Here is another one from Arles. I don't really love it, but it shows the lighting...somewhat.

This is the way up to our hotel. Winding cobblestone streets. As I was drawing this, I thought to myself “how cool this little alley is, I can just imagine horses trotting up.” No sooner had I said this, I kid you not, a horse sauntered past with a young boy on the back, dresses in 17th century clothing. Had I imagined the whole thing?

Saturday is Market Day in Arles. We stumbled upon this market after our long journey to France. Got of the plane in Marseilles around 9am, drove for almost 3 hours, and bam, it was Market Day. Let’s park and see what is there! So off we go, down the aisle of the fresh food stands. What an experience. If you think going to a supermarket in American when you are hungry is bad, imagine, if you please, going to the food capital of the world from a third world country in West Africa! First stall, bam! The most amazing strawberries just screamed at us to pick them up. So, we got a basket of raspberries for Jesse and a basket of strawberries for Duncan, then off to the cheese cart and the sausage cart for Mommy and Daddy. We were in heaven!! Tired and happy, this was our welcome into the good life of France!

So, where to start is the thing. I let this thing go (or for that matter anything else in my life, be it organizing that damn closet to notes to friends), and they go and go and go until time has completely gotten embarrassing. “Oh, gee, I was going to do that, but then by the time I finally got around to doing it, I thought everybody would just laugh at me since it had taken me soooo long to finally do it”. And so it goes for blog entries and updates from our travel times. Truth be told, I also think I was suffering from a mild bit of depression. I didn’t get the job, I wasn’t finding luck in the driver front, my husband was gone, okay, the excuses can go on and on.

But here I am. I am present, not letting this time thing slip away, and yes, I have scanned more images from my sketchbook. Let me tell you first a little of what has transpired. Short story is, Nigeria had a census, stranded us on the compound. Ken went to Greece. Tunde came back. And we got out of Africa.

We are back of course, and all is relatively well. I just have to start with a little from our trip, and I believe I will dribble it in here. Keep you coming back. And also keep the download time from our pathetic server shorter as well.

The pic is a drawing of the plane. Traveling with children is a bit like traveling handicapped. Sure, you get to get on the plane first, nice advantage, especially when the luggage compartment seems to be filled by the time anyone gets on anymore. There are in fact many advantages, showing your children the world, being able to afford to show your children the world, having your children know more than just their own backyard, all of these things are great. But there is the wait time. We leave the compound here at 4pm. Our flight takes off at ……11:00pm! We are in the airport at 5, checked through by 5:30, then…well then you realize how silly you are. You have spent all this time bathing your kids, making sure they are dressed in clean clothes and are ready to go. But, imagine if you will five and a half hours just waiting, waiting, waiting. Kids know other kids at the airport of course because everyone else is flying out of Lagos tonight as well. So, then the frenzy happens. Any available paper becomes an airplane. Any available round object becomes a ball. And all those slanty chairs become routs for the hotwheel cars we have packed. And those clean clothes? They become dust rags and mops dragged along the floors of the airport and the little bodies which occupy them moves along in search of a better route for his miniature Ferrari.

Finally on the plane, the entertainment turns to the mini television sets in each of the chairs. And, this being 11pm, of course they find several wonderful kids cartoons and movies the “just have to see”. Sure, go ahead, anything to just get you to stay still I think to myself. My 5 year old is sleeping before takeoff. My 8 year old has more stamina than his dad and his mom combined. Finally at 1:30am, I reach over and tell him to turn off the T.V. Time for sleep. The plane lands at 5:30am in Paris, and we are off on another adventure!

How can one little inanimate object be so special to a boy? Ella is a little grey elephant who has traveled the world now. She has traveled by train, plane, taxi, boat, ferry, across three continents. She is one of the most beloved of objects in Jesse’s life.

One time he left her in his older brother’s school. We couldn’t find her anywhere, and a very sad little boy went to bed without her. I promised I would find her for him. I called all the places I could remember we had gone that day, but nobody had seen a little soft grey elephant. Finally I remember I was at the school with Jesse for a PTA meeting and perhaps, she had gotten left there. Rushing to the school, late, in the dark, I peered through the windows and caught sight of Ella. There she sat, sad and alone.

I dutifully went home, set my alarm clock for 5:00am the next day. I knew the cafeteria workers would be there to open up the school for the day at that time. The next morning I sped to the school, 5am. Silently I crept into the darkened “Parent Room”, grabbed that little elephant and raced home. Putting her into Jesse’s arms while he slept was one of the most satisfying feelings I have ever felt. I knew she would be there for him when he woke, snuggling softly into his face…shnuffling we call it.

I am grateful for the love my kids place on their “lovies”. I had three… “chi-chi”, “blank-o” and “snakie”. Both my boys have soft toys they absolutely have to take with them…even though every trip we take I try to convince them to only take one. Secretly though, I think it adds something to a childhood to have a soft toy. . . which eventually turn real, just like the velveteen rabbit.

Homecoming. Not that this is the view I would necessarily associate with this word. Instead, this is the view I see “when I return to my flat” Why is that so different than homecoming? I guess for many different reasons. I nurture my children and my husband here. Those are the most important things to me by far. That being said, sometimes it seems I do not nurture much else here. There are no huge pots of geraniums waiting to greet me home (and beg for water). No cat rubbing my leg, wanting to be fed. No piles of junk mail to be gone through. No answering machine blinking, blinking, blinking with messages to be returned. No, this is just my flat. A place where I live . . . while in Nigeria. It is not so much that I don’t want to improve my flat beyond its shabby façade, but knowing it is so temporary really stunts my desire to better it. I remember fondly those glimpses of home magazines while standing in line to check out at the store. Not only are those types of stores rare here, the glimpses I have of those magazines are not in a store, but rather being held up to my window in a go-slow. Yet still this is home. Close friends just next door. Trials and tribulations we all go through seem to sometimes make this place feel like we are all part of a family, and my flat is just my room. So, in a way, it is a homecoming seeing these dimly lit stairwells, the flickering dirty florescent bulbs casting shadows on cobwebs and upturned cockroach bodies. The suffering we all endure and eventually laugh at as we sit together with our family in our home-away-from-home.