This is the view from classroom.

And, if you must know, it is the view I am looking at this very moment.

Well, that and the literary term posters on my back wall that absolutely refuse to hang in right angles.

The picture really doesn't do it justice. I could try to describe it, but I would end up sounding like some cheesy voice-over in a movie, read by an actress who thinks she knows how to do a Southern accent. So I'll leave it at this: it's lovely. At night, when the hills are covered in lights, it's stunning, even. Perfect for sitting in a lounge chair, sipping red wine or black coffee, and reading Wordsworth.

Unfortunately, I don't believe the aforementioned activities were written into my contract with the school. Instead, I seem to recall something about teaching high school--a job for which, to be honest, I feel completely inadequate. Which probably explains why I am blogging right now instead of planning to teach four levels of English.

Still, I am hoping for some kind of spiritual, organic communion with the hills and the sky outside my door, to energize my teaching efforts and (maybe) make 9th graders care about The Odyssey. Isn't there some scripture about looking to the hills for help?

Dear Lord, I sound more New Age-y everyday.

I guess it doesn't help that I just had a full-length tye-dye dress made for me.

...this kind of mind is not ideal for curriculum-planning.

Muraho!

"Muraho" is "hello" in Kinyarwandan. Wait, or is it "how are you?" Shoot, I can't remember. The one word I know for sure is "Muzungu"--white person. This word is hard to avoid--anytime we walk down the street we hear it in passing conversations, and the kids wave and call it out as we ride on the bus.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am in Africa. . .a fact that continues to amaze me. Really, I am most amazed with myself. I really never thought I was the girl that switched continents for a year-- just the girl who thought something like that would be really cool. Granted, I have friends here, but I didn't know they'd be with me with I signed on. And I know, it's not like I'm entrenched in Baghdad or anything. But still. If I'm allowed to say it...I am proud of myself.

The first few days have been an overwhelming jumble of first impressions, new friends, and new places. I couldn't possibly describe it all and be remotely interesting, so I will give you a few highlights:

1) Plane ride from Addis Ababa (Ethiopia) to Kigali: I sat next to a man with a gold and diamond watch bigger than my head who, in casual conversation, said that his "kingdom is bigger than Rwanda." He, unsurprisingly, does something with diamonds. And oil. He gave me his card at the end of the flight, and, I'm not joking, his email address is "princeofcongo@yahoo.fr." Don't email him; I'm sure he could have me killed.

2) On our second day, we were shown real estate by a man named Dudu--pronounced exactly like it looks. This has been the highlight of our house-hunting experience. (Read: it's not going too well. Prayers appreciated!)

3) The ladies in the marketplace call me "sees-tah." I love it. After years of feeling self-conscious about my utter lack of ethnicity in metro-Atlanta, I move to Africa and finally become a sister.

4) I know the concept of the "line" is predominantly a Western one--that the rest of the world, as I have found it, prefers to clump. But the mass of humanity at the cell phone store the other day tested the limits of what is acceptable for civilized beings. From looking at the Rwandese, you would have thought the fate of the world rested on their ability to be waited on first at the cell phone store. Or, at least, before the muzungus. The woman behind me got closer than anyone who doesn't put a ring on my finger should ever get, sandwiching me between the woman directly in front of me like a deli meat. (Is that too obvious a simile for the verb "sandwiched"? Oh well). But I got my cell phone, and a valuable cultural experience, so all in all it was a success.

5) Last night we ate at....drumroll please...a Mexican restaurant. African women speaking French in senorita shirts, with French Simon and Garfunkel covers playing on the radio. In other words, anything you could ever want in a Mexican restaurant. Oh, and Dora the Explorer was painted on the outside wall. Tres bien.

6) Yesterday we visited a workshop which brings in women from all over the country who have been widowed by the genocide. There, they learn to become master basket weavers, and their baskets are sold to Macy's. And Bono. He, apparently, is a patron. This is probably the closest I'll get to Bono while I'm in Africa. Or ever.

We got to visit with the ladies, take pictures, and take a stab at basket weaving before one of the ladies panicked and hastily retrieved her handiwork. Overall, a terrific day!

With that, I leave you with a totally cliche picture of muzungu + Africans. Enjoy!

Satisfied?

Show me!

Not to toot my own horn, but I receive a lot of positive feedback for my blogging enterprises. "Jessica, when are you going to update your blog"; "Jessica, your blog changed my life"; "Jessica, your blog is a ray of hope in an increasingly dark and terrifying world"--I could go on, but you get the idea. However, this positive feedback is almost exclusively verbal. And while I do enjoy replaying lavish praise in my head, occasionally I misplace a word or two, which tends to frustrate the process of retrieval. If only I had some type of visual affirmation--like, shall we say, in the form of more comments--I am certain that my blogging efforts would quadruple (or, erm, somewhat increase) in response to the encouragement. Or, it would just assuage my ego. Both desirable outcomes. Since I primarily exist off the positive feedback of others, comment on my blog and watch me salivate like Pavlov's dogs. We can use this entry as a test drive, if you like. You can even keep the image of me foaming at the mouth in your head as you do it...if you like.

So, I believe we all have what we want now. My readers got a new entry, and I got a desperate, groveling, borderline-despicable plea for more feedback. I have thrown myself at your, the discriminating reader's, mercy, sacrificing 94% (yes, 94) of my dignity in the process. If you don't comment now I'll really look like an idiot. And you wouldn't want that...right?