Time

I spent three years in San Francisco getting calls at dawn from friends (on the East Coast) and family (in Liberia) with no understanding of how time zones work. I was eternally behind, expected to catch up.

Now it is me who is hours and hours ahead of my beloveds.

It's the worst.

By the time you guys are all simultaneously conscious (sometime around noon in Los Angeles), I'm deep in a mixed drink.

Time is an especially nebulous thing in Liberia.

A guy here told me, "If I have to wait three hours for a meeting to start and didn't bring anything to read, that's my own fault. I should have known better." I had no idea how serious he was being.

I'm invited to an event that starts at 1pm. Everyone else is told it starts at 12pm. I arrive at 12:15. No one else arrives until 2:30. I was ready to fault the organizers until I was invited to brunch.

Me: Picking me up?
J: Sure.
Me: When?
J: What time is it?
Me: 12:45.
J: I'll be there in 20 minutes.
Me: Cool.
J: 20 Liberian minutes.
Me: Oh OK. I'll see you in an hour.

(J arrives at 2:06.)

Understandably, then, the second number stored in my phone was for Alpha, a taxi driver described as "brilliant" because he is always, always on time. This is key when the after-hours alternatives are

a) social suicide (having your mother drop you at a party), and

b) suicide (getting on the back of an unlicensed motorbike on a street without rules).

Traffic? In a rush? No problem! You've got options:

a) Get behind the car with Ministry or Presidential plates and cruise through the lane that magically appears in gridlock, or

b) Just drive in the ditch (also known as the sidewalk). Pedestrians don't have rights!

Please forgive me if, when I return to the States, I show up places long after you've left. Or take out a family of five on my way. Force of habit.