When Life Locks You Inside Your Office—
—fuck lemonade. Lemons are expensive. Make a cup of tea, which is lukewarm, because the water heater’s on the fritz, because Kenya. Consider climbing out the windows. Discard the idea. Call your boss, who doesn’t pick up, because Kenya. Finally get around to starting your obligatory “follow-my-foreign-adventures!!” blog, because you haven’t even though you’ve been here for three weeks. Try to somehow force the door. Set off the alarm. Wrap your cardigan around your head until the alarm stops, even though security hasn’t shown up, or called, or noticed, because Kenya. Try not to think about how every single person you work with had gone home by 4:30, because Kenya. Try even harder not to think about how none of them noticed your stuff was still on your desk, because you’re the new girl and younger than all of them and tend to just sit there hunched up like a mute with a Macbook head. Consider Macbookhead as a superhero identity. Discard the idea. Look up some turnip latke recipes because it’s Rosh Hashanah. Look up the difference between turnips and rutebegas. Look up some rutebega latke recipes. Discard the idea. Ponder how a pound of turnips cost you a dollar, but the beer you bought with them cost more than ten, because Kenya. When your boss shows up, having added a good 45 minutes to his commute to let you out even though it’s your fault and he probably should have let you stew there all night, wonder why he just smiles and apologizes and asks if you were scared. Realize the answer is, because Kenya. Walk home, writing a lame blog entry in your head about how wonderful everyone is here, how giving and honorable and kind. Get your head so far up your white-girl ass that you don’t notice when a moda-boda jumps the curb on the wrong side of the road (because Kenya ) and the guys at the corner store bust up laughing (because Kenya) and you almost fall into the trash fire that’s smoldering in the gutter (because sometimes people burn their trash here). Feel a little more at home. Hobble back to your apartment, wash the (tr)ash off your shoe, and have a shitty $3 pilsner that is not in any sense a pilsner. Because Kenya. Maybe have a couple. Because shitty beer still makes you happy. Because you’re sort of fine.