Part of me cracks open like a ripe watermelon when I see we’re about to land in Africa. My heart opens up.
Off the plane, across the tarmac, through immigration. The immigration line is slow. Luggage porters in yellow vie for the job of carrying our bag. I generally avoid them, but maybe should use them and drop a bill in their waiting hands.
Although I have never before been to Rwanda, I am greeted by a warm African woman who welcomes me like a sister she has never met. There are bouquets of sweet smelling roses in cellophane, and I am enveloped and lavished with many kisses to each cheek, rather than the traditional three. We leave the terminal with our arms around each other. And stop for tea at a conference center before leaving Kigali.