sunday was our homestay farewell party. It felt a little like senior banquet in high school—we all met in the parking lot of our hotel in Kampala at five to get ready to go to the reception. Everyone wore nice outfits, invariably African dresses and suits that they’d had made at tailors here. We were all in denial that in only a week we’d be leaving Uganda.

I’d been spending the past week with my homestay family, but left on Saturday to check into the hotel with the group and finish writing my paper. These past few days have been wonderful—nice weather (in Uganda, May is much cooler than January, with a nice breeze and rain clouds permanently in the sky), being together again after our ISPs, and the combination of looking forward to home and enjoying doing my favorite things in Kampala one last time. I’ve been haunting 1000 Cups, the one coffee shop in town, with Barbara—every morning we get there, plug in our laptops, order the first round of coffees, then periodically get into conversation with the staff and other regulars, saying hello to our various other classmates who pop in throughout the day.

Even though I’d only been away from my family for a day, it was weird seeing them in a setting that felt like a graduation party. The reception was outdoors on the grounds of some museum, and my homestay mother showed up with three of my brothers and my two sisters.

I’ve never been one to surrender my personal space, but sharing a bed with my sister Rebecca this week has been surprisingly fun. We had pillow talk every night before we went to sleep, and I felt like we got a lot closer than we ever did in the two months where I had my own room. I was enjoying talking to her at the party, and then went with my brother to get beers for everyone in the family. We were all having a good time, and they begged me to break out my camera then spent about forty-five minutes taking turns taking family photos in every combination they could think of. I guess I never realized how much fun my host siblings were, or I’ve always just felt too weird about being so much more privileged than them to really let loose. Silver, William, Brian, Rebecca, and Lilian range from ages 16 to 25, but they all have so much in common that it felt like hanging out with a bunch of hilarious people my age. We spent the rest of the night dancing, which was about as much fun as I’ve ever had. Lilian, having recovered from a miscarriage and malaria at the age of 17, was particularly energetic and tried to train the muzungu out of me on the dance floor. When my family finally said goodbye to me and went home, I felt really strange and sad for a moment before I joined the SIT conga line.

The other day, I realized it’s been over a month and a half since I looked in a mirror.

When I get back to the US, I am going to experience air-conditioning again and buy a Wegman’s veggie sub an inch-thick in cheese, and get the Leornardo da Veggie sandwich at Bruegger’s, drink all the coffee I want, then have a bowl of penne alla vodka. I’m going to get fake hot dogs from Morningstar Farms and start making things with cabbage in them (Uganda has turned me onto this vegetable of my heritage) and soak oreos in mint chocolate chip ice cream. I’m going to be sad when I can no longer buy two pineapples for a dollar and mangoes for ten cents each. Jackfruit, rolexes, millet posho, and masala chips will no longer be there. It’s going to be a while before I can eat guacamole again, but I’ll enjoy reintegrating spicy things into my palate. Samosas and chapati will no longer be my go-to snack, and my mother is not going to boil a pot of chai every night. I will stop eating matooke and referring to potatoes as “irish,” and birthday cake will no longer resemble stale raisin bread. I will start taking menus in restaurants for granted, no longer having to preface my order with, “Are beans there? Is there rice? The vegetable curry, is it there?”

I’ll have to start walking places again instead of jumping on the back of someone’s boda. I’ll begin to wonder why guys who ask for my number don’t call, instead of hitting silent five times in a row to ignore creepy, persistent calls from security guards and hotel managers. People will stop laughing at me on public transportation. No one will be buzzing about what’s happening on the soap opera that’s on tv every night after airing in Mexico four years ago. Most importantly, people will stop asking me if I go to church, which is good because I’ve had it up to HERE with Jesus.

Rebecca, who is my age, plans to attend Makerere next fall, and I was helping her look over her requirements to apply. She sheepishly came up to me and told me there was a problem with her birth certificate. "My dad was in charge of it when I was in school," she said, "and he didn't know which year I was born." It turns out her official birth certificate read February 19th, 1976. I don't know what kind of father remembers the exact day of his daughter's birthday but doesn't even get the right decade, but there you go.