My host sister knocks on my door and hands me a glass of pale pink-ish orange-ish juice (the same color as the house, my bedroom walls a few shades paler), says “I like you” and walks away. My new name is Aida. My bed sheets are purple with printed flowers. My host brother watches French soap operas in his room wearing blue soccer shorts. My host mom talks on the phone, dressed in white. I hear Wolof from laughing voices of many ages, from many mouths. I hear the night time prayer, notes picked up and scattered by the ceiling fan. I’m waiting for dinner I guess.