of pianos and proposals

Yesterday was Eid al-Adha- the Islamic holiday celebrating the story of Abraham and honouring his willingness to sacrifice his son before God. The holiday is dependent on the moon cycle, so it was not announced that this holiday was actually occurring until yesterday, Monday night. Gwyn had all of us USP students over to her place Monday night for a feast of desserts (chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and delicious, dark chocolate brownies) and a game night. After this, Lauren and I strolled down to fetch rolexes and came back to sit and read our Eat.Pray.Love books in each other's company.
We brought in the Muslim holiday with our form of indulgence and recognition of sacrificial living. We jumped a taxi into Kampala and promptly went over to the Serena Hotel- Kampala's (and for that matter, I think Uganda's) only 5 star hotel. The place was an absolute palace of beauty and warmth and relaxing, spacious architecture. We had been told by a friend that he plays piano there occasionally and so I went in on a quest to find my heart and soul back in the eighty-eight. We traipsed all through the upstairs lobby in search of this piano, which was rumored to be in the lounge, and finally I spotted it. I kid you not- my heart stopped. It literally did a little flip- the likes of which my full body has only ever been able to replicate on a trampoline with the assistance of serious spring action. Before annoying all of the hotel- I went up to the woman sitting at a table near the lounge and asked, "Nnyabo, could I please play (quietly!) a bit?" and she smiled and nodded, "Kale, kale. Is ok." I gingerly lifted the cover, took the felt strip off the keys, and sat on the small, squeaky, undersized-barstool style seat.
In a flash second when my fingers touched the keys I remembered freshman year at Gordon when I discovered the magnificence of the recital hall in Phillips. I vowed not to play in that hall until the first snow- so that I could fully embrace the majesty of that place overlooking the pond with perfect floor-to-ceiling windows and it's high, intricately designed ceilings of perfect acoustics. The first time it snowed, as luck would have it, I was working a six hour shift in the dining hall and couldn't get to the piano. By the time my shift was over it had rained and all the snow was gone. But the second time it snowed- by God- I raced down there and just let the perfect winter envelop my soul through the snow on the pond, the snow falling, the snow still stuck to my shoes as I kicked them off to sit at the grand and lose myself in playing. The scene should have been in a movie.
All this jumped across my mind in a split second and then the noise. All the noise. I forgot how much of a power surge it is to sit, quite still- straight, controlled- and produce such sound with the very many delicate flicks of one's fingers. I could have balanced M&Ms on the backs of my hands all the while filling that whole hotel with a small interlude in the key of D that made many fine suited young businessmen come to stand and listen with polite interest. (Mary, my piano teacher when I was 8, would have been so proud…I was always more interested in eating those M&Ms than balancing them during lessons)
It was a miraculous, emotional, holy few moments of reuniting my heart and soul- as I feel they've only been drifting aimlessly from each other since being here and having nothing to ground them. Once I felt like a whole person again, I closed the lid and stood, the miniature barstool creaking obnoxiously, announcing my finale. Lauren and I went to the bar downstairs and had a lovely chat with Richard the amicable bartender, and ordered Irish coffee- which was complimentarily served with a small array of olives and cheese. So classy. As we sat amidst the leather couches and polished wood and classy African stone carvings on the wall, delicately sipping our Irish coffees and occasionally pretending like we had the attention span to get through our copies of Eat. Pray. Love., Lauren piped up: "You know, I'm not ready to go home yet, but this is so nice!" <-- just the ability to be in a Westernized kind of environment where there were Americans and Brits in business suits, a fully stocked bar with familiar libations, and a general air of comfort. That is not to say that everything in America is comfortable, or by any means that Uganda is not comfortable (I actually am more relaxed 95% of the time HERE than in the States), but just an acknowledgment that, like it or not, we were both born into Western society and (quite unfortunately…or maybe not) that is what puts us at ease now- the going back to that sort of familiarity. While it is not with an air of self-sacrifice that we have come to Uganda, we are slowly realizing all the things that we have indeed given up in coming here. It is yet undecided in my mind if I feel like these are sacrifices are detrimental to my mental health (or physical health), but living without such things as used to be staples (easy transportation systems, ever available caffeine, reliable communication systems, certain appliances) is taking it's toll. Again: not in a sad or painful way, just in a noticeable way. I do, however, stand by my former declaration of loving life without a mirror here. In my building the only mirrors around are the small hand held mirrors that individuals have purchased themselves in markets, or even just broken shards of mirror. I never considered myself a very vain person before coming here, and never wore make up so there was no cause to ever really look in a mirror that often, but even so- I find a massive relief and self confidence in not knowing what I look like everyday. I also have this immense sense of self confidence that is just paired with living in a culture where self image is not about your face but rather how you conduct yourself socially. In addition, I (and other USP girls I have been talking to) feel, for quite honestly the first time in a long time, completely content with being single here. With the extreme taboo of public displays of affection here, there are no couples making out on park benches or even holding hands here- and with that total void of public emphasis on relationships I find that I don't feel pressured at all to be in a relationship- which I can't say I've ever felt in America. For the first time in years I feel like no one is pushing me to rush into some relationship, yet on the flip side- a good chunk of African men are indeed begging for me be in one with them… strange paradox to be in. I will say, on that note, that it will be a self esteem shock to go back to America where every other man is not proposing to me from the side of the street. Ah well.