Shampoo and toothbrushes.

I'm not sure how to begin this "Post-Kenya" blogging. I thought about renaming my blog. I chose not to.

On my way to Ghost Ranch, New Mexico I met a man on the airplane. Lately I have been DESPERATE to tell my story to anyone who will listen, so it felt natural to casually drop the "I just got back from Kenya" line into our conversation. The airplane man had so much to say, following my lead.

"I don't mean to be forward, but you seem shy," he said.

That was a strong judgment, airplane man. We've known each other for two minutes now, if you can consider being introduced to someone the same as knowing them.

"I mean, you don't seem like the kind of person who would jump into something like that."

Like what, airplane man? What do you know about what I "did" in Kenya? What do you know about who I was there?

"I've always wanted to do something like that. I know a guy who knows a girl who went to Africa. We got all these shampoos and toothbrushes together and put 'em in a box and shipped them there for her. It was $600 worth of stuff for those kids. She was a hero."

Airplane man, I never gave out shampoos and toothbrushes in Gatundu. Sometimes I gave out candy hearts, but not often. I was not a hero. I was a friend, a sister and a daughter. An English teacher and a P.E. teacher. I was a frog jumper, a lap runner, a bad volleyball player. I fetched milk. I ate with my family. I cooked burnt rice. I watched "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective" probably fifty times. I sat in the field and I talked to people. And I did a lot of sitting in the field and not talking to people, too.

"So are they going to have a limo waiting for you here? With a big sign that says 'RACHEL'? I bet they will."

Sure, airplane man. Whatever you think.