August 21, 2016

I'm in Washington D.C. drinking a beer at a teeny sports bar as I wait for my next flight. My first flight was incredibly short, but it was difficult for me. 

I'm no where near done with my journey. My next flight to Addis Ababa may be around 10 hours long. Short layover. Then my flight to Lilongwe might be 3 hours long. My use of "may be" and "might be" represent a long saga of me not really knowing what I'm getting myself into with this trip. For instance, I also don't know where I'll be sleeping, if there will be showers, who is picking me up from the airport, what my days will be comprised of, or where I will be staying during the second part of my trip. These things only slightly alarm me compared to the alarm I'm already feeling for my next two takeoffs.... I hate flying.

It feels weird to blog, can I just say that? The guy next to me talking positively about Trump may also be contributing to this, but I just feel strange right now. It's been a while.

What I DO know is that I have plane tickets to Malawi to take a 6-day course in animal rehabilitation at the Lilongwe Wildlife Centre. After those six days, I'll be volunteering with the Centre's primate research/release team for another four days. 

It is so cheesy to mention this, and I told myself I wouldn't, but I feel an overwhelming urge to give a little shoutout to the chickadee fledgling who inadvertently led me to take this trip. To make a too-short story even shorter, I didn't know how to take care of the baby bird I found squeaking in traffic. Buried him in an avocado on Cinco de Mayo, then googled "animal rehabilitation careers." Found the class posted. Signed up. Now I'm laid-over in D.C. sitting next to a Trump supporter whom I literally just heard say the word "Illuminati." 

For starters, I'm heading to a place that is 3,414 miles away from the last place I visited in Africa. Imagine the cultural difference between Mobile, Alabama and Los Angeles, California- then add 1,400 more miles in between them. I have no idea what to expect from this side of Africa! I'm stoked. Like a hillbilly bonfire, boys.

On that note- I'm off for a bit. I'll leave with one piece of substantial and probably obvious advice: Just because your final destination is international doesn't mean you need to be dropped off at the international terminal in Atlanta. 

Boarding now. I'll write soon.