So this has been an eventful weekend...

Yesterday, the Ghanian version of a SWAT team showed up at Church Crescent, where I live. Men with batons (and somewhere, guns, I'm sure) paraded the area as I sat in my living room watching the West Wing. It was almost like a bad dream.

Except instead of a nightmare, you don't get to wake up and find that your house wasn't broken into, that your roommate's macbook wasn't stolen, your closet door broken and your nerves rattled. And you begin to find meaning in everything-- like a piece of fallen barbed wire or a few broken bricks. Could these be clues? Or is it just in your head? All you want to do is ask these questions and more but unfortunately, no one seems to have answers.

So this is what's been going on since Friday around 8 PM-- when I came home from a long day in the countryside with no cell phone to frantic calls and panicked housemates. It's strange to think that while I was playing drums and dancing in the sand early that afternoon, a stranger could have been climbing my balcony, knowing that I was gone. 

Sorry for the seriousness of this post, I'll make up for it later this week by writing one about Chinese Food or bodily functions-- separate but not necessarily unrelated topics, I might add...

There's No Taste Like Home

At home, there's nothing I love more than biting into my dad's garlic-soaked burgers, smothered in jack cheese, topped with avocado. I've run the gamut of quality and class, from a $20 kobe beef masterpiece to a double double with extra cheese from In N Out. I've finished a crave case. I've waited on a 100 ft Shake Shack line. Anybody can make a decent burger, but it takes a certain kind of genius to make a great one.

Which brings me to Accra. Yesterday, I was feeling a little nostalgic-- not to mention starving -- so I stopped by a local restaurant with some friends and ordered a cheeseburger. I'll skip the buildup and just say this: it was amazing. 

The cheese was melted to almost a cream, but still gooey enough that it didn't make a mess. Both tangy and sweet, it complimented the rich meaty taste of the patty. It was topped with onions, lettuce, and another fried vegetable that I couldn't quite decipher. Normally, I don't like too many additions. I feel that they take away from the burger's original purpose. But these worked. The crunch of onions and fried mystery food balanced out the softness of the patty and the smoothness of the cheese. Best of all, there were no tomatoes. I hate raw tomatoes. 

It's comforting to know that even though I'm far from home, I'm still close to at least one of the things I love. Now if only they could work on getting Chipotle here...

And You Thought the Jersey Shore Was Bad...

Coming from New Jersey, I am used to--even a little comforted by--dirty shores, covered in cigarette butts, seagull poo and empty containers of Arizona iced tea.  I am also used to people making fun of it. 

And I get it! If you were raised in Redondo Beach (HEY GIGI), where the sand is white and not the color of my Rainbows after I've been caught in a storm, Belmar just doesn't cut it. But before you complain that the Jersey shore is gross, you should check out Labadi beach. 

No offense to the city of Accra, but it kind of blows. It's chaotically noisy, the water is dirty and there is so little sitting area that high tide often attacks people unluckily enough to get one of the farther spots. Also, when I'm trying to read Chelsea Handler, the last thing I want to see is a guy running around with a snake and crazed look in his eyes. 

Labadi's saving grace is that they allow horses on the shoreline. Venders walk around with ponies and charge a few cedis per ride. They lead the horse by a withered rope and I'm sure cantering is out of the question, but it's still a live horse. And a saddle, if you're lucky.

A market-like beach, with pushy venders and snake men--not to mention lots of competing music and dance-- is probably someone's idea of a great time. It's just not mine. I mean, I get frustrated when someone tries to talk to me on the NJ transit during my morning commute/nap. Seriously. I have my headphones it. I don't want to buy secondhand nail polish.

Life Lessons from Accra, Pt 1

Greetings from Accra! I'm finally taking some time to decompose after an intense orientation week, filled with Twi and plantain chips and waking up approx. 3 hours before I'm mentally prepared to see a beer bottle-shaped coffin. Not kidding. I love it here but I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm recovering from a hefty dose of culture shock. For example, it's rude not to say hi to someone on the street--even a total stranger. I'm from New York. If you say hi to someone you don't know on the street, you might get spat on. Luckily, though, there are a few things about my Ghanian adventure that remind me of home:

1. "You're invited" does not always mean "you're invited".

In Ghanian culture, it's common to say things like, "You are invited to share my food with me", or "I'm having dinner with Joe tonight, you are invited". People rarely mean it. In east coast girl culture, it's very common to say something like, "We need to hang out!" or "I love you!" People also rarely mean those things.

2. A sketchy night out in Accra is still a sketchy night out.

What started as a casual night with some new Ghanian friends led to a series of questionable adventures, including a nightclub with 2 people, a ride in some guy named JoJo's unmarked van, a crazy Minnesotan telling us to "go jump in a lake" and life lessons from 35 year old Gabi. If you meet someone at a bar when you're poor and dirty, and you share your water with them, that is love. This all might sound ridiculous and dangerous to the untrained eye, but it's really not that much different than a typical New York night for room 714. Like that time where we walked from Union Square to the Fi Di with to-go cups. Or that other time where we did something stupid and probably could have died but ended up having a great night anyway.

3. I say yes to wayyy too many marriage proposals.

Too often in my life has the following scenario happened. I go out. I make friends. I get proposed to within 5 minutes. Usually, I accept, because while polygamy is illegal in most countries, there's no rule against being engaged to around 10 guys from the city, 1 from LA and 2 from Accra. Lucky me! Best part is that here, men will just come up to you on the street and say "I will marry you". They don't mean it, but hey, neither do I. 

4. Cabbies will always try to rip me off. 

I can't even count the number of times I've been in an NYC taxi and gone 10 blocks out of the way. Or had the driver say "14th street? I thought you said 114th street!" It's not too different here. You and the driver agree upon a price beforehand, and since I'm CLEARLY not from around here, I get charged too much. And when the cab ride cost 4 ghanian cedi, I only have a 10 and the driver conveniently doesn't have change. FAIL.

5. I can't cook for shit.

In the states, I have one rule when it comes to all things culinary: if it can't be nuked, it can't be cooked. I tried to make toast this morning and almost electrocuted myself. I'm gonna stick to microwaveables from now on.