Words cannot express how sad I am right now.

Don’t expect much for the next — whenever.

If anybody wants to e-mail me just to let me know — ‘No, the world isn’t at an end’, I would be eternally grateful.

Kenyan Volunteers

June 15, 2007
I flew to Kenya to begin my placement as a math teacher at an orphanage.

This is about the volunteers I met.

When you volunteer in a foreign country, you put yourself in a position to meet some truly wonderful people — many of whom are fellow volunteers.

Everybody’s there for a different reason. Some are there because they want a summer to travel and figured, hey, why not help others in the process. Some are there because they have optimistic aspirations to change the world. And some, well, some aren’t really sure why they’re there — only that it feels right to be there.

These volunteers come in all shapes and sizes. Many are third-year undergraduates, looking for a summer off before hitting the books one last time. Some are fresh out of high school. Some are in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Doctors and businessmen, scientists and construction workers. Spiritual or faithfully religious. Studious, quiet, or shy. White collar, blue collar, and collars of all different colours.

But there’s usually one common link between these people. One common aspect that makes it so, for the most part, everybody manages to get along.

You see, deep down, these people, they’re all good people.

People with good hearts.

And that’s what makes them wonderful.

As foreigners in a strange land — we stuck together. Walked together, worked together, and ate together.

But most of all, we talked together.

It was fun. Frivolous and inane, but — like when we were young and spent our summer nights at camp — everybody enjoyed themselves silly. We talked about our favourite movies and our favourite music. Embarassing encounters. Politics. Celebrities.

You know, stuff that reminded us of home and the fact that the rest of the world doesn’t actually stop when we’re in Kenya.

Of course, the truly magical thing was that Kenya had brought us all together: half a dozen young adults of different temperaments, different backgrounds, and different beliefs. It’s hard to imagine another situation that would have united us.

There was Daniel from the University of Missouri: spiritual, religious, and contemplative. The two wonderful and inseparable ladies Heather and Amanda from Widener University, both of them sassy and quick to smile.

There was Brett — manic and slightly deranged Brett — a construction worker from Oregon who nevertheless got along famously with the others. Jenny, the Johns Hopkins undergraduate with the easy going charm. Ari, Vanen, and Brianna, the trio of 30-something friends who still managed to fit in with the rest of us.

And then there was Matt.

Matt was likable, curious and kind.

You’d think I’d say more about Matt — but surprisingly, no more need be said.

Matt was like that. Uncomplicated.

So one day, Matt brings home a pair of plain white shoes, vigorously haggled from the local market.

Along with a black permanent marker and a roll of masking tape, he shakes the shoes emphatically in my direction.

“I’m thinking about checkering these shoes black,” he said.

“Huh?”, I said.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be awesome”.

That evening we had dinner with the host family: A creamy ragou, with potatoes and a garnish of beef, drowned in a spicy sauce. Eaten with a mound of ugali and chapati on the side — it was the true staples of any Kenyan diet.

Afterwards, we sat around and chatted amongst ourselves. Matt however, sat there and silently worked on his shoes. First, he meticulously taped the shoes with the masking tape. Then, he coloured each cell with the black marker.

When he finished and held up his creation for all to see, we oohed and ahhed appropriately.

“What a brilliant idea!”, we said.

“I should market these,” he said.

“They’re one of a kind!”, we agreed.

Months Later…

By now, we’d all separated.

I hadn’t been in contact with any of the others — too wrapped up in my own affairs to bother, but I was meaning to write about them. When? I dunno. Later. When I had time.

One afternoon however, I found myself shopping at Primark, a well known clothing retailer in the UK. Think Walmart, but with lower prices and criminally cheap goods.

I stumbled into the footwear section and, as my eyes swept across the endless rows of trainers, loafers, and slippers — I did a double take. There, at the end of the rack were — you guessed it — Matt’s shoes.

No, they weren’t like Matt’s shoes. They were his shoes.

So what did I do? What could I do? Matt was a gazillion miles away, doing — well, doing whatever he did — and he’d never know. But I tell ya, it’d break his heart to see this, it really would.

So I took a picture and returned home to write this article.

But none of this is really about Matt and his spotted shoes. You know that, don’t you? It never was.

This is about the people we meet. Or rather, the people we don’t.

Think about it. How many people pass through our lives without a second glance? Without a second word? Maybe hundreds in a day. Thousands in a week. Millions in your lifetime.

The girl at the supermarket who distractingly bags your groceries. The boy at the bus stop who listens to his iPod. The people at the office. The people at the gym. The list goes on.

We see them, of course. But we don’t really see them. Not in the same way.

Not like in a foreign country, where you find yourself connecting with a handful of volunteers. From Australia and Canada, to New Zealand, America, and Sweden. Doctors, businessmen, construction workers, and writers. People you normally would have never befriended and people you would have never related to.

You take these random people, hailing from different parts of the globe and leading different lives and suddenly — when the collection of people passing through your life has been reduced from the thousands to half a dozen — you begin to see what makes them so special.

And although it’s taken a transcontinental trip and a barrel of vaccinations, you finally figure out why these people are so wonderful.

And why you’ll never look at a pair of checkered shoes the same way again.

Anna Stern was that cute, sassy girl from The O.C. who — god knows why — had a thing for Seth Cohen. Remember? But like all minor characters from the hit teen drama, she suffered a hasty retreat when the writers just didn’t know what else to do with her story.

I just saw her. At the gym, I mean.

No, let me rephrase that.

I saw a much cuter version of Anna Stern with — as the young lads say — a killer bod.

And get this. Her name’s Annie. And she’s from California.

Which totally rocks my socks.

So it’s an hour before midnight. The gym’s totally deserted. All is quiet. Except for the two of us.

And that random, awkward silence every time the iTunes playlist goes between tracks.

I finish my workout, and get ready to ask her for her number.

But then I freeze.

Several years ago…

A wise gym buff once confided in me, “Phil, I never — never ask girls from the gym out on dates.”

“Why not?”, my young, naive self inquired.

“The gym is my sanctuary. Do you know how incredibly awkward things will be if she says “No”? And what if we part on not-so-amicable terms? I like my sanctuary the way it is. I don’t want to ruin that. Do you?”

No I didn’t. And I don’t.

But dude — it was Anna Stern. Except way, way hotter.

It took everything I had to walk away. Everything.

So in this moment of indecisive need, in this crucial moment of weakness, I’m turning to you, dear readers.

I’m asking you — no, begging you — to write in.

Reach out. Pick up a pen, a phone, a keyboard, whatever. Tell me what to do.

I was there buying coat hangers.

The total was £1.59, so I gave the cashier £2.09

She fiddled with the change and pushed back a penny, frowning.

“Did I give you too little?”

“No…it’s not that,” she said, “I just can’t take this penny. It’s…Canadian.”

Her emphasis on the word, ‘Canadian’ gave the impression that she was neither impressed by our easy-going charms, nor our prowess for winter sports.

I didn’t have another penny.

“But it looks the same!” I pleaded.

She shrugged indifferently.

“And you know,” I continued, undaunted, “the Canadian dollar is unusually strong these days.”

She shrugged again.

“Think of it as an investment,” I cajoled.

“Sorry,” she said, her tone indicating that she was anything but sorry. “Don’t you have a penny?”

The next customer in line rummaged helpfully in her pockets. “I have a penny for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it, “And in return for your generous donation, you get this shiny, one-of-a-kind, Canadian penn–”

“–No thanks,” she said quickly.

I shrugged casually. Trying to hide my chagrin and disappointment.

I handed the penny to the cashier. Smirking.

“I’m really trying to infiltrate the British economy,” I whispered conspiratorially. “With Canadian pennies.”

She ignored me.

“Yep. One penny at a time.”

Nope. Nothing. Not even a smile.

She handed me 50 pence and my receipt.

“Thanks,” was all she said.

Tough crowd, these Brits. Really. Tough crowd.

One of the most painful aspects with moving away from home is the fact you have to ‘re-purchase’ things you may have always had stocked in the trusty cupboard back home.

Moreover, moving to a different continent altogether, complicates things a whole bunch.

Because now, when you head to your local supermarket, not only is the layout of the land sufficiently foreign to prevent you from zooming through the aisles (because, baby, when I shop, I zoom), but you find that all your trusted, well-acquainted brands of several years have been replaced by imposters.

And I know it sounds preposterous, but having been born and raised in Canada, I just find any British brands suspicious.

So yes. I will, in fact, stand in front of the laundry detergents section for hours.

Pawing. Sniffing. Prying. Crying if I have to.

Because damnit, if it ain’t got Tide or Cheers on the front, it ain’t to be trusted.

And there had better be a cheery North-American toddler with a perfect, Crest-white smile and grass-stained clothes on the front or I won’t use it. Won’t use it, I say.

How do I know British-made detergents weren’t designed to disintegrate North American clothing and produce awful rashes on the skin of poor trusting (yet gullible) Canadians?

But with the shops closing for the night, I’ll often be pushed and prodded to make a decision.

Of course, seeing the picture above, with my new box of laundry detergent proudly displayed on top of my (admittedly wimpy) pile of clothes, I bet you’re wondering how I decided upon this particular product.

Well, suffice it to say, products I purchase are forced to endure a rigorous selection process.

Here’s how it went down.

First, I looked at the price. Cheap, but not the cheapest. Products a few cents (I mean pence) more expensive than the cheapest are loads better.

Second, there’s a hot blonde on the cover. Obviously, if I wash my clothes with this detergent, hot blondes will find me irresistible.

Third, it smells like lavender. Lavender smells good. A bit girly, but I don’t think the people are quite ready for propane-and-lumberjack scented detergents.

Finally, it says “2 in 1: with fabric softener” on the carton. Clearly, that means you’re getting more bang for your buck. I mean, pound.

I know. Intense. Because that’s how I shop.