The train station at terminal two of Charles de Gaulles buzzes with efficiency and self-sufficiency. The schedule is on the board. The tickets are at self-serve kiosks. Figure it out, move quickly, don't ask questions. But if you must, ask the man at the information booth.
When I went to the information booth, of course, the man rolled his eyes when I started with "How are you?" Maybe I should have asked, "Where are we?"
Contrast this train station to the bus park in Kampala, where I arrived with D four days ago to get a ride to Fort Portal in western Uganda.
Downtown Kampala, crammed with people and public taxis and trucks spewing smoke. I mean crammed. Every inch of space is fair game for the next person or object who cares to squeeze into it. I follow D as we weave through crowds, him often grabbing me as we cross the street to be sure I stay out of the path of motorcycles. As we near the bus park, three or four men hurriedly approach to guide us to their respective companies. D has an exchange with one—at the time I think he's telling the man to leave us alone, but he's actually agreed for us follow him.
We head in. I hold on. Buses are parked tightly next to each other, a mere one or two feet between, enough for one person to pass through and board the bus.
Once on board, the aisle is packed, if not with passengers getting on and off, then vendors hawking watches, socks, toys, electronics, drinks, snacks, and full meals on plastic plates.
The bus does not have a schedule. It will leave when every seat is full. We wait for an hour before heading out.
Kampala's bus park is chaotic, unnavigable without my companion. The place demands intuition, dependency on friends and strangers.
In Charles de Gaulles, you could be a robot and find your way without a hitch. In fact, I doubt people would notice a robot getting on the train as long as it didn't bother anyone.
Friends, I have arrived in the land of earbuds and wifi and automatically flushing toilets. People relate to their gadgets, to maps, to systems. You do you, I'll do me over here. Mind your own business.
Uganda is relational. Your business is my business is our business is his business over there. We are in this together.
This comes with a sense of moral imperative, too. Mob justice and sweeping social policies. I once heard an argument break out on a public taxi, about whether the passengers wanted to squeeze in more people and each pay a lower price. Eventually one woman turned to another and said, "You are the source of conflict here. Get out." She did.
Despite their differences, both places work. People get where they want to go. The man at the information booth in Charles de Gaulles let me know that I had been trying to swipe my receipt rather than my ticket. Ah yes. Thank you, I'm on my way. To Paris.
Paris!
Please don't get me wrong.
All of my culture shocked griping aside, I love Paris. Really. Wow. Although I'm not sure if I was more excited about eating a croissant or drinking tap water. It's going to take a while for this all to sink in.
Just two hours after my plane landed, I walked up to the door of V and M, family friends who are kindly hosting me as home base for the next three weeks. M is an artist who became friends with my mom at business school in Chicago many years ago. He and V have four daughters. They live in a beautiful home.
V fed me breakfast, helped me get a SIM card, showed me where to get my hair cut, taught me how to use the laundry machine. I sauntered around in the one clean piece of clothing I had—a dress that was too short to wear in Uganda. In a house full of petit French women, V lent me the biggest sweatshirt she could find to keep me warm.
I have arrived.
I am on my way.
I am writing from the train—a very fast, clean train that left on time—eating the last peanuts from a bag that D and I bought for the bus ride back to Kampala, after two days of hiking and dancing and marveling at sunsets in Fort Portal.
This train is taking me to Macon Loche, where I board a bus to Taizé - a Christian community where I will spend the next two weeks. If you read about it on Wikipedia you will know more than me. All I expect is that I will be spending a lot of time singing and praying.
Which leads me to a last thought - an anecdote that has stuck with me for the past few weeks.
Someone asked Mother Theresa what she says when she prays to God. She said, "I listen." Then, she was asked, what does God say?
"God listens."
Thank you for listening to me, loves. Here's to our open ears and minds and hearts. On we go.
*note this was posted a day after it was written!
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