It is March 20th and my possessions are slowly disappearing into boxes. I'm spending my time packing in every great food Chicago has to offer (just today: Kuma's Corner, Sushi Para II, Molly's Cupcakes, and iCream in Wicker Park, I'm about to vomit), seeing movies, the opera, the CSO, and (soon) Second City, and hanging out with friends. As time begins to fall short, I find myself consistently saying: "Let's not talk about Botswana"
It's not that I'm scared, I just know that talking about it will make me realize that I'll be gone for 2 years. 2 years of not seeing friends and family in our familiar surroundings. 2 years of what seems right now a very foreign and unusual thing. 2 years of unknown food, limited mobility, unknown access to internet and technology, no tv shows, no american jazz bars or Goose Island 312. On the other hand, I have to keep reminding myself that this is what I want to do. And that I'm not crazy for wanting to do it. This will be good. This will be good.
There's supposedly a facebook group of my cohort of Botswana volunteers called "Botswana9" I'm supposed to look it up and join it soon, but... well, let's not talk about Botswana.