The weather is ugly. It is dark and damp. Off and on rain is predicted. My concert has been cancelled. The weather is too iffy and too chilly. That gives me another sloth day, my second in a row.

I was born the same day my aunt, my mother’s older sister, was having her wedding. The hospital was in the town where my grandparents and my aunt lived, the same grandparents who would move to East Boston. My father went back and forth from the hospital to their house to give updates and to have coffee. My aunt complained constantly. He was ruining her big day as she needed sleep so my father ended up sitting alone in the maternity waiting room. When the nurse came in and asked if Mr. Ryan would identify himself, my father yelled about being the only one there and who did she think he was. She announced my birth. My father ran to the hall and saw my mother and me just after I had been born. That was my entry into the world.

From this side of my eyes, I feel young. I also feel lucky at having lived an interesting life. When I was growing up, I had hopes, expectations. The last thing I wanted to be was average, part of the crowd, one of many walking in the same direction. I wanted to follow my hopes and experience the world in different ways than anyone I knew. When I was ten, I made an album of my travels. That I hadn’t been anywhere didn’t matter. I cut out pictures from magazines and travel pamphlets. I described where I’d been and what I’d seen. I even had pictures of airplanes taking me to exotic places. I showed the hotel rooms where I’d stayed. I wrote a travel log on each page. I wasn’t dreaming. I was predicting.

The two years I spent in the Peace Corps in Ghana were the two most important years of my life. Even though I was leaving behind everything and everyone I knew, I was excited to go, but at first I was homesick, unhappy being so far away from home. I didn’t expect that, but I held on, and by Christmas of my first year, Ghana had become my home, my safe place, my cherished place. I was fulfilling the hopes of that ten year old who glued pictures of her travels in her scrapbook.

The afternoon is cloudy and sunny and cloudy again. It is a warm 77°. It is a quiet Sunday. I have no plans for today except to do a few things around the house. I did vacuum downstairs yesterday, but I just noticed the Henry hair is again joining forces in the hall. It is making a concerted effort to drive me crazy.

When I was a kid, I always went to mass on Sunday. Most times I went without my parents. My father ushered at the early mass while my mother stayed home with my sisters. I was never devout. I did the sit, reluctantly kneel down and stand up parts of the service. Enthusiasm wasn’t demanded, only attendance. Sometimes I smuggled in a book. I’d hide it the hymn book and read. I sat in the corners or at the back as far as I could get so no one would notice. I’d stand if the pews were filled , but I couldn’t read my book if I stood in the back. I could read the free pamphlets in the rack on the back wall. Sin and repentance were big topics. I was usually among the first, if not the first, to run up the stairs and out.

Because of my travels, I have a well developed palate. The first thing I learned was not to ask what I was eating. My first unknown meal was in Ghana. Dinner was served in a wide bowl. In it was a lump of something gelatinous surrounded by soup and a bony piece of meat. The dinner was just about the same every night, only the soup changed. Curiosity finally overcame my reluctance, and I asked what I was eating. The gelatinous lump was T-Zed, Tuo Zaafi, the main food in northern Ghana. It was made with water and corn and cassava flour then stirred while boiling. It was not meant to be chewed but just swallowed. I didn’t like it first. I thought it tasteless, but I liked the soup. The meat was goat. Okra soup was my favorite though groundnut stew wasn’t far behind. I didn’t even know okra existed before Ghana. Groundnut stew was peanut stew. It was made with thick groundnut butter, peanut butter to us. I used to add peanut oil to it so I’d have a spreadable peanut butter. I ate other strange foods, but I didn’t care what it was. The best chicken broth came from boiling the head and feet of a chicken. They looked disgusting cooking in the roiling water. I tried them, sort of chewed the toes and head. I didn’t like either.

I ate my first curry in Ghana and my first Indian food. I ate Lebanese food like hummus and tabbouleh with pita bread. I stopped asking what I was eating. I stopped caring. I went by taste, not origin. It was the same after Ghana, everywhere I traveled. I remember eating sketchy meat and more unknown lumps. Some of it tasted good, some didn’t, but I didn’t mind. The tasting is always a piece of the journey.