Expectations

There's this little frog that tends to hang out by the hinges of my screen door in the evening. I open the screen and it hops onto the tile, waiting for me to unlock the front door. I never let it in and I don't know what it's doing there but I don't mind since this is as close as I've gotten to having a puppy awaiting my return. I look forward to seeing it there.

There are a number of weirdnesses I now expect in Liberia.

If I go to a party, I expect it to be held around a pool, which will inevitably be filled with clothed Westerners come 3am. 

If I'm in a hurry, I expect there to to be five people slowly pushing a jalopy down the one road that goes anywhere.

If I go to a bar, I expect it to have a 180 degree view of the ocean (and, possibly, a stampede of Liberians sprinting to save someone from the vicious current of the aforementioned ocean).

If I go to a restaurant, I expect WiFi, Greek salad and to be able to sit there uninterrupted for six hours whether I order water or lobster. 

If I leave my mother's house on foot, I expect her guards to ask me for a treat I'm never going to return with.

And if I visit friends, I expect their guards to grill me but let the blondes and brunettes skip through. (I must be the only hooker in Liberia in Converse and knee-length shorts.)