Sometime, in the witch’s teat of winter 2002-03, I mentioned that I did not have a scarf, that I needed to get one. Someone who is entirely too sweet, yet understands my pain, decided to knit me a scarf, send it to 826, and, yes, it made it to my cold little neck. Bless you, Moira Williams. Thank you for protecting my sanity through another chilly season.

I realize that I haven't written since it was sticky-hot in the city. I feel guilty (like whoa). Since then I: Started a Sunday tradition of drawing on the ground in Central Park; continued my toilet paper exploits; fell in love with him again; took the most amazing course in African American Vernacular English; I started working at a tutoring center in Harlem (Such amazing children. Brilliant actually. Still, they pummeled me with jellybeans my first day.); fell into a hole of working too much and never seeing my friends; saw Neo walk on water; abandoned a tradition of drawing on the icicle that Central Park became; became overwhelmed by my two jobs; broke up, again (last time, I swear); quit the second job; visited my grandmother in Arkansas for Thanksgiving (I now know a lovely plum jelly recipe, but I’m not telling.); Lealah Johnson, one of the best people in the history of time, came to visit (that trip is what kept me afloat).

Over winter break I broke the car on the Bay Bridge just before New Year’s. I abandoned this silly notion of not eating meat. Poultry and fish are where it’s at. I left the Bay Area, got on a flight, and headed to Bahia do Salvador, Brazil. All I can say is I feel like everything I had ever experienced in life was in preparation for my time in Bahia. They say that Salvador do Bahia is the most African city outside of the continent because it was the largest importer of enslaved Africans. However, the African and Portuguese cultures mixed in Salvador where everybody and her mama look like me and my mama. For real. The assumption was that I was Brasilera until my no-Portuguese-at-all mouth opened. Goodness the food. They have this fritter made out of black-eyed pea flour, then deep fried. They slice it open, add a hot sauce paste, then a layer of shrimp in thin gravy, and a spicy salsa. They call it Acaraje. I call it, Can I have another one?

Brazil is easily one of the most stimulating places I’ve ever seen. Though I saw most of it from a moving bus window, I’m convinced I’ll live there at some point. I can’t tell you all of it was gorgeous. There are miles and miles of streets that twist along the beach, and on one side of the boulevard, on the shorefront property, there are resorts, shopping malls, cute girls with small frames, and four lanes away up the hill. There are also hand made brick favelas that stretch to unseen acres. I know that in the States we have similar issues, but this was the first time I’d seen such a blatant and easily accepted dichotomy between those who have and those that don’t. The time that I most enjoyed in the country was the time spent in the favelas, talking to Tiago in a spanglishised French Portuguese, imagining that a slightly different turn of events would have landed my people on these shores. And, suddenly, I felt my entire world tighten in the best way possible. I could draw the links between my background in West African dance and the hustles of Oakland and Harlem. Against this ill backdrop of white sand, Christ the Redeemer, and all this family reunion feeling, I’ve felt more at peace with the world and myself than I have in a long time.

Back in the States now. I have more free time to look at the sun setting over the Hudson River. Been spending more time trying to diversify my arts. Writing some (little, little at a time), singing lots (if the shower and along to the iPod counts), been trying to expand my knowledge of the culinary arts. I make a mean salmon croquette these days. Two of my closest friends have gone to Europe for the semester. In their absence I’ve had a lot of time to think, to learn I’d give my right arm to this one girl from Inglewood, to enjoy the company of my new roommates, to bundle up and go make snowballs. I trek back and forth between my dorm and Ten Eyck in Brooklyn because I have a crew that looks out for me in Anthony, Charlie, Jef, and Daniel. Still sometimes I cry, and sometimes I need Stevie Wonder just to keep moving. And, honestly, even today was an awful day.

But glorious, glorious spring arrived yesterday.