Connecticut Stopover

After four months of constant motion—planning this trip, Maya’s Bat Mitzvah, transitioning out of IKAR and my job at USC Law, attending the nearly endless array of goodbye functions during which most attendees had grown weary of saying goodbye, and packing our house—I finally have a moment to sit down and write a few words before we actually get on the plane to Africa.

We are now in Connecticut and getting out of LA was quite a challenge. As we pulled out of our driveway, our Subaru stuffed to gills with stuff, REM playing “The End of the World as we Know it” on the radio, I felt like we were walking the death march as our daughter’s wept piteously in the back seat. Tears actually filled my eyes as well as I finally stopped to think about what we are doing. I have been so focused on the details of our crazy lives and trying to extricate ourselves from them, that I never really allowed myself to think clearly about this adventure on which we were about to embark—or how much we will miss when we are gone—friends, family, IKAR, beds, toilets, privacy. I also was overwhelmed with the amount of crap we were schlepping along with us. As soon as we got on the plane to NYC I began to plot how to lose much of it. Indeed, my first order of business was a radical slash and burn campaign of all of our stuff—much of which we will leave with our in-laws who probably need to rent a storage unit to keep it all. I never really believed that old saying about packing for a trip—determine what you actually need and then cut it half—until now. I may live to regret it, but schlepping around a duffel bag that could comfortably accommodate both of our children was more than I could bear.

As we prepare to leave the country, my head is spinning with a million questions. What will it feel like to be so far away for so long? How will it feel for the four of us to sleep in a small room with bunk beds? What will the volunteering be like? Will I be able to connect with the kids and people with whom we are working? Will I have the right shoes? Will I be able to shower regularly? Who will get sick first and how traumatic will that be? The toilets? When will we run out of money? What will we learn and what will be most memorable? Most disastrous? Will I have to use the phenomenal array of sanitary and medical supplies that Paulette so lovingly chose? It seems that if we do, something will have gone terribly wrong—yet I am so appreciative to have it all.

I also wonder how long it will take the kids to fully embrace the trip. Their steely resolve seems to be melting ever so slightly despite themselves and I find it interesting that they tell me they love me on an hourly basis, but follow up with the declaration that I must not love them or I would not be forcing them to go on this trip. My mother-in-law says that children love their parents so much that they will sacrifice their own identity and needs to ensure that parents will always love them. In any event, it seems like an odd dialogue, but I am exceedingly grateful for it. Even though I am convinced that this trip will be a remarkably life altering experience for them, my heart breaks when I see them so sad—particularly when I understand how hard it must be for them to leave everything familiar for the completely unpredictable.

Our last few days in the states will be a study in contrasts to the next six months. We have seen Wicked on Broadway, dined in fancy restaurants, typical American diners, and on my mother-in-law’s delicious cooking. We will go to Becca Banoff’s Bat Mitzvah with all of the attendant activities and generally enjoy all of the comforts of life here. It all still feels so normal, can’t imagine what it will feel like when we actually get on the plane.