A thousand miles begins with...

...intense bonding, running into the Pacific Ocean, a Jimmy Fallon sighting, LAX stress, Honolulu confusion, and the longest single day of travel of my entire life.
Though I haven't read Dante's Divine Comedy (for shame, English major--I know), I feel as if, over the course of the past few days, I have progressed from inferno to paradiso. The whole thing had been a dream, a vague noble enterprise that I was undergoing at some point in the vague future, right up until the moment that I hugged Mom and Dad goodbye for two years at DIA airport security. As I looked back across the barrier, I realized that my vague enterprise had suddenly become a reality: I was on my way to live in Micronesia for twenty-seven months; I'd be living without Starbucks coffee, bubble tea, Ben & Jerry's and all things American that I have known. I sat on the plane, numb with stress, unable to even carry on a simple conversation with my seatmates. (An occurrence which those who know me I'm sure find remarkable.) I arrived in LAX several hours later a bundle of nerves, afraid my baggage would be lost, that I would never meet up with my cousins without a cell phone, etc.)
Once staging started, I realized that I was stuck in Purgatory. Yes, I had left my family and everything that I know and love and understand. No, I was not in Micronesia, helping anyone, spreading love, harmony, and knowledge throughout the world. Inside of the hotel conference room, I was meeting all of these amazing people and having some of the best conversations of my life; however, whenever I walked out in order to use the bathroom or fetch objects from my room, I was walking through an entirely color-coordinated, plush carpeted, mirror-doored Sheraton lobby in the middle of LOS ANGELES. That's right. On my way to 27 months of recycling six t-shirts, taking bucket baths, eating spam in a can, sleeping in a hut, and living in country whose total population is under 200,000, I was staying at the Los Angeles Airport Sheraton. In LA. The City of the Car. The Monument to the Materialistic. (And I could go on...)
The LA chapter ended quite appropriately. We saw a celebrity (Jimmy Fallon, hurrying off to do something important, I'm sure--though I forgot to ask him to sign my passport) and underwent an insane amount of stress (as part of our group, myself included did not have assigned seats--meaning, not, as I had hoped, that we could sit anywhere(!) but that we might not make it to Honolulu if no volunteers gave their seats up. They did.) And thus, it was farewell America, aloha Honolulu.
Oddly, the Honolulu Best Western did not seem aware that we had a reservation, so that was another fun episode (involving a couple of hours sitting in the Honolulu Airport back in limbo). By the time we finally got to our hotel (who had, by this time, found it in their heart to find our reservation), we were all so tired that many of us forewent dinner (after I'm sure eight hours or so of no food at all) and went straight to bed, knowing that our flight in the morning left at 6:55. Translation: we had to meet in the hotel lobby at 3:30 to check out. Did I mention it's 10:30 pm?
Our group leaders order us a 2:45 am wake-up call. I told my roommate, Kathay, that they shouldn't have told us we have a wake-up call, because now we won't be sufficiently paranoid in order to wake up. Then I say, "oh, wait. On the other hand, if they just gave us a surprise 2:45 wake up call, we'd probably shit ourselves." I still practically did. Now I'm sure that in the proper context, Vivaldi is incredibly calming, stimulating, and enjoyable. However, when he came blasting out of the clock radio eight inches from my head at quarter to three, the first words that came to my lips were not "my, how lovely!"
Well, in short, Vivaldi (and the dreaded wake-up call) got us to the airport, and I didn't even have to change my pants. About thirteen hours of flights (and three stops) later, we landed safely in Pohnpei, Micronesia. I was utterly shocked at how many sweat glands I possess. I must have sprouted extras on the plane. Walking out onto the tarmac was something akin to the time I walked off of the plane in Philly at age 9 and proclaimed that I felt as if I were at the bottom of a bathtub and that someone had just pulled out the stopper. The difference lay in the fact that, this time, the person taking a shower in the tub had been taking a shower in boiling water.
We arrived at our hotel, got leid (yes!), and dittered around for another SIX HOURS before we were allowed to go to bed. Though I did not make any astounding observations as during my previous periods of jetlag (e.g. the Bastille=the Eiffel Tower, etc.), my bed did feel really really good last night.
All right, well lunch is almost over and people have been shooting me dirty looks in the telecom office, so I will have to leave you all panting on the edges of your seats as if you're at the end of Harry Potter Book 6 or something (or other things I will not choose to name here).
Hope all's well in the States and, until next time,
YOU STAY CLASSY, AMERICA.
~Megan

c/o Peace Corps
PO Box 9
Kolonia Pohnpei 96941
***this is my address for the next three weeks if you want to send me lovely letters