Upon Arriving in Washington D.C.

I wrote a few notes about initial impressions of America after so long away:

Customs officials with canines, the officers jumping, hollering, and some some sniffing themselves in hopes of finding clandestine deposits.

I manually bound myself up 60 stairs, receiving looks of disbelief from the mass of otherwise stoic escalator passengers.

Near the top, but before my eyes see what lies over the escalator's horizon, I smell a familiar yet foreign smell: chips - as I know them in Kenya - but this poignant aroma cannot be derivable from deep friend potatoes and salt alone, the way they were prepared in Kenya. After two years of passing densely packed chips shops in Nairobi and the smaller towns I am an expert, and these tasty American morsels are frauds.

I have arrived in the land of intention, where all systems are refined & paradise lost.