Why Africa? There were many reasons, but the main one was that 22 years ago I had worked in Tanzania, falling in love with Africa. One of the last memories, imprinted both on a photograph and memory was a view of of the snow-capped Kilimanjaro from Mt. Meru. I had promised to return, yes, to climb the peak. Many years later, the memory resurfaced, and somehow I hoped to be healthy enough to do the climb when I was fifty. But as 50 approached there were many reasons, and some excuses, not to do the trip. Until I saw the advertisement for the First African Epilepsy Congress to be hosted by Nairobi, which was the closest capital to the Kilimanjaro. Fate was sealed, and in the next few months, we decided to go as a family, including my wife, Luz, and our sons, Miklos and Dani. It would be a long flight and an expensive trip, but one that we would probably do only once in our lives, now that I had already turned fifty and Miklos was off to college. The first leg of the flight led through Detroit; the first time I have seen the city from any angle, but from the air it looked like a castle of towers pitched against the Detroit River. From there we crossed the Canadian marshlands, flying parallel to the eternal sunset marked by the imminent summer solstice. We stopped in Amsterdam, boarding a full flight, where almost half of the passengers were Kenyans, mainly expatriates, judging from their passports. A total of almost 30 hours travel, enough to paralyze anyone below the waste. We were stuck in the four middle seats, without any opportunity to see the landscape below. But when I did peak, we were crossing the African coastline, a steel blue ocean transitioning into a bright shimmering desert. We flew over Egypt, but far from the pyramids or the Nile, then over Sudan and Uganda, before arriving at the Nairobi airport after nightfall.