walk from my hostel. I knew they had two mass times on Sunday mornings, so I decided to go to the second one at 9am.
The worship space was semi-circular, with rows of pews surrounding the altar on three sides. One side was occupied by the choir and a small podium for the choir director to stand on. Facing the altar, there were two projection screens displaying the lyrics to the hymns for the service, as there were no missals provided for the congregation in the pews.
A badly taken photo of the worship space from the choir loft.
Genuflecting, I took a seat in the center section near the back as the procession was beginning. All at once, with the incense to my left, the choir to my right, and the altar displaying a Chi Rho before me, I felt exactly as peaceful as I needed to be. I don’t think it was my faith which brought me to this calmness, because I can practice my faith anywhere. And it wasn’t necessarily the environment of the relatively humble worship space that impacted me.
Instead, I think I experienced contentment because I was experiencing something familiar. Something universal. Something catholic.
Since Sunday the 25th, I’ve been searching for these universal experiences from which to draw serenity. I’ve found them in teenagers who walk home from school in groups of two and three, gossiping among themselves; in street vendors and bartenders who get my attention when I forget my change; in the way the earth smells after a light rain. This week I ended up in the hospital with a fever, and the nurse taking a blood sample from me asked how school was going so I wouldn’t feel nervous. The other day I tripped over the sidewalk in a place where the cobblestones had been upset by a growing tree root. Once I saw a toddler take a faceplant in the dirt before promptly getting up and continuing to run along with her older siblings.
When I take a beat to slow down and reflect on what I’m feeling, I recognize these catholic moments. A moment that doesn’t necessarily remind me of anything or anywhere, because I don’t think that would help my homesickness. Rather I cherish moments that could happen anywhere, and in these I feel peace.
I really am trying to make myself feel like I can be a part of this place, to truly be where my feet are. Sometimes it feels hard when I know I’m not staying for a very long time, but I’m trying nonetheless. How do I balance a mindful effort to be present at this university with genuine feelings of longing for the family, friends, and places that are familiar?
Truthfully, I’m unsure. And I’d love for any tips and tricks.
But I bet if I spend enough time pursuing these moments of universality, seeking the catholic facets of my world, and leaning in to my Catholic faith, I just might find some answers.
Ad majorem dei gloriam,
Anna
Getting Scammed: A Personal Adventure in Microeconomics
On the counter in a campus café was a can of Coke and a peach Snapple, but I only had offered a five cedi note to the man behind the counter. He told me the Snapple was 6 and the Coke was 5. I was incredulous.
“Five cedis for the Coke?”
The attendant clicked his tongue at me in affirmation.
I reluctantly fished more cash out of my small wallet and handed it over. I left the building with my lunch and drinks and walked back to the International House where I was waiting in between classes, all the while thinking that I had just bought a Coke from the same gentleman last week for 2gh, 50p.
One New Ghanaian Cedi is worth just less than a US quarter. Change is in pesewa values, and logically 100p is equal to 1gh. I’ve heard the government mints a 1p coin, but it’s of such little value that I’ve never seen it in circulation (Take a hint @US).
Usually, I spend around 100gh per week on meals. I can get a full meal and drink for around 2-5gh and I typically only eat 2 full meals a day. I do a lot of snacking.
By now I’ve become familiar with the places where I can get the most for my money. There’s a, for lack of a better term, food court called Bush Kanteen between ISH (where I live) and the main classroom buildings where I can get a full plate of rice for 2gh and a soda for 1. The night market just outside ISH has meals around 5gh, and at JQB, the lecture building with the café in question, I get a serving of rice and a Coke for 4gh.
A plate of fried rice and an egg, a meal that kept me full for most of the afternoon and only set me back 2gh.
I’ve been to JQB more than a few times for snacks and water and food, and they’ve pretty much remained consistent with their prices, until yesterday. I racked my brains to figure out why the man charged me double for a soda; the only difference I could ascertain was that I asked for a Coke in a can instead of a plastic bottle – but aren’t cans always cheaper than bottles? I already knew that the cheapest way to get soda is in a glass bottle, since the glass is sent back to the manufacturer and reused, but I’ve never paid more for aluminum than for plastic.
I didn’t want to consider that this nice guy, who’s got to recognize me by now, scammed me.
Scammed! In my fourth week here! Frankly I’m embarrassed.
In our first week here we were lectured on the local cash economies that allow Accra to function. Unless at a supermarket or shop in the mall, the price for an item is negotiable with the seller, and most sellers immediately double or triple their selling price at the sight of my skin. I’ve become decent at these interactions, resisting any seller who I know won’t budge on their prices, and returning to sellers who keep their prices consistently low. Sometimes I walk away knowing I was probably overcharged, but the exchange rate of the cedi is such that I’m rarely concerned.
I thought I was getting the hang of it, but if the same guy doubled his price for me and I paid without resisting, maybe I’m not.
I know I’m allowed to make mistakes, both here and at home. And I know that a mistake that cost me less than a dollar isn’t a lot to get worked up about. But shouldn’t I be able to tell when I’m being taken advantage of? I find myself unable to stand up for myself and insist that I’m being overcharged, or insist that I’m being treated poorly in other situations. Sometimes this is as simple as 2gh, and sometimes it’s a lot more harmful (I’m still working on how to talk about an example of this that happened last weekend, so be patient with me). And I know I’ll never blend in here, but every time I let someone take advantage of me because I’m American, I feel less confident about my presence here.
This is me holding myself accountable in writing – next time I go to JQB for a pop, I’m only going to give him what I think is appropriate. Next time I get a plate of rice, I’ll insist to only pay what it’s worth. Ghanaians are all more outgoing and confident than I am, so I think it’s time I meet them where they’re at. I’ll save that 2gh 50p if my life depends on it, dammit.
Wish me well,
Anna
P.S. The USAC group took a crazy trip this weekend to a monkey sanctuary, the highest mountain in Ghana, and a waterfall. Here’s some pics:
View from the top of Mt. Afadjato. Only half of the mountains in this photo are in Ghana – the rest are on the Togo side of the border.Me, about to die climbing up this mountain.Nicole, Kayla, Clarissa, and myself, after having died climbing up the mountain.A monkey eating a stolen banana at Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary in Hohoe, a city in the Volta Region.
I live in Rinaldo’s. I’ve officially set up shop and am not leaving until spring break starting today. I realize that I’m spending too much time focusing on creating content for work and brainstorming that I haven’t been studying enough. I’ve done research on different and effective ways to use instagram to make sales, while posting 3 times a week, I’m supposed to also be posting 2-3 stories a week,
finding new stories to write about like new restaurants, and the March Events Blog post is due next Monday. I completely bombed my finance test which probably shouldn’t have been as hard as it was. I need to be more focused and balanced in how I’m allocating my time. The rest of my midterms are next week so I’m basically not leaving JFRC until my grades are where I need them to be (or sleeping probably, but that’s college right?). Today I took the 990 Bus to Vatican City to take some pictures for my internship and send out postcards to my friends and family. It was 2,80 euros per stamp. The man who was working at the post office seemed was super rude. I handed him my debit card and he threw my postcards on the
desk and said, “No Card.” Alright, noted. I handed him cash, took my postcards and stamps, and left. It was probably because I spoke English to be honest. On my way back to the bus I stopped at a McCafe. I wish McDonalds had them in the united states like they do here. They have cheesecake, muffins, cornetto, colorful doughnuts, and it’s awesome. I got some decent pictures for the Roman Foodie instagram. I ended up buying a creamolosa al caffee. Its pistachio fudge topped with espresso and vanilla soft serve. I had no idea what I was getting but I figure I should try a new thing every day if I can. My life has been changed. With such easy access
to sweets, I’ve come to the realization that I need to do something to keep me healthy. So, for the past month or so I’ve gone to the gym 5-6 times a week depending how my body feels. I’m finally starting to see the benefit of all the work I’ve put in and I’m really happy about. So, the goal for next week is to sort my life out, but its really hard to say the least.
