...One is silver and the other's gold.

As I may have mentioned, I’m a bit lonely here in Africa.

Not oh-cruel-world-why-does-no-one-love-me lonely, it’s more of a Saturday-night-and-my-husband-is-watching-sports-(again)-and-I-have-nothing-to-do-(again) lonely. Sigh. The problem is not complex; in fact, the answer is easy – I need girlfriends.
But we’ve been over this.

I must admit; I’m struggling to make friends here, and I’m not exactly sure why. I think I’m a pretty likable person, right? Slightly neurotic, as we’ve established, but some might even call that charming. (Just go with me here.) It’s not that I haven’t met people – I have. I just can’t seem to get over that wall between small-talk and real-talk.

I know that if I give it a chance and stop worrying so much, it will happen eventually. I’m just impatient, and friendships – the kind of friendships I need – don’t happen overnight. I need a friend who I can be both silly and serious with. Who will listen to my secrets and confide in me as well. A friend who knows me, the real me. I need a friend who feels like family.

This week, I have been teased by the temporary presence of one of those kind of friends.

Roger’s best friend, Greg, has been here (from the UK) this week to work at the Joburg Wine Show. Roger and Greg practically grew up together – they met at boarding school when they were twelve – and though I haven’t known Kirsty (Greg’s wife) quite that long, I consider her to be one of my best friends. Sadly, Kirsty couldn’t join Greg on this business trip, so our little group was missing its fourth, but just being around Greg this week has reminded me of what it feels like to have that kind of friend close by.

Greg is one of those people that can talk to anyone. He has ‘the gift of the gab’ as he calls it. But lots of people can make small talk. Greg has the ability to talk to a complete stranger with the same level of comfort and ease that he would speak to his best friend. It just comes naturally. I think that’s part of the reason that no matter how long it’s been since we’ve seen Greg, it always feels like it was just yesterday.

When Roger and I first considered moving to South Africa, Greg and Kirsty were toying with the idea as well. I had visions of Roger and Greg playing golf and watching sports on the weekends while Kirsty and I would lay by the pool or go out to brunch. Greg and Roger would work together, and Kirsty and I would start a fabulous business (I wasn’t exactly sure about the details but it would combine Kirsty’s passion for music and my love of writing). She and I would face the baby question together and maybe one day we’d have a little Melhuish and a little Jarvis crawling around together. This life in Joburg looked good to me. The Melvis family (as we had so cheesily named ourselves once upon a time) would be reunited at last.

But then Greg found a great job with a winery and Kirsty started singing with a local jazz band. They put the idea of Africa on the back burner while Roger and I forged ahead with our plans. It was disappointing, but I already had those visions of me by the pool. Of course it would be much better if Kirsty was there beside me, but hey, I’d still be lounging by the pool right? So here we are. Roger and I in South Africa and Greg and Kirsty in England.

I admit that I still harbor hopes that they will change their mind and decide to give life in Africa a try. I know it’s unlikely, especially now that Kirsty is a budding jazz star (check out her with the band at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTAM9UKozL4 ) and Greg has made himself invaluable at his company. But Greg continues to toy with my emotions by telling me they still think about moving here. It’s still a possibility, he says. There is still hope for the Melvis family.

I’ll keep trying to make new friends here in South Africa, but I’m still hoping that Greg and Kirsty will show up one day with all their belongings, asking if they can sleep on our couch for awhile. I will jump up and down with a resounding "Yes!" because friends like that just don’t come along every day.

So this is my love letter to Greg and Kirsty…Sure, it’s a blatant attempt to lure them to sunny Africa, but can you blame me?

In fact, it reminds me of a nursery rhyme I knew when I was little (or maybe it was a Girl Scout song? I don't know, but that's not the point) –
"Make new friends, but keep the old;
One is silver and the other’s gold."

That’s the only part I remember, but I think it’s the most important part.

My Indian Elvis in Africa

Elvis is not dead. He’s alive and well and – for a short time only – performing concerts in Johannesburg.

Last week, Roger and I went with the fam to see the King – live and in person. Now, I know you’re skeptical (as was I), but I’m telling you; it was amazing. He started with Jailhouse Rock and sang everything from Amazing Grace to Suspicious Minds to In the Ghetto to Hound Dog. It wasn’t until intermission that a friend at our table asked the group if we could tell that Elvis was Indian. An Indian Elvis? I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed. But with the voice and the costumes and the atmosphere (and the wine, of course), our Indian Elvis could have been the real deal. By the end of the night we were dancing in the aisle and singing along, and I was laughing so hard my sides hurt (this, in part, due to my husband’s ‘Elvis face’).

But when Elvis sang An American Trilogy, I wasn’t laughing. In fact, midway though the song I felt tears on my cheeks, and they weren’t tears of laughter. I must admit, the tears took me by surprise. I have as much Southern pride as the next girl, but I’m hardly one to get all emotional about it. I’ve certainly never cried during "Dixie" in the past. So why the tears?

As my Indian Elvis continued to sing about the Southland, it started to make sense. The tears weren’t because "his truth is marching on," no, the tears were for the sense of familiarity the song stirred; for the dozens of times I’ve heard it played at Stone Mountain’s laser show; for the sense of pride in a song about my home. And for just a moment, I could almost pretend I was surrounded by other Americans feeling the same way.

Hearing An American Trilogy in a place so very far from my home was both painful and comforting at the same time. It was painful in that I was suddenly overcome with a longing to be home, to be sitting on the lawn at Stone Mountain on a hot summer night. But hearing the song was comforting too. It was comforting to feel intensely connected to a place so very far away. The song ties me to my home, and hearing it reminded me to take pride in where I come from.

I don’t mean to be melodramatic, but think about it. When you hear the national anthem at a baseball game, I’m sure you feel some small sense of patriotism. You stand in respectful silence while the song is played, but as soon as it’s over, you go back to your conversation complaining about the economy or the war or interest rates or politics. But if you were to hear that same song in a different environment – somewhere thousands of miles away from your home, surrounded by people that don’t share your American heritage – well, suddenly, that song takes on a hell of a lot more meaning.

It doesn’t have to be a song. It doesn’t even have to be something patriotic. It’s anything that reminds you of home. And even beyond that…it’s anything that ties you to something or someone you love. And when that something or someone isn’t around, you cling to whatever it is that strengthens your bond.

For me it’s a song; it’s CNN; hell, it’s even Sportscenter. It’s listening to the Bert Show online. It’s wearing my Vanderbilt Alumni t-shirt or Nikes with my jeans (both very American by the way). It’s holding onto my American accent (despite being made fun of for my ‘twang’). It would be easy to fall into the South African vocal inflections and phrases; it would certainly make communicating a bit easier, but I’m resisting. It’s saying to cashiers and waiters, "Have a nice day." It may be an American cliché to them, but it’s a custom in my part of the world, and I don’t want to abandon it.

Nothing makes you feel more American than living in a foreign country. The phrases, the fashion, the accent, even the attitude – you become hyper aware that the things you say and do every day without thinking make you DIFFERENT from everyone else. They make you American.

I’m American, and in America, that doesn’t always mean much, but here it’s a huge part of my identity. It’s the first thing people know about me, usually before I even open my mouth. I’m introduced as Robyn-the-American.

You can’t always choose what defines you. You’re the funny guy, or the nice girl, or the jock or the drama kid or the mom or the rich guy or the housewife or the single friend or the workaholic or any one of the thousand other identities we use in an attempt to neatly categorize the chaos. We do it instinctively. We can’t help but create labels, assign titles. And now that I live in South Africa, I have been neatly categorized as “the American.”

We can embrace the identity we’re given or reject it, a decision usually influenced by the popularity of the given title. Nobody wants to be the nerdy guy or the fat chick or the dumb kid. Those labels don’t command much respect, but to be honest, neither does my newly designated title. It would be almost understandable if I chose to distance myself from this identity, seeing as – newsflash – Americans aren’t all that popular with the rest of the world. Instead though, I find myself clinging to my American-ness…because it connects me to a place I love.

When I was younger and going to school in England, I remember being embarrassed by the reputation Americans had for being too loud or too demanding, too arrogant or even too friendly. I rolled my eyes at the "typical tourists" when I saw them on the train or at the pub in their baseball caps, laughing too loudly and insisting that surely the bartender could get them a Bud Light.

Now that I’m older, I wear my "Americanisms" with pride. It’s a delicate balance though, to respect a culture and embrace its differences without abandoning the little things that make up who you are. So while I’m immersing myself in South African culture, I’ll continue to say "tom-AY-to" and "y’all." I’ll cry at patriotic songs. I’ll wear my UGA football t-shirt with pride. It’s a way to hold onto my home, my past, my pride. It’s a way of saying, “I may be here, but I still love it there.” My tears at the Elvis concert reminded me of that.

Who knew that an Indian Elvis in Africa could make me feel so close to home?

The 10 Year Game

It’s Monday morning, and as I write this, I’m overlooking the Indian Ocean from my balcony at the Salt Rock Hotel. So, I apologize that I’m a little late with this week’s post…but can you blame me? The weather has been gorgeous – okay, it’s a little windy today (hence me sitting with my laptop instead of on the beach) – but it’s still beautiful. The waves, the sand, the sky...life is good.

I had a birthday this past week. Twenty-eight. Not really a milestone birthday – a ‘zero’ birthday as a friend calls it – but for some reason, I find myself even more reflective than usual. It’s not that the big 2-8 is all that meaningful; no, I’m sure this has more to do with the fact that my 28th year brought some rather big changes. So here I am, starting out on my 29th year of life (which always confuses me because it seems like it should be the start of my 28th year, but it’s not – it’s my 29th – as if I wasn’t stressed enough!) and I can’t help but step back and consider where I am and who I’ve become (I bet you’re scared already).

Me looking particularly reflective!

Today as I evaluate my life – with the waves crashing fifty yards away and the sky blue and my husband’s adoring gaze still fresh in my mind – I feel pretty good about the choices I’ve made, about the person I’ve become. More than pretty good – I feel great. But I would be lying if I said I felt like that all the time – anyone would, I suppose.

When I was in college, we used to play the 10 Year Game. Sometimes it would be the 5 Year Game, but in either case, the game required you to create a story about where you might be in ten years (or five, respectively). Of all my friends, Laura was by far the best at this game; her visions were imaginative and detailed and always entertaining. We could sit for hours, weaving stories about our future selves. My favorite of Laura’s involved her married to a Jamaican doctor (with fabulous dreadlocks, of course), living in a hut on a Jamaican beach where she would wear flowy white skirts and put on plays starring the poor school children in her village. My visions weren’t quite so creative. They usually involved me writing at a magazine or working for a book publisher, living in a big city, and funnily enough, perpetually single. Ironic huh? It wasn’t that I didn’t hope to find my romantic happily ever, it just didn’t seem very likely at the time. But then came Roger – when I was least expecting it. And finding Mr. Wonderful definitely threw a wrench into my plan of becoming the new Carrie Bradshaw. How could I be a bitter single girl when I had stumbled into such a loving, healthy relationship?

Our vision of what our lives will be like is constantly changing. And it’s entertaining to look back at what you once expected, what you once hoped for, and see how much you’ve changed. Playing the 10 year game with Laura over pints at our favorite pub in Leeds, never once did I imagine that I would be sitting on an African beach with my English/South African/American husband revealing my innermost thoughts on the internet for the whole world to see (okay, all five of you).

I’m certainly not where I thought I would be, and if I’m being honest, I’m not exactly who I thought I’d be. I had hoped by the age of twenty-eight that I’d be a little more successful, a bit more assertive, less self-conscious, more decisive, more comfortable in my own skin. But I’m a work in progress, and that’s okay. I may not be where or who I thought I’d be, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes, the surprises are the best part. Because of all the things I could have predicted about my life, I never could have imagined that I would find someone like Roger. And as much as I second guess myself and perpetually question my decisions, the one thing I’ve never questioned is my decision to be with him. The rest is up for grabs, but my marriage – that decision was a good one.

So, things don’t always turn out like you plan. Sometimes they turn out better. One of my oldest and dearest friends went to her ten year high school reunion last weekend, and as instructed, she called me on Sunday to report all the gory details. Of course I was dying to hear about her ex-boyfriend. Was he there? How did he look? What was his wife like? Did she talk to him? Was it weird? Stephanie was generous with the details. Yes, he was there, but no she didn’t really talk to him. As for how he looked – well, thanks to myspace I had a pretty good idea, but apparently the haircut we had already made fun of online was even better in person. As we talked, we came to one conclusion – and I know it’s kinda cliché – but ‘Thank God for unanswered prayers’ (and not just because of the bad haircut).

You can’t predict the future, and yet we keep trying. No matter how far off our predictions may be, we’ll continue to sneak peeks into the crystal ball in the hopes that just maybe we can get a glimpse.

So…what the hell?

If I were to play the 10 Year Game today, I might say that in ten years I will be living near a beach (in America); Roger and I will have two kids (so my mom better be nearby to take care of them); I will be working as a writer, and everyone I love will live within ten miles of me and my disgustingly happy family.

So, pick a town, and let’s get this plan in motion. Ten years may seem like a long time, but if the next ten years go by as fast as the last ten – we could be neighbors before you know it.

(P.S. As for Laura, I think she’s grown out of her fascination with dreadlocks and the only thing she wears to Venice Beach is a bikini and a wetsuit.)

Undecided

Ah, George W. Bush. If a writer is looking for content, our current president offers a plethora of material. Writers across the globe, political and otherwise, are using the pen to either defend or attack (usually the latter) the current American president.

I tend to avoid political material because, well, I’m not particularly politically savvy. I attempt to know what’s going on in the world, but unless I have all the facts, and I mean all of them, I try to avoid debate. Hell, I try to avoid comment. In fact – and I’m embarrassed to admit it – I’ve even avoided voting. The thing is, I’m undecided. The jury’s still out. And in November 2004, it was hung.

I’m indecisive in general, and I think it’s most prevalent when I don’t know all the facts. Sometimes the facts are impossible to know (Which will I enjoy more? The chai latte or the white mocha? Life in America or life in Africa?), but with politics the facts are out there. There seem to be eighteen different versions, but they’re out there. I certainly know better than to take the word of Ann Coulter or Keith Olbermann at face value, but sifting through all those opinions, all those articles, those books…well, even a smart girl like me can get overwhelmed.

It’s no excuse. I routinely beat myself up for not knowing more about the situation in Burma or Darfur, or not having more to contribute in a political debate – especially now that I seem to be representing all of America in my social circle. So I’ve been making an effort to know more. Sure, it’s taking me seven months to get through Barack Obama’s book, but I’m trying. I now drink my morning coffee with milk, sugar and CNN International.

Despite my renewed resolve to be politically aware, I was taken aback last week when one of Sally’s friends made a snide comment that maybe I should tell my president that Nelson Mandela isn’t dead. Huh? Now, I know George W. makes some pretty big mistakes, but really? Okay, he may have accidentally said that Queen Elizabeth II was around in 1776, but surely he wouldn’t say Nelson Mandela was dead…right?

Determined to get to the bottom of this, I googled “Bush” and “Mandela." If he had made a mistake like that, certainly it would be all over the news. Nothing popped up from MSNBC or CNN, but I found the following link to a South African news site.

http://africa.reuters.com/top/news/usnBAN144024.html

You can check it out for yourself, but here is the punch line:

"I heard somebody say, ‘Where's Mandela?' Well, Mandela's dead because Saddam Hussein killed all the Mandelas." Bush, who has a reputation for verbal faux pas, said in a press conference in Washington on Thursday.

I scanned the short article, but it didn’t really clear things up for me. All the Mandelas? What was he talking about? And how did he jump from Iraq to Mandela? I knew there was more to it, but I wasn’t exactly getting it. I needed to know more, because I was sure Sally’s friend wouldn’t be the last South African to comment on my president’s faux pas. I forwarded the link to Darby and Dave. If Bush had made an idiot of himself, I assumed my sister and brother-in-law would know all about it. I also knew that if there was a genuine explanation for his comment, their liberal leanings wouldn’t prevent them from sharing it with me.

My brother-in-law promptly explained his take on the situation, and I’ll try to summarize (just in case it wasn’t obvious to you either):

What Bush was trying to say – though not very eloquently – is that there was no Iraqi equivalent to Nelson Mandela, someone who would rise up and overthrow the Hussein regime in Iraq the way Mandela fought to end apartheid in South Africa. In the quote that is the focus of the article, Bush is saying that Hussein killed any would-be Mandelas. Mandela was put in jail and able to return later to foster change, but in Iraq, an opposition leader like Mandela would have been executed instead of imprisoned.

After Dave’s explanation, I reread the article and felt stupid for not understanding what Bush was trying to say immediately. It seemed obvious. Then again, clearly, most people in my part of the world didn’t understand the analogy either – possibly because the article is somewhat misleading.

It’s unfair, really, how the press can take an isolated comment and turn it into something it’s not. Clearly, the author of that article knew what the president meant by his statement, and yet the article is written in such a way as to leave you thinking George Bush believes Mandela to be dead. It’s also unfair that one comment, taken out of context, can leave a whole nation of people thinking the American president is a complete idiot – and even if you believe he is an idiot (like I said, I’m undecided) – he isn’t an idiot who believes Nelson Mandela is dead.

I’ve since had several conversations about the article – and the explanation, of course. Here I am, a reluctant representative of our country, forced to defend a president who, even after seven years in office, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about. It’s easy for me to simply say “Well, I didn’t vote for him” when asked about his most recent offensive act, but the truth is, I didn’t vote for anyone. And maybe that is the real reason I avoid political debate.

Not this time though. I’m ready to do some research. I’m going to finish Obama’s book. Maybe I’ll plow through Giuliani’s too. I’m going to check out all the candidates. I’m going to pick a favorite; it’s time to pick a team. I’ve grown up enough to know that I will never completely agree with either side, but that doesn’t matter. I still have to choose. I will find out how to get an absentee ballot, and from 10,000 miles away, I will cast my first vote.

It’s time to stop hiding behind my indecision. It’s time to make a choice.

And luckily, I still have a little over a year to make it.