I walked from Swedru to some far place in the Diaspora once, out of sheer determination and a head full of thoughts. The second time it rained heavily; and through my negotiation of potholes and oncoming cars, it dawned on me that there were trotros for some goddamn good reason! So, I took one—mixing with los pobres and my concern about showing the credit-based largesse of my bank notes in contrast to their small change. I took one, yes, a matatu under a bridge and it drove me all the way to Trafalgar Square, looking something like Las Ramblas, funneling into Barcelona’s busy Plaça de Catalunya. Enough to say I woke up startled, just after I found myself clutching my money bag and voting against asking Cameron Diaz (or some such blonde starlet) and her new just-going-out-lately beau—who had both walked out of Alcoholics Anonymous—“Which way is it back home out of LaLaland?”
