Clean dirt

Everything smells like soap.

I abhor it.  I even made the mistake of spraying a spritz of a ritzy perfume as I anxiously perused the airport gift shop, and it, too, smells like soap.

I haven't had a proper shower in 47 days; I should not smell like soap.  I've never been so offended by such a smell of cleanliness. I have a headache from everything smelling "too clean." what irony. 

Even in jeans and layered t-shirts, I've lost my battle against goosebumps since I boarded the plane in Port-au-Prince. The frigid assault on my skin soaks down into my bones and I ache to return to a simpler time , approximately 7 hours ago. 

Arriving in Miami was greater culture shock than the streets of Haiti, but resembled more of a race against the sand draining from an hour-glass. I felt the wave of panic begin to mount as we waited in line for customs, but it was quickly diffused as a new lane was opened and we took off like a herd of cattle being corralled by a cowboy. With a delayed departure just shy of three hours arriving at 8, my Nashville team teetered upon missing their 9 p.m. connection after clearing customs, picking up baggage, making their way through immigration, dropping off their checked bags, and racing to security.  Of the nine other travelers, three of them had made it to security by 8:45; the others were stopped when they attempted to re-check their bags.  Without a phone, and with a much later departure time of 10:20, I slowed through security and still don't know the fate of the others. 

With a mind still racing from the speed lap around Miami International, I got on the speed rail, missed my stop, turned around at the next one to return, only to realize I had the wrong gate number, and had to get on again and head to station 1.  With a few minutes to kill, I stopped for an iced coffee at Starbucks, and caught myself rehearsing my order in Creole. Although everything in this airport is in Spanish, I found myself thanking the cashier with a "mesi," before finding my gate.

I'm surrounded by old, plastic, retired, white people in polo shirts and a man with the Greek omega symbol literally burned onto both arms. I am beyond perplexed. Materialism rules as extreme here, and the ease with which my disgust for it could dissolve furthers the tension of hatred. 

Perhaps the hardest part of reentry is assimilation without resuming the same culture I left.   Or maybe its fighting harboring bitterness or judgement while I try to find a way to return to normalcy. Lord help me to fight the disdain and bitterness and judgment without putting on the same greed and self-absorption that I yearn to avoid.