Ten days.

Ten days. Seriously? Is it really only ten? I've been back in the US for ten days and South Africa already feels like a distant memory (a very sunny and relaxing memory!). Now, don't get me wrong; I'm thrilled to be back... it's just that my head is spinning. Car? Check. Apartment? Check. Holiday merriment? Check. Next on the list - a wedding in North Carolina where I will be reunited with my college girlfriends, but as soon as I get back, well, that's when my real life begins. And top priority in my real life? Operation Job Search. (And apparently, it's not what you know but who you know, so please shoot me an email if you think you can help your favorite blogger find a writing gig!)

Also on the list in my real life is to figure out how to keep this blog going in a mutually beneficial way. You know, so I can keep pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw and you can keep finding amusement in my nonsense. Don't worry; I'm sure we'll work something out.

But in the mean time, here's to a very happy New Year!
See you in 2009!

'just now'

I’ve been thinking for awhile about how I would wrap up the ‘Adventures in Africa’ chapter of my blog. I thought I would close with a very profound and introspective post that would adequately pay tribute to all that I’ve learned and experienced during my time here in South Africa...

This is definitely not that post.

But I do have just one thing to add.

I don’t think I ever mentioned the uniquely South African phrase ‘just now,’ most commonly used in the broader phrase: “I’ll see you just now.” It confused me at first, but ‘just now’ basically means ‘later,’ however, it’s a bit more specific. Just how specific varies, depending on the context. They also use the phrase ‘now-now,’ which confused me even more. If someone says they’re doing something ‘now-now,’ it means they are doing it sooner than ‘just now’ but not right now. Are you confused yet? I’ve lived here nearly two years and I’m still not sure of the proper usage. But I’m gonna give it a try: I’m leaving now-now. As in, I’m not in the car and on the way to the airport yet, but the time is near.

I’ve spent all day scrambling around my house like a crazy person, certain I’ve got a million things left to do but not exactly sure what. Typical, huh? I think I’m pretty much ready, and yet all the scrambling is distracting me from an all-too-familiar ache in my chest. I hate goodbyes. I’ve said more than I can count in the last few days and I fear the hardest ones are still to come. Connor and Dale, Gary, Bryan and Sally. (Laurel and I cried our eyes out last night and decided against repeating the scene at the airport…she won’t be coming.)

So, I won’t say goodbye. I’ll say “See you just now,” because really, it’s not goodbye. It’s ‘see you later.’ It's 'see you just now.'

Spatially challenged

I should be packing. With five days left until our departure, I should be using this sunny Sunday afternoon to try and bring some sense of order to the chaos that has infected my little cottage. I’m sure getting organized would make me feel better; perhaps I would start sleeping through the night again or resume normal patterns of breathing. Not to mention that the M-I-L will be back in town tomorrow and she will probably have a stroke if she sees my house in its current condition…

But I just can’t cope.

I know. One would think that with all my gallivanting around the planet, I would be an expert packer by now. You’d think that after bouncing from Nashville to New York to London to Louisville to Atlanta to Joburg (and now back again) that I’d be able to take one look at a suitcase and immediately know precisely what percentage of my wardrobe it will hold without going over the airline’s weight limit. And surely I should know by now the best way to send excess baggage. Bring it along and pay for the extras when we check in? Or send it ‘cargo’ on the same flight? Perhaps DHL or FedEx would be better? Or what about those oversized containers that can be shipped across the globe (just as long as you don’t need the contents of said container for about six months)? Or would it be cheaper (not to mention more fun) to simply buy new things upon our return?

Obviously, I’ve gone through my clothes and weeded out the pants that don’t fit right, the top with the red wine stain, the sweater with the tiny hole…but no matter how many times I go through my closet, the contents don't seem to shrink! For some reason, I’m completely incapable of letting go of the red leather jacket my sister gave to me on my 21^st birthday. So it’s probably out of style and it's definitely seen better days, but I still love it! And sure, I’ve only worn it a handful of times in the last two years, but it gets a little colder in Atlanta than it does here, so I’m sure I’ll wear it again once I’m back in a cooler climate. I can’t possibly leave it behind. And yes, that trendy aqua top hanging in my closet still has the tag from my drycleaner in Atlanta pinned to the label, but I’m sure I will wear it again once I’m back home. It was just a bit too fancy for my laid back South African lifestyle. But maybe I should try it on again just to be sure it still looks good on. In fact, maybe I should try it all on and then make my final decisions. But trying everything on only gets me so far. I start to rationalize that while perhaps these jeans are slightly tight, I’m sure I’ll lose five pounds after the holidays, right? Yes, I should take these too.

I know. I have a problem.

And then there’s my husband. Roger takes one sweeping look at his cupboard; he removes an armful of shirts and pants and quickly divides them into ‘pack’ and ‘toss’ piles. He proceeds to start folding the ‘pack’ pile but I interrupt to question some of his choices. I mean, is now really a good time to be throwing out the ‘wrinkle-free’ and ‘easy care’ shirts? Unless we’re sneaking Sheila into our luggage, I’d rethink a few of those choices, I tell him. He cedes the point and trades a few non-iron shirts from the 'toss' pile for a few regular shirts in the 'pack' pile. He then proceeds to fold up the ‘pack’ pile, shove them in a few vacuum-pack bags and drop them into one of the seventeen suitcases currently scattered around the cottage. It takes him about a half-hour.

Meanwhile, I’ve just finished trying on every article of clothing I own and am now sitting on the bed in tears. One minute I want to throw ALL of it away and the next I can’t find one thing I can possibly leave behind. So I put on the only article of clothing I’m definitely not ready to pack just yet – my swim suit – and take my copy of Breaking Dawn out to the pool where I can prolong my denial. As long as I’m sitting out in the sunshine, there is still the possibility that there will be plenty of room for me to take my entire wardrobe (including all nine hundred pairs of shoes), the wok I've formed an irrational attachment to, the vase and plates I hauled over from Atlanta, the stacks of books lining my shelves, the pretty bowl Laurel gave me on my birthday last year, the CD's, DVD's, the picture frames, the pretty glassware... Yes, while I’m out here by the pool, that all seems possible. Especially for someone as spatially challenged as me. I have no idea what will fit and what won’t until I’m actually packing. Which is obviously why I can’t cope.

So here I am, still by the pool, squinting into the screen of my laptop (and eager to get back to Bella and Breaking Dawn…no comments about my teeny bopper taste in literature), but at least my blog is the one thing on my to-do list that I can manage without bursting into tears.Yep, it’s gonna be an interesting week…

Miserable Moose, Part 2

I’m starting to think I’m not the only member of my family who might be in need of prescription happy pills. Poor Moose, he’s not taking the news of our upcoming move well at all, and I suppose it’s our fault. We didn’t exactly sit him down and break the news gently. Instead, Moose’s understanding of our immediate plans for the future seemed to come the day that Roger dug the dreaded crate out of the cellar to measure it for the airline. The appearance of the crate conveyed to Moose what our words didn’t, and ever since he spotted the tiny animal jail cell, Moose has been a basket-case.

Baby Moose!

In the words of my nephew: “Moose is not a normal dog.” It’s true. Moose is not your average mutt, and he never has been. He came to live with us when he was just five weeks old. His mother’s owner had dumped the whole litter off at a backwoods rescue shelter almost as soon as they were born, when they were far too young to be away from their mother. Is it any wonder the little guy has issues? The first oddity we noticed was his tendency to ‘suckle’ on a blanket. As a puppy, Moose would comfort himself by gathering up whatever towel or blanket was nearest and shoving as much of it in his mouth as possible and sucking. Sometimes he would use his paws to 'pad' either side of the part he was suckling, almost like he was nursing. Weird, I know, but kind of sadly sweet too. He acted so independent so much of the time, and his strange suckling was the only clue he might not be as tough as he seemed.

After two years of finding holes in my favourite duvet covers and chenille throws (for Moose’s suckling was quite intense), he seemed to be growing out of his unusual habit. Roger and I were relieved – not only because we were tired of replacing blankets (not to mention the odd t-shirt or pair of jeans from the laundry pile) – but because at times we worried Moose would suffocate himself or choke on the fabric. So we were pleased when we realized Moose was suckling less and less often, until eventually he wasn’t suckling at all.

Until recently, of course.

I certainly don’t need a dog psychologist to spell it out for me. Still, when Roger went to get Moose's import papers signed, he mentioned it to our vet, affectionately known as ‘Basically Speaking Darryl.’

“Basically speaking,” says Basically Speaking Darryl, “Moose is a very perceptive dog, and basically speaking, I’m sure that he’s aware of the change that lies ahead. Basically speaking, of course.” (I’m not even exaggerating. I'm kind of going to miss Basically Speaking Darryl.)

It breaks my heart that our impending move is causing so much stress in Moose's life. I wish I could soothe his fears about the long flight, but the truth is: It's gonna be pretty miserable. And while I would love to promise him that life will be better back in Atlanta, I'm really not so sure. As much as I know moving home is the best thing for Roger and I, I'm not as certain about Moose. Here in Joburg, he has a yard; he has a cat girlfriend that he adores; he has a constant human companion in the maid and the gardener and usually the M-I-L. But in Atlanta, he’ll probably be in an apartment all day on his own. We used to think he liked his solitude (after all, he acted so uninterested in us when we came home from work, what were we supposed to think?), but after living here and seeing him follow the M-I-L around and play with the cat all day, well, now I’m not so sure. I feel guilty about taking him away from all this, but what can we do? He’s our baby! He belongs with us.

Still, I can’t help but feel guilty. So guilty, I’m afraid we might have to get him a cat, and as you know, I hate cats! It’s a good thing Moose can’t actually talk because who knows what else he could get out of me at this moment of guilt-fuelled weakness. I’ve already promised him scrambled eggs every Sunday. Now a cat. What’s next?

I know, I'm pathetic, but if the memory of this image wouldn't pull at your heartstrings, well you're a bigger person than I am...

The Best of the Bush

My last trip to the bush as a South African resident was completely incredible. Hot. But incredible. Seriously, it was around 40 degrees Celsius, and while I can’t tell you exactly what that converts to in Fahrenheit, just trust me when I say…HOT. And no electricity so no air conditioning…HOT. We lived in the pool despite the fact that it felt like bathwater. And although Roger inquired about sleeping in the pool, the four of us actually slept on the screened-in porch, despite the fact that lions were spotted roaming very close to the house (which did NOT have a fence around it). It was amazing to hear the lions roaring in the dark. One night, after the boys had gone to bed, Carol and I took the truck out by ourselves to see the lions mating on the plain, just a couple minutes from the house. Have I used the word incredible yet? Because it was. And not just the lions, but the elephants too. And the spotted hyenas and their pups, a curious giraffe, a playful hippo, and thieving baboons. (Check out the picture of the monkey eating a bread roll stolen from our very closed picnic basket!). It was tons of fun. Being in the bush…being with friends…add it to the list…

Mark and Carol at the pool
Scary hyena! It came right up to the truck!!!!
Thieving monkey at the pool.














Playing Big 2.
I win. Well...sometimes I win.

You can barely see him here, but this is the home of Hip-hop Thomas (the hippo)......and there's that sky again.

There's just nothing like the African bush.

An African Thanksgiving, Part II

For weeks now, I've been telling myself that I wasn't going to do it. I mean, sure, it was kinda fun last year - as a novelty - but is it really worth the trouble?

Apparently, yes.

I can't even blame the M-I-L really. Sure, it was she who said "Oh, come on, Robyn, it's only as much trouble as you make it," which, to a more sensitive person, might have seemed like an accusation that every time I host an event I make it into a big fricking deal. Hmmm. But no, me being the calm, cool, and confident girl that I am, I didn't take it that way. No, I took her comments as a very thoughtful observation that it's an American holiday and it's in my patriotic nature to celebrate, so I might as well do so in a way that doesn't stress me out and yet allows me to enjoy the traditions I'm used to.

So that's what I decided to do.

And despite the fact that I still have the same number of bowls and chopping knives as I did last year (um, that being one), I think I managed to prepare a pretty impressive (and yet stress free) feast for eight. Yes, eight. Me, my beloved, his mum and dad, the brother and sister-in-law and their two adorable brats. I cooked a turkey, spinach and artichoke casserole, roasted butternut squash, seven-layer salad, and a pecan pie. And the M-I-L provided roasted potatoes. And never let it be said that I don't appreciate the M-I-L, because her roasted potatoes are a-may-zing. Seriously, it was good stuff.

And once again, I made the whole fam go around the table and announce what they were most thankful for. And we only broke into tears once. Or twice. I can't be sure...the wine might've had something to do with it.

I have to say, I think we Americans are onto something. Thanksgiving is by far the Best Holiday Ever. Think about it...yummy food without the pressure of presents... a chance to remember all that we're thankful for and to enjoy it with friends and family...what could be better than that?

So once more, here I am, across the many miles, attempting to express my thanks to all of you for your ongoing love, support, and friendship. Thank you. I am truly blessed.

Oh, and I should probably mention that tomorrow I'm off to the bush. The real bush. Yes, apparently, just as I'm about to leave this fine country, I've been invited to join the ranks of real South Africans. Because tomorrow I leave for the real bush. As in, not a five star luxury resort in the middle of the jungle type thing. As in, no electricity, no fences. As in here-are-your-malaria-tablets-but-if-you-
get-eaten-by-mosquitoes-that's-the-least-of-your-worries type bush. Yes, it's all very exciting...and here I go.

But I'll be back sometime next week.
Hopefully.

Cool Aunt Robyn

Okay, so they don't exactly call me that. But check out the letter below (you can click on it to make it bigger), and obviously, I am Cool Aunt Robyn (except for the whole abandoning-my-niece-on-the-day-
before-her-tenth-birthday thing...Ouch).

The weekend was a blast…High School Musical 3, the Wild Waters water park, School of Rock and Space Camp on DVD, American Idol on XBox, brownies, pizza…yep, Roger and I are a pretty cool uncle and aunt, if I do say so myself. But we don’t do it to be cool. We do it because we love these kids more than words can express. (Who am I kidding? We also do it because HSM and water parks and XBox and brownies are some of our favorite things too!)

For me, leaving Connor and Dale (and their parents) will without a doubt be the hardest part about leaving South Africa. But I am comforted by the fact that Roger and I have formed lasting bonds with these incredible kids, and they know that they are always, always welcome in our home, no matter where that home is. I’m already envisioning them as teenagers, coming to spend the summer with us, ready to see as much of America as we can show them. I look forward to that day and I pray that they will feel as comfortable with us then as they do now. Because I don’t want to lose the closeness, the comfort with each other that we currently share. I don’t want to become the far-off aunt or simply, the American relative.

But I don’t want to be the distant South African aunt to my niece and nephews in America either…especially not to the upcoming Chicago arrival. No, as much as it breaks my heart to leave Connor and Dale, I know that it’s time to go home...

But that doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

The Fate of the Blog

So, I started to put my blog on the list of things I will miss about living in South Africa, but then I decided against it, because I haven’t quite decided if the end of my time in Africa will be the end of the blog. I mean, obviously, the blog can no longer be about my “Adventures in Africa,” but then, the blog hasn’t always been about Africa anyway. Couldn’t it just as easily be Adventures in Atlanta? Probably…

But then I consider what that would mean, and I’m not so sure. The blog serves as a kind of journal for me, and at times, I reveal way too much information in this very public space. And that’s fine as long as I’m writing from the opposite side of the planet. While I’m 10,000 miles away, I can post about my insecurities and issues without having to worry about a colleague mentioning it to me the next day at work, or worse, running into an old boyfriend and having him bring it up in our local Kroger. Do you know what I’m saying? It would just be…weird. So, then I think, well, I’ll keep writing, but perhaps I need to filter my thoughts and censor my subjects a bit more. But then I wonder if the blog will still be worth reading if I’m coloring everything rosy. I don’t know.

And if my personal life is off limits, will I have anything remotely interesting to say once I’m back in the good ole US of A? While I don’t really think living in Africa has made me all that interesting, it’s kind of made me seem interesting…at times anyway (Maybe? Go with me here). I mean, I could always count on a post about crime in Joburg or South African politics or photos from a trip to the bush if I was drawing a blank for subject matter. But what happens when I’m living in normal every day America again? What’s my hook? My theme?

I have several friends who blog, but most of them have babies. Babies are a good solid topic for a blog. They’re cute. They do funny things. People like to see photos and video clips. Now obviously, I don’t have a baby. But maybe I could borrow a baby and start a fake mommy blog. (What do you think D? A baby blog for Borisa???)

I don’t know. Logic tells me to stop blogging, but I think I kind of need it. Is that pathetic? Sure, at times it’s a pain in the ass and I don’t really feel like writing anything, but I continue to do it because – well, I guess I take pride in it. Of course, it’s a source of embarrassment too – kind of in the same way that you want people to come and see your play even when you’re cast in the role of a fat old lady. Sure, you look ridiculous, but you’re still kinda proud and want people to watch.

And as long as I’m using the theatre metaphor, I think for me, writing the blog is a bit like community theatre must be for someone who once-upon-a-time had dreams of being a movie star. Does that make any sense? I don’t mean to say that I’m giving up on the idea of publishing a novel, but after a year of trying to research agents and publishers, I’m a bit more realistic about the likelihood of it actually happening. That being said, I’m not sure I have to publish a novel to fulfill my dreams of being a writer. As long as I have a handful of people who want to read my random stories in the form of this blog…well, that might be more than enough for me.

So I guess you can tell which way I’m leaning…but I’m not ready to make the commitment just yet. I mean, once I have a real job again (please God, let me get a real job again!) and resume my former life, will I actually have time to sit around and pontificate in the blogosphere?

I guess we’ll both have to wait and see…

Still Lucky

Okay, so I know I said I was lucky. And I am.

And I know after last week, I should be feeling inspired and hopeful and basking in the we-are-the-world glow. And I am.

Seriously, I am.

But that’s all Big Picture stuff. The small picture has me feeling stressed and irritable and…dare I admit it? Downright bitchy.

It’s true. Even nice girls like me can be a bit, well...less than nice. Just ask my so-damn-patient-he-deserves-a-medal husband.

Let me preface this by saying that I adore my husband. Seriously, 99.9% of the time I feel like I’ve won the lottery because I’m married to this amazingly funny, sweet, and insightful man. It’s a bit disgusting actually. It’s just that lately…

Well, it’s not that Roger has done anything wrong, per se, but the overall tension surrounding our situation is causing a bit of...well, tension. Here we are, living in this foreign country, and all my fears about the currency not being stable and the job being too-good-to-be-true have suddenly become a reality. Now, honestly, despite the miserable exchange rate and the job and even the crazy in-laws…I certainly don’t regret coming here. I’m all about experiences, and this has definitely been one for the record books. Well, my record book anyway. I look back at all my blog entries and see that I’ve managed to compose a rather lengthy story about this time we’ve spent in Africa…and I’m pretty damn proud of that.

So where was I? Oh yes, the tension. While I don’t regret moving here, I'm definitely a bit stressed about moving back. Looking for a job is tough in the best of times, and let’s face it – these are not the best of times. I'm aware that spending endless hours on monster.com and working on the twenty-seventh draft of my cover letter doesn't exactly make me the most pleasant person to be around. And I know that my stress affects my mood and my mood affects my husband, but what can I do? I can’t help it!

But I have to… help it, that is.

Because my husband is amazing. And he doesn’t deserve to get the brunt of my angst. Now fortunately, being the saint that he is, he’s somehow capable of pointing out my shortcomings in this regard without sending me into a tirade. Miracle, I know. In fact, just last week I was snapping at him (probably about something extremely offensive, like him forgetting to put the clothes in the drier, again), and Roger interrupts me in a stern yet gentle tone:

“Robyn, you can’t do this,” he says so calmly that I kinda want to punch him in the nose. “You know how people are always saying that marriage is hard? And you know how you and I are always laughing at them and saying they're crazy? Well, this is what they are talking about...THIS is the hard part! And we have to continue to be nice to each other…even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Um - gulp - okay.

The urge to punch him in the nose vanishes, and I suddenly want to curl up in his comforting arms. Because he’s right. He’s SO right. It doesn’t happen often, but he is completely, one hundred percent right.

Roger and I haven’t really been tested in our eight year relationship - and I’m not saying this is a huge test - but it’s the roughest waters we’ve seen so far. And while at times it might be tempting to jump overboard, I am clinging to the rock solid ship that is my husband. Because we're in this together. He knows me and loves me and would do anything to make me happy. And I’d do the same for him. So we will forge ahead in these rough waters. We will find a way to say goodbye to our family here in South Africa. We will start the process of moving our lives (and our Moose) back to America. We will begin the search for jobs and apartments and cars back home. And it will be okay. Because we have each other. And because of that, we are truly lucky. I’d say we're blessed, but I’ve always felt those words somehow imply that we've earned it or that we deserve it, and I can assure you – we don’t.
We’re just lucky.

An ongoing list...

What I Will Miss about Life in South Africa

1. Thunderstorms. I haven’t even attempted to describe the storms here, because no words could do them justice. Dramatic. Menacing. Awe-inspiring. And just to heighten the whole experience, we go all winter without a single storm, and then suddenly, one early October evening, the sky explodes. Truly Awesome.

2. Nandos. One extra-hot chicken wrap with peri-peri chips and a Coke Light. My mouth will still be on fire long after we've left the country.

3. That Darn Cat. I admit it, Tigerlilly has grown on me. I'm still not a cat person - and her paw-prints on my table continue to drive me nuts - but I will miss her sweet face and the way she flirts with Moose and how good she makes me feel when she chooses to come hang out with Roger and me over the M-I-L (thus allowing me some vindication for the fact that my dog still chooses the M-I-L every damn time). Yes, I will miss that cat.

4. Biltong. My favorite South African snack…like beef jerky but way better.

5. Cheap movies. 16 Rand for a movie ticket. At the current exchange rate, that’s $1. 57. I know! Shelling out ten bucks (or is it eleven now?) at Atlantic Station will be truly painful (but having access to real popcorn will make it so worth it!).

6. Time. As you know, my job here has allowed me a flexibility that I certainly won’t have upon my return (assuming I find a job upon my return). It’s been both a blessing and a curse. Too much time to think (um, obsess) has never been particularly good for my mental state, but having time to relax…well, that’s something I got used to pretty quickly. Spending an entire Saturday reading a good book. Lounging by the pool. Wasting time watching TV or trolling the blogosphere. Going to the gym midday. It’s been nice to simply have Time.

7. Sheila. I will certainly have a rude awakening when I move back to the States and am forced to rekindle my relationship with the iron and the toilet-brush, because for the past year and a half, those less-than-pleasant chores have been carried out by Sheila. She is a saint who has made me feel like a true lady of luxury.

8. Being the American. I'm sure this one will also make the list of things I won’t miss about living here, but what can I say? At times I really like being the foreigner. Other times I hate it. But I know once I’m back in the US, I will miss the brief period of my life when I was considered exotic and mysterious because I came from a far and distant land…okay, so I seriously doubt anyone has ever thought of me as exotic or mysterious, but in my memory, they did.

9. Girls lunches. While I had some initial complaints about my lack of girlfriends in South Africa, my sister-in-law was quick to welcome me into her fabulous circle of women. Every few months, nine or ten of us get together for an all day ‘lunch’ involving copious amounts of champagne and an embarrassing playlist alternating between Neil Diamond and Abba.

10. The Jolly Roger. Yes, our local pub is named the Jolly Roger. And if that’s not reason enough to love it, it also has the Best Pizza Ever. I always order the Picasso which comes with bacon, avocado, banana, and mushrooms. I usually ask them to add pineapple too. So yummy.

11. Running. Yes, I’m sure I’ll continue running when I’m back in the States, but it won’t be the same. I probably won’t have the time to spend six or seven hours a week pounding the pavement and I definitely won’t have the gorgeous setting of the Joburg Botanical Gardens or Zoo Lake. I will definitely miss the sights and sounds of running around my little corner of Joburg.

12. The African Sky. This picture says it all.


13. Our cottage. Yes, the location isn’t ideal (right in the in-laws' back yard), but the cottage itself is cute and comfy and has been just right for Roger and me.











14. Woolworths. I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I've spent nineteen months pining for my Edgewood Kroger, but I will actually miss my grocery store here in South Africa. Woolworths is a chain grocery/department store – kinda like Target, but on a much smaller scale (and not nearly as cool). Still, with its genetically engineered produce that never-ever goes bad and the yummy Woolworths brand vanilla yogurt and their pre-made soups and sushi and sandwiches...I've come to love my neighborhood Woolworths. I will even miss how everyone calls it “Woolies” though the word always felt silly on my tongue.

15. My South African family. Gary and Laurel, Connor and Dale, even Bryan and the M-I-L. Living here, I've come to know their quirks and passions and strengths and weaknesses, and it's made me love them on a whole new level. They’ve become a part of our every day lives and there's a not-so-small part of my heart that is already beginning to ache just thinking about saying goodbye...so I won't think about that now. I'll end my list here - for the moment.
I'm sure I'll have more to add as the weeks go on...

I don't know.

As I'm posting this, the polls haven't even opened in America yet.
But they will soon.

I don't know who will win. Based on early polling, I can guess, but I don't know. There is a lot I don't know about this election. In fact, I don't even know if the man I voted for is the best choice. I think so. I hope so. But I'd be lying if I said that the barrage of emails and articles calling him a thief and a liar and a socialist haven't caused me to second-guess my once blind faith. Not enough to make me want to change my vote (I mailed in my absentee ballot over a month ago), but enough to make me say "I don't know."

I value those three words. And I say them a lot - especially when it comes to politics. Now, to say "I don't know" doesn't mean I'm undecided, it just means I'm open to the possibility that the other side has some valid points. It means I'm not 100% certain. It means that I won't discount the opinions and beliefs of people I respect simply because they vote one way in this election and I vote another.

This time last year, I made a commitment to figure out what I think politically. I'd never voted before, and I was ashamed of that fact. So I did a lot of reading - much of it on the web and written by those "liberal media elites," but much of it from my in-box and written by whoever the opposite of those "liberal media elites" are. I've only scratched the surface, I know that, but I think I've managed to learn a lot about American politics in the last year. At the very least, I've discovered the main differences between the ideologies of Republicans and Democrats, and based on my personal ideology, I think I've figured out which team suits me best...

Now, even having made that decision, I continue to question my beliefs. I consider myself well-educated and relatively well-informed, but there is still just so much that I don't know...I'm not sure I'll ever feel 100% confident that I've made the right choice. That being said, I'm constantly amazed at how many people can be so very certain about their political beliefs. They have no doubts. They just know that they are right. (And when I say "right" I don't necessarily mean "Right." I think both parties are equally full of self-righteous know-it-alls who condescend to anyone with an opposing opinion).

I'm slightly envious of those people who "know" they are right, but I'm suspicious of them too. Because complicated issues are never that simple. There are always grey areas. We can't know everything, and we can't always be right. That's something I do know. In fact, the first politician to come out and really admit he doesn't know something...well, that's the one who has my vote. Oh wait, didn't McCain admit he didn't know much about the economy? And didn't the Obama people hold it over his head for the entire campaign? Hmmm...maybe the phrase "I don't know" isn't so good coming from a politician. I guess it's okay for me not to know, but I suppose I expect the next president to know. Am I one big contradiction or what?

Well, there goes my promise not to talk politics, but to not talk about it - today at least - well it would be like ignoring the elephant in the living room. Or the donkey.

Happy Voting!

Lucky

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

Well, that’s what it feels like anyway. It’s easy to get caught up in all the gloom and doom. There’s simply no escaping the barrage of negative information about the war, the economy, the next American president (whoever that may be). I feel hopeless. Stressed. Depressed. I pine for the days when I was mildly medicated. I start to think it’s time to call my favorite child psychiatrist and request a new prescription…

But then I take a step back. I see the man I wake up with every morning and I can’t help but smile. Then I look around me at the people here in South Africa who I’ve come to know and love over the past nineteen months. I open my inbox and feel the love from friends and family around the globe. I take notice of the roof over my head, the food in my fridge, the cash in my wallet. True, there’s a little less cash than there used to be, and I’m more aware of the cost of those groceries in my fridge…but for the moment, I’m okay.

In fact, I’m more than okay. I’m lucky. To quote the lyrics of this cheesy pop song you’re hearing:
(Yes, thanks to Erin's blog, I've finally figured out how to add music!)

Lucky I’m in love with my best friend.
Lucky to have been where I have been.
Lucky to be coming home again.

Oh, didn’t I mention that?

It's true; we’re coming home. For good. When Roger and I come home for Christmas, we’re coming home to stay. (The photo below was Roger’s idea for a “going home” photo to contrast the “going to Africa” photo at the top of my blog. He’s such a dork…but of course, I went along with it so what does that say about me?)
Obviously, I’m thrilled to be moving back. But I’m scared too. And stressed. And maybe even a little bit sad.

I’m happy to be coming home - I am - but I’m terrified that I won’t be able to find a job in this miserable economy. I’m nervous about finding a place to live, about buying a new car. I’m frustrated that the South African currency is tanking at the exact moment I need to exchange it for dollars. And then of course, I’m also feeling sad and slightly guilty about the loved ones we're leaving behind…

I know; I’m like that character on TV who you kinda hate but can’t stop watching. I spend months pining to go home, and now that I’m getting what I want, I’m acting like it’s the end of the world. You want to smack me. And that’s okay, because I want to smack me too. That’s why I’m confessing.

I realize that I’m focusing on all the wrong things. The fact is, in seven weeks, Roger and I will be home again. Ready to start yet another adventure together. And if I’ve learned anything in the eight years I’ve known Roger, it’s that as long as we’re together, we’re gonna be okay. In fact, we’re more than okay.

We’re lucky.

Blogapalooza: The Curse

Isn't the blogosphere fabulous? Just when I was feeling like my social life was a bit sad, I've been invited to a party! And you're invited too. In the spirit of Halloween, travel writer Angela Knickerson of the blog Just Go! is encouraging her readers to share their scary or strange journeys at a blogapalooza party. So after you read my scary and strange tale, check out Just Go! where you can link to the other party participants. Just be sure to have nice manners and leave a comment when you read something you like. Happy Halloween! (photo courtesy of eraut on flickr)

The Curse
It was a dark and stormy night…in a far and distant land…one man wakes from his bed and bravely opens the door of his tent. But with his first step into the desert, he leaps backwards. His foot has landed in something slimy. Something squishy. Something…pink? He leans toward the mysterious item. Using the toe of his shoe, he flicks the offending object out of the path. Still unable to make out what it could be, he takes a lighter from his pocket and creeps towards it. The small flame gives just enough light to make out the mysterious blob and confirm his worst fears. It is…a raw chicken breast. There is no escaping it now. The group of travelers has fallen under the Curse of the Raw Chicken Breast.

If you’re a regular reader, you already know that my journey through India was both spectacular and strange. The cows, the Eastern toilets, the high-viz massage, the locals…but strangest of all was this Curse of the Raw Chicken Breast. It appeared outside of our tents in the middle of the night, only to be discovered by my brother-in-law in the wee hours of the morning. Overwhelmed with fear and confusion, the four of us debated what it meant for us. Why had we been singled out with this strange curse? And what ill fortune would it bring? We spent the remainder of our journey inquiring of the locals as to what it meant – to have a raw chicken breast lain at your doorstep. But of course, they feigned ignorance, pretending the question was odd. One taxi driver even laughed it off, mumbling that Americans had quite the imagination…but we weren’t fooled. They were clearly conspiring against us, but we knew we’d been cursed.

Once home, I continued to research what the mysterious chicken breast could symbolize. A google search turned up nothing, but I persevered, researching Eastern legends and folklore only to come up without answers. I became obsessed by the curse, suddenly seeing the raw chicken breast as the possible reason for everything going wrong in my life – from an unsightly zit to a traffic fine! It was at this point I realized that perhaps the very point of the curse was to drive the cursed one mad with suspicion and curiosity!

So now I put it to you, my readers. Give it to me straight…what do you know about the Curse of the Raw Chicken Breast? Use whatever means available to you (if only your imagination) but give me some answers!

Alison in Africa

After ten days of gallivanting around South Africa with two of my favorite people, I'm happy to report that despite my frequent whining, I still love this country. Spotting giraffe in the bushveld, tasting South African wines at the vineyards, experiencing Table Mountain, seeing where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic...there is much to take your breath away in South Africa.

Of course, even had we not been surrounded by incredible beauty, I have no doubt that Alison, Roger and I would have still had a blast together. The three of us could've spent all our time in Soweto playing Gin Rummy and still have had the Best Week Ever.

Now I don't want to go on and on and make you too jealous, but of course I have to share a few pictures, you know, just so you don't feel left out.

Here we are in "the bush."

And before we get to the Cape Town pics, a quick anecdote.

So, we drove back from the game reserve on Monday afternoon, and Roger dropped Alison and I off at the African Craft Market on our way back into town. Roger told us to call him when we wanted to be picked up; he was headed back to the house for a short reprieve from all the estrogen.

Of course, while we're shopping, the power goes out. Typical. We abandon the souvenir shopping for a quick lunch at an outdoor cafe - ordering one of the few items on the menu that the kitchen can make without electricity.

"It's just like you said on your blog!" Alison says as we make our way back through the dark mall to the place where Roger will pick us up. "Robyn doesn't lie," I say, shaking my head with a smile. (Why I'm speaking in the third person I'm not sure.)

Oh, but wait...because this isn't the only time Alison will utter that sentence today.

We get back to the house to discover the Laundry Nazi has struck. Alison is amazed to discover that the M-I-L has ransacked her suitcase to liberate the dirty laundry. Now, of course she was trying to be helpful (even I can see that), but when Alison inquired if it would be acceptable for her to go upstairs and rescue a few items from the drier, I had to answer honestly. Hmmm. How did I put it? Oh yes, it was something like: "Alison, you're my BFF and I'd do anything for you...but nobody interferes with the Laundry Nazi."

"Wow," Alison said for the second time that day, "It's just like in your blog!"

See? Robyn doesn't lie.

Now, onto the Cape Town pics...




















Alison climbing up to Cape Point.















At the Simonseg wine farm.













Too much wine, perhaps?















Silliness on Table Mountain...must be something in the air up there.




























Overlooking Franschoek.

Beautiful! Gorgeous! Wish you were here...
And now you practically were.

Welcome Alison!

Eighteen hours is a helluva long time to be in a plane. Trust me, I know this all too well. I also know that the financial cost of spending those eighteen hours in a plane,well, it ain’t cheap. That’s why I haven’t been too upset by the fact that I’ve been here in South Africa for nineteen months and haven’t had any American visitors…until now, that is. That’s right; Roger and I are welcoming our first American guest today. I’m headed to the airport in just a few hours and will be ready and waiting with a big obnoxious sign that reads “Welcome Alison!!!!”

It’s no surprise that Alison is my first guest. In the fifteen years I’ve known her, she’s never turned down an opportunity for adventure. And coincidentally, our adventures have often run parallel. From her road trips to Nashville to visit me at Vandy, to travelling through Europe together, to our shared summer in New York, and of course, when my semester in England was winding down, it was Alison who suggested I extend my stay and meet her in London for the summer (where I subsequently met the impossibly charming boy who would become my husband). Yes, Alison is always up for an adventure. In fact, after her graduation from the University of Georgia, she bravely moved up to Boston where she didn’t know a soul. She decided it would be a cool place to live, so why not? (She soon discovered that it was indeed cool. In fact, so cool it was cold. Freezing actually. Then she came home.) Alison embraces life in a way that inspires everyone around her. That’s not to say she doesn’t stress and worry and take forever to make decisions, but in the end, she chooses adventure every time. And I love that about her.

I’m absolutely thrilled to show Alison my world. Tomorrow we leave for the Wild and Free Game Reserve where we will hang out with the animals for three days. After that, it’s back to Joburg for a night before leaving for Cape Town where we will see Cape Point and Table Mountain and Robben island and of course spend a day in Stellenbosch touring the wine farms. What could be better than that?

So, I’ll be out of action for a week or so. Then again, perhaps I’ll check in once or twice and post a few photos…just to make you jealous of course.

B*tch

Okay. I tried to be someone else for awhile, but it just doesn’t work for me. As hard as I try not to, I can’t help but obsess about who I am and why I am the way I am. And I’m currently obsessed by the nagging fear that I’ve become a bitch.

I know, right?

I mean, I’m a nice girl! People like me! I like people! But not anymore it seems. Now, I only speak when spoken to, and sometimes I don’t even do that. I find myself looking past the people who approach me. Ignoring their requests for help. Brushing them off with an insincere “sorry” or “no thanks.” I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become. She’s an uncaring, unfeeling monster!!!

I don’t mean to be. And I certainly don’t want to be. I blame, at least in part, the fact that I still have a problem understanding the South African accents. I do okay when people speak slowly and e-nun-ci-ate, but really, how often does that happen? And I struggle even more with people whose first language isn’t English but Afrikaans or Xhosa or Zulu. Most of them have a good understanding of English and someone who’s used to the accent can probably understand them just fine, but me, half the time I don’t even recognize that it's English they’re speaking!

I ask them to repeat themselves; I really do try to understand, but how many times can you politely say “Sorry?” and “Excuse me?” and “Would you mind saying that again?” before moving onto a frustrated “What?” and “Huh?” before you just give up? I don’t know! But somewhere in the past eighteen months I have – given up, that is. Because I no longer ask people to repeat themselves I simply say “Sorry” and move on…

A few months ago I was at the mall with Roger and a man approached me. Now, Roger and I always hold hands at the mall – because we luv each other – but also to avoid losing each other in crowds. See, with Roger’s ridiculously long legs and my well, um, not so long legs we tend to get separated if not attached. So we hold hands, but Roger still has a tendency to stay three steps ahead of me, dragging me along behind him like a willful two year-old. (So rude, right?)

I say all this so you know that Roger barely noticed when the man approached me at the mall. Roger was practically in the parking lot and I was still in the lobby when a confused man approached me to say…something. I couldn’t understand him. And as I bounced back to Roger’s side (the man stalled me for a moment, causing me to rebound like a rubber-band back to my husband) I said to him, frustrated, “He needs help, I think!”

Roger read the concern on my face and looked back. I explained that I couldn’t understand what the man was saying but thought perhaps he was lost or needed some other kind of assistance. Roger left me standing there as he went back to the man I’d pointed out. I watched the interaction from the doorway. Roger says something. The man says something. Roger shakes his head and marches back to me, rolling his eyes.

“He just wanted money,” he explains as he takes my hand once more.
“Oh,” I say, feeling kind of silly. “I thought maybe he was lost and I was being rude.”
“I know,” Roger sighs. “But you weren’t.”
“But I might have been.”
“Not likely.”

He’s right. It’s not likely. In fact, most times in this country if one stranger approaches another it’s either to beg for money or pester you to buy some useless piece of crap that they’re selling. That’s why I’ve taken to saying “Sorry,” or “No thanks,” whenever I’m approached. Even if I don’t understand the question. It’s just my instinctual response.

But it makes me sad…and it just doesn’t seem right.

Last week I was running in the neighborhood, and I spotted two men up ahead, standing on the corner by a parked truck. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I have a vision of me being shoved into the back of the truck, kicking and screaming. I wonder how long it will take Roger to realize I've been kidnapped, then I think about how sad he will be without me. Despite all this, I keep running, and just as I feared, the man steps into my path, motioning for me to stop. He's saying something but I can't hear/understand him, so I give my standard “Sorry!” followed by a ridiculous, “I’m…uh…busy!” as I run off.

I continue down the street, relieved by my narrow escape, when I start to process the scene in my memory. The man was holding a slip of paper, and only in retrospect do I suspect that it probably contained an address...for a delivery perhaps? It’s likely that the men were just lost and needed some directions. I should have stopped. What kind of person am I? Why didn’t I just stop? I briefly consider turning back but feel too silly about the whole thing. Plus, in all honesty, there are no street signs around here so while I know the area well, I’d have no idea how to give directions. I keep running.

Now in that instance, accents had nothing to do with it. It’s my newly ingrained fear of strangers that prevailed. And maybe, maybe, that’s not such a bad thing. I don’t know. But I don’t like how it makes me feel about myself. I used to be quite the Pollyanna. Interested in meeting new people, fascinated by the quirks of strangers, eager to offer help to someone in need…but not anymore. Now I feel like a hermit. Unable to communicate with new people and too scared to try. Silly, huh? Is this something that happens to everyone with age, or is this a result of living in a foreign country?

I don’t know. But I miss the old me. Hopefully, she’s still in there somewhere, and I’m making a conscious effort to find her.

Happy Ending

Believe it or not, I try not to use this blog to complain too much about my life here in South Africa. But every good story requires conflict, and I am trying to keep you ‘turning the pages,’ so to speak. That being said, you probably hear a bit more of the negative than is really accurate. So I think it’s only fair to tell you, for the most part, life is good.

Monday after work Roger and I met up with some friends at a neighborhood café. We find a big table outside and order cocktails. Raspberry mojitos. Gin and tonics. Martinis.

“Man, Robyn what’s going on in that country of yours?" someone says. "Thanks to you guys, the JSE (Johannesburg Stock Exchange) is down 30%!”

“It’s scary, huh?” I reply, knowing better than to launch a debate regarding the sensitive subject of what’s happening and why.

“Yeah, times are tough,” someone else chimes in as the waitress delivers our drinks. We wait for her to leave before Roger starts to snicker. The rest of us join in, laughing at the irony.

“Yeah, here we are on a Monday, having cocktails on the patio and ‘times are tough’,” Roger says, pointing out the obvious.

We all continue to laugh, but it feels a bit ominous, like the opening scenes of Cinderella Man, where you see how comfortable everyone was before things got bad.

I’m quite content here in this opening sequence. In fact, I think I’d like to spend a little more time in Act One. But as I mentioned earlier, every story requires conflict, and the first act closes with an event to begin the protagonist’s battle. Then, in Act Two, the hero experiences a crisis followed by an indefinite series of ‘struggles.’

So…what struggles lie ahead? That’s the question of the day, right? How much worse can it get? And how quickly can we get through it? I don’t know about you, but I think I’d like to skip most of Act Two and jump directly to the protagonist’s epiphany, when the hero realizes the need for change, changes, and proceeds to live happily ever after.

Of course, real life doesn’t follow a plot template. Then again, each of us plays the hero in our own life story, and it’s comforting to think that no matter what lies ahead, our story will end with a Happily Ever After. So - in the spirit of the story - as protagonists, I think we have to ask ourselves, what change are we fighting? What can we learn from our struggle? When will we realize the need for change?

Now I’ve promised not to talk politics, and that’s not what I’m doing here. I’m not talking about “Change” in the campaign slogan sense of the word. I’m talking about personal change. Because, just like the characters in our storybooks, each of us has a Flaw and we’re all resisting Change, even when it’s for the better.

Personally, I think I’m still struggling with the “take-my-blessings-for-granted” flaw. I certainly hope it doesn’t take losing everything to learn my lesson, but if this were a real story, that’s probably how I’d write it. So I suppose I should be thankful that my life isn’t a novel, and hopefully, I won’t have to experience the drama of Act Two in order to become a better, more appreciative person in Act Three.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, while I’m scared of what lies ahead, I’m intrigued too. Whatever it is, I feel confident that we will get through it, but I’m on the edge of my seat to see exactly how it plays out…

Geography Lesson

Alright, so I’ve been checking youtube weekly in the hopes that I could find a certain Steers commercial to share with you, but it’s hopeless. Roger says it’s because we’re just getting high-def and digital television here, so it’s not as easy to transfer stuff from television to the internet. So while I was able to find this little gem, no one has managed to post the one I was looking for. That’s why, instead of showing you this perfect example of how Americans are perceived abroad, I’m utilizing my writing skills to describe it.

Here goes:

Two red-neck looking men stand in a crowd watching a car race. They speak in really, really bad American accents. (The first time I saw it, I had to confirm with Roger that they were trying to sound American – it’s that bad.) They’re talking about the new “Biltong Burger” from Steers, a chain fast-food restaurant here in South Africa. Now, biltong is kind of like beef jerky, but seriously, so much better. I know, it sounds gross and girls aren’t supposed to like things like beef jerky, but it’s not and I do. I’m not sure how it would taste on a burger, but probably pretty good.

But I digress.

The two American rednecks go on to discuss that Steers is giving away a trip to the 2009 Indy 500. Very exciting. Then we flash to an image of a tasty biltong burger while an announcer tells you to buy the burger and win the contest (or something to that effect). We flash back to our rednecks in the crowd. And here is (the gist of) what they say:

Redneck 1: So, what’s biltong anyway?
Redneck2: I dunno.
Redneck1: And where’s South Africa?
Redneck2: I dunno…somewhere in Mexico, I think.

ARRGH!!!!

I know. It’s best just to laugh. And I would, if it wasn’t so typical of how Americans are perceived. But stereotypes exist for a reason, and I guess we’ve earned it. So, do me a favor and get out the map, will you? And I’m going to do the same. Obviously, I know where South Africa is, but I’m not exactly great with geography. I mean, I know Pakistan doesn’t border Iraq (sorry, couldn't resist!), but I could still brush up on a thing or two. We all could, and maybe then I could put together a better defense when confronted with such slanderous advertising!

On the other hand, I doubt many South Africans could pick out Illinois or Mississippi on a map, or list the capitals of all the countries of Europe (something Mrs. Burnett taught me in the sixth grade and most of which I still remember!). So, please don't get me wrong, I'm not saying we as Americans deserve to be singled out in this way, but like it or not, we have been, and I'd like to do everything in my power to prove the whole stereotype wrong.

Are you with me?

NOT playing at a theatre near you.

I love movies. And not just the movies themselves, but the whole movie going experience. I think it appeals to the side of me that secretly despises multi-tasking. After all, the dark theatre allows for no distractions (apart from the popcorn and M&M’s and gynormous Coke Light, obviously). I love it. In fact, many times, it doesn’t even matter if anything good is playing, I still want to go (especially here in South Africa, where a ticket is only sixteen Rand – that’s about two bucks).

So I go to a lot of movies. Enough to see the same commercials and previews over and over again. But that's to be expected when you go to the movies as much as I do. However, over the past four, maybe five, months I have seen one preview in particular enough to make me want to gouge out my eyeballs with the straw of my Coke Light.

It’s Hansie. And I hate him.

What’s that, you say? You’ve never heard of Hansie? I’m shocked. I thought for sure this movie would be an international blockbuster, rivalling Ironman and Harry Potter for certain.

No?

Oh, what a sheltered life you lead, so let me fill you in on what you’re missing. After all, I’m quite the Hansie expert, having seen the seemingly endless preview seven gajillion times.

Hansie was the captain of the South African cricket team in the years following apartheid. The preview makes it look like he was some kind of national hero, the golden boy leading the cricket team to greatness…that is, until he took thirty thousand US dollars to ‘throw’ an important match. That’s right; Hansie sold his soul to the devil for thirty grand. Doesn’t seem like a very clever hero to me. Anyway, the preview shows Hansie crying and apologizing to the country and the country shunning him, but then he dies (the preview doesn’t specify how…I think an airplane?) and his wife is crying and telling the country that he was “still Hansie” even though what he did was bad. It doesn’t say if the country forgives him or not.
I don’t really care.


Yes, I got all of this from a very long, very melodramatic preview, but a preview nonetheless.





Okay, I could write a whole other rant about previews that give too much away, but this one…this one is ridiculous. I guess it doesn't matter though, because every South African already knows the whole pathetic story anyway. And now, I too know way more than I ever wanted to about Hansie. So why would I need to see the film? There isn’t enough popcorn on the planet to make me sit through it. In fact, the mere sight of the movie poster makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth.

Yes, I realize my reaction is a bit extreme and perhaps irrational, but I’m not going to read too much into it. I’m not going to suggest that perhaps I’m directing my occasional frustration with living here in South Africa on a poor dead sports star. That would just be silly. And anyway, this isn’t that kind of post. No, this information is simply meant to broaden your knowledge of the international film circuit and perhaps impart a little South African sports trivia.

But if you want to share in my torment, you too can watch the trailer on the official Hansie Movie website. ARRGH!!!!