Courage. Or Not.

Please do not call me courageous.

Several of you have left very lovely comments about how brave I am to be taking this trip, and I feel like, in the interest of transparency, I should come clean.

While it is true this trip has been profoundly life-altering, and my perspective is changed forever, there is also a very substantial part of me that would sell my soul for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese right now.

I cannot even bring myself to look at pictures of my children, because my heart aches when I think that they are on the other side of the world. 

I miss my husband so awfully that I cry when I think of him.  I can tell that my brain will not allow me to fully process the things I'm seeing until I'm with him again.

We are taking a little puddle-jumper plane trip tomorrow, and it scares me so badly that I think I will only get through it with the help of pharmaceuticals.

I wish I could tell you I am adventurous and outdoorsy, but I cannot deny the moment of panic I felt when I realized this was the bathroom at our site yesterday:

And, demonstrating that I am not at all a sophisticated international traveler, I have messed up on these blasted electrical converters and I did this to my curling iron:

I melted it.  Into two pieces.  It was smoking so badly I thought the room would catch fire.  That would’ve certainly left a lovely impression of Americans.

So, brave?  Not quite.  I'm a lonely, homesick, hungry goofball who has learned that sleeping under a mosquito net isn't quite as Hemingway-esque as I thought it would be. 

A lonely, homesick, hungry goofball that is in love with these people.