Closed for Business

I knew I shouldn’t have been that angry, and yet I was fuming. Call me Scrooge or the Grinch or whatever but I was highly irritated that on the Saturday before Christmas the grocery store was closed at 5 o’clock. Silly me for thinking that at this time of year – when even people who don’t normally cook are forced into the kitchen – that the grocery stores might want to take advantage of that fact. And the whole center was closed! I wouldn’t expect the shops to accommodate customers by staying open later than normal – God forbid – but at least they might want to keep their normal hours instead of closing up early, wouldn’t you think? Think again.

Why I was surprised to find the Pic ‘n Pay closed at 5 o’clock I’m not sure. Certainly everything else in this town has recently come to a screeching halt, so why not the grocery store too? Offices, shops, restaurants…summer break isn’t just for kids in this country. Everyone takes a holiday in December. Everyone. Almost every office will be closed this coming week. No one is working! So don’t even think about trying to make a doctor’s appointment, or get your hair cut, or your car serviced, or even a prescription filled. Come back in January – when people are actually working again.

If I step back and think about it, it’s kind of nice. Yes, these stores could make more money by staying open later and asking their employees to work longer, but they don’t see it that way. These are the facts: It’s Christmas. It’s the middle of the summer. Of course they’re closing up early.

It makes me realize how very “American” I am. I just assume everyone worships the almighty dollar (or Rand) the way most Americans do. So I’m stunned that the retailers aren’t bending over backwards to get my money. I’m amazed that businesses virtually shut down for most of December. It would simply never happen in the US. But the “all work and no play” mentality that Americans are known for isn’t shared by the rest of the world. Money is not the most important thing, and despite my tantrum outside the Pic ‘n Pay, I was glad to be reminded me of that fact.

So, despite the occasional inconvenience, I’m happy to embrace the vacation mentality. In fact, to show my support, I too will be closed for business this week. So, there will be no blog this Sunday because I will be lounging by the pool in the wilds of Africa, hopefully hanging out with an elephant or two.





Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and that you’re not working too hard…

You’ll hear from me again in the New Year!

Holiday Drama

There’s nothing like the holidays to bring families together…

Last weekend all hell broke loose with my South African family. The details aren’t particularly entertaining or relevant, so I won’t bore you, but essentially my mother-in-law did something to upset my sister-in-law and one thing leads to another and suddenly my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law aren’t speaking and my brother-in-law is swearing and my father-in-law is grumbling and my husband is trying to hold it all together while I threaten my sister-in-law with bodily harm should she even think about backing out of the upcoming Christmas vacation. Because if she’s not going, I’m sure as hell not going.

Ah, the drama. It’s better than “Brothers and Sisters.”

As I may have mentioned previously, it’s not exactly easy having Sally for a mother-in-law. She can be hurtful and thoughtless and selfish. She can also be funny and kind and loving. But you never know what you’re gonna get. Now, my sister-in-law, Laurel, has been dealing with this Jeckyl and Hyde routine a hell of a lot longer than I have, so it makes sense that she would be a bit more reactive than me with my grin-and-bear-it approach. Laurel is also someone who calls it like she sees it and isn’t afraid of what you have to say about her opinion. Me, I’m a little less…confrontational.

You might have noticed that over the past four months I have done a lot less complaining about my mother-in-law. I assure you, this isn’t self-imposed censorship. The truth is I really haven’t had that much to complain about. The fifty feet between my door and hers’ has made all the difference in the world to our relationship. Sure, the underlying fear that I might piss her off is still ever-present, but the distance between us, however small, makes it a lot less likely. As time passes, I am starting to feel slightly bad for hating her all those months. I’ve even started to question my judgment and wonder if perhaps I wasn’t a bit overdramatic about the whole thing. But then something like this happens, and my sister-in-law is angry, so I start the day listening to her woes and soon we are polishing off our seventeenth bottle of champagne and still dissecting every horrible thing the evil M-I-L has ever done to us. It sounds funny, right? You can almost picture the scene, straight out of a movie entitled, “Diary of an Angry Daughter-in-Law.” And it is funny. Maybe all the drama is even a little bit fun…

It’s not fair though. To talk about someone behind their back is cruel, right? And I’m not a mean person, yet there I am, touting my list of grievances, every time the subject comes up. I’ll whine about her all day long, but I’m certainly not going to tell her to her face that I think she’s crazy. What good would come from that? She’s definitely not going to change, so what’s the point? And yet, by talking about her behind her back and then smiling sweetly to her face…well, maybe I’m no better than she is. At least Laurel has the guts to occasionally call Sally out on whatever she has done (resulting in a stand off such as we had this past week). It's not that I’m a wimp. I may not be confrontational, but I can hold my own when necessary. The thing with my mother-in-law is – I’m just not sure confrontation would help matters. It hasn’t seemed to help Laurel.

It’s a fine line, knowing when to stand up for yourself against a bully and when to just accept the bully for who they are. It would be one thing to confront my mother-in-law if I thought it would change the situation, but I don’t believe it will.

My mother-in-law is complicated. I don’t want to turn this into a list of her flaws, but to make my point – let’s take Moose as an example. My mother-in-law is perpetually moaning about our dog, Moose. It’s been brought to her attention that this is hurtful to Roger and me, but she can’t seem to stop the passive aggressive comments regarding our only child.

I must admit, things have been better since we threatened to take our annoying dog and move back to the US, but that’s not the point. Whether she vocalizes it or not, Moose annoys her, and I want her to not be annoyed by him. I want her to be thrilled to have her "grand-dog" around (like MY mom!). I know Sally loves him really, but she also sees him as her cross to bear, and asking her to stop with the snide comments isn’t going to change that fact.

I can love her or hate her, but my mother-in-law isn’t changing. And the thing that upsets me isn't what she says, it’s simply who she is – and I don’t think she can help it. Which leads me to another question…is 'niceness' something we can control? And what makes someone nice? The things they say and do? Or the things they think?
(As usual, I digress, but it's just something to think about!)

One of the first lessons I can remember my mother teaching me was: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Whether or not biting your tongue when a not-so-nice thought occurs makes you a nice person or just a polite one, well, I’m not so sure, but the lesson is still a good one. Maybe confronting my mother-in-law with my list of grievances would be pointless, but that doesn’t mean I should be complaining about her behind her back. That’s not going to help matters either. In fact, it only feeds the fire.

So, I’ll step back. Take a deep breath and remember that despite her faults, this is the woman who gave birth to my husband. And she loves him more than life, so at the very least, we have that in common.

And in this season of goodwill, I will make a resolution to cut back on the evil M-I-L talk. I will try to accept her for who she is…even if she is slightly psycho.

In the Dark

I was on the bottom floor of the Rosebank Mall last week, waiting in the line at the post office (which, if it’s possible, moves even slower in Africa than it does in America), when all of a sudden, I’m surrounded by darkness. There is a collective sigh of “not again,” but no one seems particularly annoyed. I look around at the others for some indication as to what to do next, but no one has moved. A man from behind the counter comes out and begins to close the doors. Now, I’m sure there is a good reason for this, but I definitely don’t want to be locked in the basement of the mall with the cast of characters currently occupying the post office. I quickly slip out of line.

“Wait!” I say in a loud whisper, though why I’m whispering I’m not sure. Something about the darkness, I guess. The man lets me out and I find myself in the packed corridor, with the thousand other people forced to abandon their day of Christmas shopping. Irritated, I climb the escalator (it’s been broken for a month so even had the power been on, I’d have still been climbing) and begin the walk to the other end of the mall. As I pass the darkened shops, I notice that every manager has closed and locked the doors. It occurs to me that this is probably to prevent looting; it makes sense that placing the store on “lockdown” would be part of the procedure.

What doesn’t make sense, you may be thinking, is why there is a procedure for this sort of thing to begin with. Surely this isn’t a usual occurrence, right? How many extreme acts of nature happen in Johannesburg, South Africa anyway? We’re not exactly in danger of snowstorms or hurricanes. And yet, we are no strangers to power outages. It happens all the time.

You don't have to be a nuclear scientist to know that we don't have enough power in South Africa. It’s not unusual to come home from work to find the contents of your freezer defrosted. You’re not surprised when a five mile journey takes an hour because the traffic lights are without power. You don’t bother to set the clock on the microwave because you’ll just have to do it again tomorrow.

We are constantly reminded via billboards and commercials to “Save Power!” We are told to turn off the lights and unplug appliances and even to switch off the outlet itself when it’s not in use. But this campaign isn’t about Africa going “green.” The constant reminders to conserve electricity are an effort put forth by the power company to ensure that we have enough power to go around.

Everyone knows it’s a problem, and yet we’re still not exactly doing our best to conserve. I’m certainly not using the clothes line instead of the dryer. Roger and I are still using the dishwasher and the computer and the big screen TV. And apparently everyone else is too, so sometimes, the power companies force the issue. They turn off the power on purpose, in an effort to “save” energy.

Ask a South African about the situation and they’ll roll their eyes and say “typical Africa.” And it is typical. Because it’s not just the power, occasionally it’s the water too. And if the utility shortages aren’t enough, you can also count on poorly paved roads and crumbling sidewalks and escalators that stay broken for months and mail that gets stolen and ATM’s with no cash and the list goes on and on.

When my sister-in-law came to the US for the first time (shortly before Roger and I moved to South Africa), she kept marveling, “Everything works here!” I didn’t understand what she meant. Of course it works. It just does what it’s supposed to. What was the big deal? Why was she so in awe? I should have been immediately suspicious about the country to which I was about to move.

You might say I’m looking back with rose colored glasses, but I know things go wrong in America too. Electronics malfunction. Cars break down. The cable guy doesn’t show up. And yes, storms can certainly cut the power off. However, most people don’t request a gas stove in their house so that they will have a way to cook dinner when the power goes out. And typically, if one day you go to the mall and the escalator is broken, you can expect it to be fixed by the next time you’re there. Not so in South Africa. You’ll be climbing that escalator for at least a month. And the cable guy? You’re lucky if he shows up two weeks after the original appointment.

I can’t offer any explanation as to why this is so. Certainly it’s not for a lack of a willing workforce. God knows, this country needs more jobs. And yet they can’t manage to send a couple guys over to the shopping complex to fix the escalator?!?!

But I should stop right there. As an American I have to watch what I say about my new home. A South African can make fun of their “first and third world country,” but they get rather defensive if I join in. Eventually they’ll just sigh and say, “What can you do?” They’ve gotten used to it. They don’t expect anything more.

Perhaps they’re just more laid back than me, but I do expect things to work and people to do what they’re supposed to do, when they are supposed to do it. And as the world continues to shrink, expectations are changing. South Africans realize that this isn’t how it should be, and with the 2010 Soccer World Cup approaching, they know the rest of the world will soon be noticing. So will they get it together, this new country of mine? Can they get organized and bring this place to its full potential? I certainly hope so, but to be honest, I’m skeptical. I’ll just be happy when someone fixes that damn escalator.

The Kissing Conundrum

It’s happened again.

How is it possible that five seconds into a conversation I have already managed to make an idiot of myself? I’ll tell you how it’s possible. It’s the greeting, that’s how. For the life of me, I just can’t get the hang of it in this country.

I know, I know. What’s to “get,” right? It’s a simple “Hello!” and “How’ve you been?” or “Good to see you!” It might come with a handshake or a pat on the back. With children, it often involves a muss of the hair. There’s the hug or perhaps the “side hug” (if hands are otherwise occupied or perhaps a full on hug seems too invasive), and then of course, there’s the kiss.

Me, I’m a hugger. When I say hello, my instinct is to give you a hug – even if I don’t know you that well. I have no problem wrapping my arms around you and giving you a little squeeze. If we don't hug, our initial conversation feels awkward to me – like we’ve missed a step. I’m a hugger. And I think Americans, in general, are huggers. We hug. But outside of America, there is a lot of kissing going on.

South Africa is full of kissers. Which is fine with me, really. It’s great. It feels very “posh.” Here’s my problem though – everyone has a different style of kissing. It could be on the cheek. On both cheeks. Or even on the mouth. Any and all of these would be fine – except you never know what you’re gonna get. You might offer someone the right cheek, but then they go in for the left too. This leads to an awkward mid-greeting pause in which you reposition and quickly extend your other cheek while pretending that the transaction has gone smoothly. And the opposite is just as awkward. You offer both cheeks but they only wanted one, so you’re left standing there with one cheek shoved towards them but they’ve already moved on to give a one-cheeked kiss to someone who probably knows better than to offer both cheeks.

Then of course there is the lip to lip kiss, which is inevitably the style of kissing favored by the person whose lips you’d least like to touch. And if you offer them a cheek but they want the lips, it results in a strange sort of half-cheek-half-lips exchange in which the lip-kisser may feel slighted that you gave them a cheek when they wanted the lips. Geesh.

In order to avoid awkwardness, I try to keep a mental list of what style of kissing is preferred by my various friends and acquaintances. Frank: lips/hug combo. Jane: double-cheek. Rick: one-cheek/half-hug. All of this can be difficult to keep track of, which leads me to a critical question: Why am I trying so hard to accommodate someone else’s kissing style instead of forcing my own style upon them?

This is probably not the time or place to explore my pathetic need to please and accommodate, but let me just say, in my own defense, that I have actually tried to force my hugs on people, but it never works like it’s supposed to.

For example, just yesterday, we went to the airport to pick up Roger’s sister and brother-in-law from Scotland. I see my brother-in-law and throw my arms open, leaning to the left as I pull him to me. Only he’s going for the double-cheek kiss, and while I’m moving in for the hug, he kisses my right cheek. He then pulls back slightly to reposition so that he can kiss my left cheek too. Looking back, I realize that this is the point where I too should have pulled back slightly and kissed his left cheek. But I’m still committed to the hug, so although he’s trying to kiss the left side of my face, all he’s getting is the right. The missed kiss has put us at an awkward angle and to avoid bumping noses we have both turned our heads so that suddenly my right cheek is pressed up against his left. We look like we are trying to tango.

The interchange feels like it’s happening in slow motion. Never has a greeting gone so wrong. I keep replaying the train wreck in my mind. It’s all I can think about despite the fact that my brother-in-law – who I haven’t seen in four years – is standing in front of me. The right questions are coming out of my mouth: “How was your flight?” and “Do you have all your bags?” but all I can think about is that I am a complete and total idiot who doesn’t even know how to greet a family member.

But feeling like an idiot has become my natural state. In fact, I often think I should participate in a scientific study to determine exactly how much of any given day I spend feeling like a moron. The findings would be shocking, I’m sure. Off the charts. Logically, I know that I am not an idiot, and yet for some reason, I feel like I’m perpetually saying and doing the inappropriate thing. Let me assure you that this is nothing new, but in America, I felt like my foibles were often perceived as charming and quirky. Here…not so much.

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. Obsessing about a botched greeting can’t be healthy. In fact, I’m sure my obsessive nature is probably a “condition” with a name ending with “syndrome” or “disorder,” but before anyone calls the psychiatrist, let me point out that were it not for my obsessive nature and my profound ability to overanalyze pretty much everything, I just wouldn’t be me, and what fun would that be? Would you really tune in to hear about some normal chick’s observations on Africa? Probably not. So while I may be mildly disordered, I think I’m getting to a point in my life where I can accept it as just part of who I am.

That being said, please do me a favor. When next we meet, just give me a hug, okay? I’ve simply got too many other trivial things to obsess about…

Confession

I have something to confess.

Sometimes… I’m just not in the mood. In fact, lately it’s the very last thing I want to do at night. I prefer to just get it over with quickly, first thing in the morning, you know? And it’s not just me. Roger doesn’t feel like doing it either. We try to muster some enthusiasm, for the benefit of the other, but in truth – we both know it’s an act. Neither of us is in the mood. And yet we know it’s important, all the books and magazines say so. We know that we should do it, we just don’t want to. But we do…occasionally anyway.

I’m talking about exercise, of course.

This past Monday I was not in the mood. I pick Roger up from work and silently will him to say he doesn’t feel like going to the gym. If he says it, I certainly won't argue, but I'm not going to be the one to say it first. But he says nothing, so I drive to Planet Fitness as planned.

The gym is packed, but I manage to find a parking space at the back. We slowly get out of the car, and I pop the trunk open. We reach in for our bags; mine feels like lead.

“Do you have a padlock?” Roger asks.
“No, YOU took my lock last week.” I say, annoyed. (What can I say? The gym makes me grouchy.)

Roger shakes his head. “But I told you – they had to cut it off the locker. The stupid key wouldn’t work.”

I roll my eyes, remembering the ridiculous story. We’re standing there with the trunk open, staring at each other like idiots. It’s not that big of a problem really. We simply have to go inside, change clothes, and then one of us will have to bring the bags back to the car before going back inside to work out. Of course, being parked in Antarctica makes the task slightly irritating, but hey, we’re here for exercise, right?

“This is such a pain.” Roger slams the trunk shut. He’s right. It is a pain (especially since he will most certainly be the one returning to the car with the bags!).

“Let’s just change in the car,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. A childhood of shuffling between school and dance class and cheerleading practice and play rehearsal has made me a semi-expert at changing clothes in the car.

Roger laughs before he realizes I’m serious. “Robyn, there are a gazillion people walking around this parking lot.”

“It’s fine,” I say, opening the door to the back seat. Roger laughs nervously and climbs in the back with me. I start to take off my shirt, but Roger keeps stopping me because he thinks someone is headed our way. Finally I tell him to shut up and change, which we somehow manage to do without prolonged exposure. A few people walk by and give us odd looks – we are, after all, sitting in the back seat of a parked car – but no one gets a good look at anything indecent. We’re giggling as we get out of the car.

We start the trek across the parking lot, debating if we should do weights or cardio. (I want to do the elliptical machine but Roger wants to do weights, and for some reason, neither of us feels that we can do either without the other by our sides.) We’re still bickering when I realize that I have left my Polar watch in the car. Roger says it doesn’t matter, but see, my Polar watch tracks my progress and counts the calories I’ve burned, and well, I love it. And the way I see it, if my Polar watch doesn’t know I’ve worked out, then it can’t update my little chart on the web, so it’s almost as if I haven’t worked out at all, so what's the point? After a little more whining, we head back to the car to get the watch.

The watch retrieved, we begin the walk across the parking lot once more. We’re almost to the door of the gym, and I have ceded to Roger’s request to do weights instead of cardio when I realize that we don’t have "sweat towels." It’s kind of a new policy. If you’re in the gym without a towel they can throw you out. Well, so the sign says anyway. I’ve never seen anyone tossed out or anything, but you know me – I’m no rebel.

“Roger, we have to go back for the towels.”
Roger stares at me in disbelief. “This is ridiculous.”
“But it’s the rule,” I say, whining again.

Without a word he turns around and we head back to the car. We cross the parking lot in silence. I unlock the car with the remote, but instead of getting a towel from the back seat, Roger climbs into the passenger seat and puts on his seat belt. I open the back seat and reach for a towel.

“Roger, come on,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“We’re going home,” he declares sternly, though I can tell he’s stifling a giggle as well. “I’m serious; it’s a sign.”

“We are not that pathetic,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. “We’re already here; we’re dressed. We’re going in.”

“I’m not working out.”
“Well, I am.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Well, I am.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”

He may have been bluffing, I’m not sure, but I didn’t call him out on it. I think he could sense my lack of conviction. I walk around to the driver’s side and climb in the car, resigned to the sweet defeat.

We drive home in silence. I’m not sure if I want to kill him or kiss him. We stop at a red light; I glance over at him and can’t help but smile at my partner in crime.

I confess, this is why I got married.

For someone to skip the gym with. For someone to tell me it’s okay to leave the dishes in the sink sometimes or stay in bed all day. Someone who will join me in polishing off the carton of ice cream or ordering take out three nights in a row. Someone to help me relax a little and remind me not to be so hard on myself. Someone to make me laugh when I feel like screaming. This is why I got married…
Well, maybe it’s not the reason I got married, but it’s the reason I married Roger. He has this magical ability to make everything fun.

And for that, I’m always in the mood.

An African Thanksgiving

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Nothing makes you feel more American than living in another country. Which is perhaps why it was so important to me to celebrate Thanksgiving this year. That or the craving that started about a month ago for turkey and dressing and sweet potatoes and green bean casserole with those little crunchy onions on top…alas, I decided to take on the task of preparing a mini-Thanksgiving feast for Roger and myself.

But as usual, the wine got me into trouble. A few bottles with Gary and Laurel gave me the misguided confidence I needed to invite everyone to my house to celebrate “my” holiday.

At the time, I wasn’t considering the fact that my kitchen cabinets contain exactly one frying pan, one pot and one roasting pan. I own a single bowl and two wine glasses. Oh, and I come to discover that you can’t even get sweet potatoes here. Or cranberries. Not to mention, where was I gonna find a turkey?

What the hell was I thinking?
The question runs through my mind more than a few times as I scour the aisles of four different grocery stores. Yes, you heard me right – FOUR different stores. Memories of Kroger flash through my mind like a cheesy montage in a movie. Sigh. Apparently, this country has not yet heard of “one stop shopping.”

Wednesday night, Roger and I start the preparations. We spend most of the evening in the kitchen, but Roger makes everything fun. Thursday morning, however, I begin the serious stuff. Armed with the only knife I own, the chopping begins…and never seems to end. In fact, the only thing I’m doing more than chopping is washing. Yes, trust me when I tell you, you should not attempt to cook a big meal with a single knife and one bowl and one pan. I think I washed that bowl seventeen times. It won MVP of the meal prep. And it’s not even a very big bowl. I ended up mixing the stuffing together in the roasting pan.








Needless to say, my turkey did not look like this one.

I know, I know. I’m boring you with the details, but suffice it to say – cooking a Thanksgiving feast for eight is no easy task. And I’m sure you hadn’t noticed, but I tend to get a bit stressed about, well, everything. But when Laurel and the kids arrived, she promptly opened a bottle of champagne and suddenly I realized that everything was under control. I did it. Pretty much anyway. I set the food up buffet style and everyone piled their plates with food. We sat down to eat and with that first bite, the season of gluttony began.

Now, in the days leading up to Thanksgiving, I had numerous people ask me what Thanksgiving was all about. I had explained how the Pilgrims struggled upon their arrival in America and the Indians helped them through a hard winter and afterwards they all sat down together for a meal to give thanks that they had “made it.” This little blurb sounded about right. Wasn’t that what I had learned in school? Except it occurred to me that we celebrate Thanksgiving in November which was leading into winter so why would they be giving thanks before it even started? No one called me out on this (probably because in this hemisphere, November is the beginning of the summer), but when I realized the contradiction I immediately went to the internet to get to the bottom of it.

Turns out that yes, the Pilgrims had a rough first winter, but the Indians shared a few crop-planting secrets which resulted in a fabulous November harvest (assuring plenty of food for the coming winter). So they all sat down together to give thanks. It’s actually a really cool holiday, when you think about it. People putting aside their differences and helping each other out. The Pilgrims and the Indians probably weren’t giving thanks to the same God, but they weren’t worried about that. They were simply expressing thanks.

Laurel asked me to explain the significance of the day to Connor and Dale, which I did in far too much detail. I then asked everyone to go around the table and say something that they were thankful for. We were thankful for family, friends, health…the normal stuff mostly. Except my father-in-law, of course, who said he was thankful to be such a wonderful person. I said I was thankful that I didn’t burn the turkey…and that Roger didn’t say he was most thankful for his X-Box and Guitar Hero 2.

It was an excellent evening, if I do say so myself. We sat around the table for hours just talking and laughing and being together. We drank wine and ate turkey and then apple pie (Dale had seconds of course). While the sadness that I was not celebrating with the rest of my family in Washington DC was ever-present, it did not consume me. I looked around the table at one point and was comforted by the fact that I was still celebrating with family. A family very unlike my family in America, but they are my family nonetheless. And I am thankful for them. All of them. And it was nice to have an evening to tell them so.

So now I’m going to keep the sappiness going and tell you the same thing…
I am thankful for each of you.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!!

The Pollyanna of Parktown North

I’m afraid my post last week may have frightened a few of my loved ones, which was not my intention. So, Mom, I’m fine; I promise. And Jen, while I’d love to receive a plane ticket back home, I’m afraid Roger will be slightly upset if it’s not round trip. But don’t worry, guys! Joburg’s not that bad. And I’m pretty street smart, I think. Maybe not in the conventional way, but I’m careful. I listen to my instincts. I’m aware of the world around me. And I am a world traveler after all. I’ve lived in some of the world’s biggest cities. And hey – if you ever visited my home in East Atlanta, you know I can hold my own in a tough neighborhood.

And speaking of my former ‘hood – let me assure you that my current neighborhood is definitely a step up. To be honest, I was probably more likely to be shot on Flat Shoals than I am on Jan Smuts Ave! To prove my point – I certainly would never have gone out for a jog in East Atlanta, but here I go running four or five mornings a week. At first I only felt safe running in the park – and only if I brought Moose. But I quickly grew bored of the tiny park, and Moose quickly grew bored of jogging. So now I go jogging by myself – alone on the streets of Parktown North.

There aren’t many other joggers in my part of town, but that’s not to say there aren’t pedestrians. No, the streets are full of people walking to work – people who have taken the notorious "death taxis" into the city from the townships. These taxis usually unload on the main roads, and like clowns pouring out of a car at the circus, the passengers exit the taxis and disperse in the various directions of their employers. Yes, it is these people that I pass each day on my morning jog. I pass them on their way to the homes where they clean, or tend the garden, or cook. I pass them as they make their way to the cafes, shops and markets where they make a living. I don’t stop to chat, so I don’t know the details of their lives, but I do know this – they come to this nice neighborhood five, six, seven days a week, but they do not live here.

At first I was slightly afraid of my fellow pedestrians. After all, at six o’clock in the morning most of them weren’t looking particularly cheerful or kind. And no one ever smiles or says hello. Certainly not me. Here I am in the big bad city. Now is no time to talk to strangers, right?

As I jog, I used to consider what I would do if one of these people cornered me and tried to attack me – tried to take my pink iPod shuffle or my new Polar watch. Would I be able to describe them to the police later? I’ve always been amazed when a witness to a crime can describe the suspect’s appearance, and an artist can produce an accurate likeness. Would I be able to give such a description? Sometimes after I’ve passed someone, I will think about how I might describe them. Wide set eyes. Narrow jaw. Shiny skin. But this line of thinking is depressing. And didn’t I say that I refuse to be ruled by fear? So what if they look kinda grumpy? It’s six a.m. – who looks particularly perky at that time of the morning anyway?

So then I decided to change my approach. I decided to talk to strangers. Now, I say “Hello” and “Good morning” to everyone I pass, and magically, their faces transform. The sour expressions disappear into sparkling eyes and toothy grins and sometimes even a “Hello, Lovey!” (the elderly African woman’s favorite term of endearment). I’m not sure that they are genuinely pleased to say hello or if they feel they have to smile back at me. I don’t know, but it feels good to make a connection. In a world where racial tensions are high, I think it’s important that we acknowledge one another. To pass on the sidewalk without a word – well, it’s almost as if we’d rather pretend the other one didn’t exist. It’s as if we aren’t ready to see each other as friends, as equals – as if we aren’t ready to see each other at all. But to say hello…to smile and connect, if only for just a second – it feels good. It feels right.

But I’m not gonna get all self-righteous about it either. I’m no Pollyanna. There’s another reason that I smile and say hello. The way I see it, if I was a criminal looking to attack someone, I’d much rather hurt the girl who didn’t acknowledge my presence over the girl who smiled and made eye contact and said hello. Wouldn’t you? The theory hasn’t exactly been scientifically tested, but I’m going with it.

So I smile and say hello, but at the same time, I can’t help but feel slightly ashamed. After all, I’m jogging through the streets in a desperate attempt to burn off my culinary indulgences. They walk those same streets on their way to jobs where they will barely earn enough money to feed their families. They aren’t worried about the effects of last night’s fettuccini on their thighs. No, they are just hoping to have dinner on their table tonight. The irony is not lost on me, and yes, I feel ashamed. Not for being blessed with more than I need, but for not being grateful enough for it. I am ashamed for obsessing about something so trivial…for worrying about “too much,” when the real tragedy would be “not enough.”

Once again, I digress. But you can’t talk about crime without talking about poverty. There is a reason Joburg has so much crime – because there are so many people here going without. People trying to pay rent and feed families and buy clothes on about fifteen dollars a day – earned in homes where the ‘madam’ probably spends more on a pair of shoes than her maid earns in a month. Is it any wonder people resort to begging and stealing?

I realize that my thoughts on the subject are slightly naïve. I see enough senseless violence in the news every day to know that crime is not as simple as the needy taking what they need. And even if that were the case – it wouldn’t make it right.

But tonight I’ve rambled far too long already to start an analysis of the relationship between crime and poverty. Let’s just say I’m in the middle of an up close and personal lesson on the subject, so I’ll get back to you with my discoveries.

I’ll also get back to you on how my “Pollyanna” self-defense is going.
So far, so good.

"Be aware of the world around you."

I can still hear my father’s voice saying those words. “Be aware of the world around you, Little Girl.” Sure, usually when he said it, I was about to step in a fresh wad of chewing gum, but I think he had a broader lesson in mind. It’s a lesson I’ve thought about pretty often over the past seven months. Be aware of the world around you.

To me, those words mean a lot of things. Look out for chewing gum and dog poop, of course, but more importantly – know what’s going on around you. Don’t hide from it. Understand what’s happening and be ready for it. Don’t bury your head in the sand. Be alert. Be vigilant. Be smart. Be aware of the world around you.

The other night Roger and I went to the movies, and on our way back to the car, we passed a girl crying outside of an ATM with several police officers surrounding her. Of course I had been chattering mindlessly as usual and hadn’t noticed the somber situation. Once in the car, though, Roger asked me if I’d observed anything unusual.
Huh?
So much for being aware of the world around me. Roger reminded me that I must be careful when using an ATM, but he also stressed that I should try to be more aware of what is happening around me. Once again, I could hear my father’s voice and realized that twenty years later, I’m no more “aware” than I was when I was eight years old, about to put my foot in that chewing gum. Roger must have seen the fear in my eyes, because he then reassured me that I shouldn’t really worry about it because I would never be out by myself at night anyway. And he’s right. I don’t leave the house alone after dark. Funny huh? A girl who used to think nothing of a late night stop at the grocery store or walking through a parking lot at midnight. Now, if I volunteer to go pick up take-out for dinner, I am only ‘allowed’ to go if I take Moose in the car with me (him being so vicious and all…).

So yes, I’ve had to make some adjustments in order to survive in this city so notorious for its crime. I don’t go out alone after dark. I’ve learned to lock the doors as soon as I get in the car. I keep my purse underneath the driver’s seat so that no one can break a window as I sit at a red light and lift it from the passenger seat. I know to have the automatic gate key in my hand and ready to press the button before I turn into my driveway (most people get carjacked while sitting outside their own homes, waiting for the gate to open). I’ve gotten used to the fortress-like walls that surround every home, the electric fences, the barbed wire, the laser beams, the security guards patrolling the streets.

When I put it that way, it seems like Joburg is a scary place to live, and it can be. But fear is a little like an over-protective parent. It’s smart to listen to your parent’s advice, but you can’t let them make all your decisions for you. Likewise, I believe it’s important to listen to your fear. Pay attention to those hairs that stand up on the back of your neck, but you can’t let fear rule your life. And just as you’ve developed an understanding with your over-protective parents, you must learn to handle your relationship with fear.

Living in Joburg, it’s impossible not to be a little afraid, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. That fear keeps me alert. It makes me aware of my surroundings. It reminds me to be on the look out for danger. Then again, sometimes I think the real danger of living in this city is turning into the kind of person who sees a threat in every unfamiliar face. The kind of person who assumes the worst of every stranger. And while I’m afraid of becoming a victim, I’m terrified of becoming that kind of person.

So I will try to be cautious and “aware of the world around me,” but I will not allow fear to keep me locked inside my own little fortress. I refuse to live each day with the belief that every stranger is just waiting for an opportunity to hurt me. I won’t let this city take away my ability to see the good in people.

Of course, I suppose that’s easy for me to say – I’ve never been a victim.
And God willing, I never will be.

Home Invasion

I intended to sit down this afternoon and write a little essay documenting my profound observations about crime in Johannesburg. The question keeps coming up, and I’m never quite sure how to answer: Do I feel safe here in this city so notorious for its crime? So, I’ve been compiling my thoughts on the subject and I finally felt ready to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).

My afternoon did not go as planned. Instead of a leisurely afternoon at the computer, I spent the past three hours trying desperately to rid my home of an invader. It’s true. But this was no burglar. This was a bird-lar. Yes, this afternoon, I came home to find a bird frantically flapping around my living room.

I should start by explaining that when the weather is nice in South Africa, everyone leaves their doors open. Wide open. Windows too. And screens? What’s that? Come on, you’re in Africa! We are one with nature here. Bugs? Who cares? And what’s a little dust and dirt when you have a maid to clean it up?

So I leave my doors open. After all, I’m in Africa. This is how we live, right? I try not to freak out about the daddy-long-leg spider crawling across my floor or the mosquito buzzing in my ear at night. It’s just a part of life here. So slather on some mosquito repellent, and sweet dreams, good night.

These birds though…

Eventually the bird invader calms down and finds a comfortable spot to hang out in the rafters. I’m staring up at the offending creature, trying to figure out the best course of action when this bird…this BIRD decides that now would be a good time to empty its bowels.

You have got to be kidding me, right? I watch in horror as he let’s another dropping fall and the reality that a bird is pooping all over my living room sets in. I can feel the heat radiating from my face. I feel nauseous. I think my head might explode. I stomp my foot. I clench my fists. I open my mouth but have no control over the shocking words coming out of it.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU @#$%&*!

Perhaps now is a good time to mention the mulberry bush. Yes, we have a mulberry bush. You know – the kind that produces that nice blackish purple fruit? Well, the birds love that damn fruit. And guess what it does to their droppings? Yes. Big drops of blackish purple gunk. Scattered across my living room floor. I’m certain this bird has diarrhea.

“YOU LITTLE @*%&, GET OOOUTTTTTT!”

The bird does not seem at all offended by my obscenities. I run to the kitchen for a mop and proceed to jump up and down (still screaming obscenities), thrusting the head of the mop at the bird. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to achieve with this maneuver, but I only manage to scare the bird even higher into the rafters. And now he’s perched right above my couch.

“OH NO YOU DID-ENT!!”

I manage to push my couch across the room while still shaking the mop. I’m starting to sweat. I’m hating this bird like I have never hated any living creature, and I feel the need to tell it so.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

But maybe this is the wrong approach. I’m clearly scaring it higher when I need to be luring it down. I run back to the kitchen for a piece of bread. I’m breaking off bits of bread and tossing them at the bird, but the stupid bird doesn’t even notice. Moose however, thinks this is great fun, but I don’t have the energy to scold my dog for eating the bread. I’m too busy hurling chunks of bread at the bird. I’m no longer sure if I’m trying to feed it or hit it. Hmm. I’d rather hit it.

I decide I need a ladder. If I can reach it, I’ll use my mop to beat that little @#$% senseless.

Okay, let’s pause for a moment. I know what you are thinking. Who is this person? What kind of girl would want to kill a helpless creature who just happened to have wandered where it shouldn’t after overindulging in a few mulberries? You’re completely right – that girl is crazy! Surely that mop-waiving, swearing psycho is not me.

As I run to the garage in search of a ladder, I have a minor out of body experience. The Real Me is watching Crazy Me and thinking that I should simply go to the main house and ask Roger to come help me rid our house of this invader. But Crazy Me suddenly has a desperate need to prove that she is strong and independent and fully capable of rescuing her living room from a purple-pooping bird all by herself. Crazy Me takes the ladder back to the living room.

But eventually, Roger comes back to find me in my swearing and screaming and mop-waiving state. And of course he does the only thing that could piss me off more than another mulberry-dropping. He laughs. I turn my attention away from the purple-pooping bird and decide my efforts are better spent beating my husband senseless with the mop.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!”

“It’s kinda funny.”

“ARRRGGGGHHH!!!!”

I can’t even form words anymore. Who knew I had all this rage inside me? I haven’t thrown a tantrum like this sense I was three years old.

Roger gets a broom and climbs the ladder. He extends the handle of the broom towards the bird as if he’s Snow White and this damn bird is going to flitter over and perch on his broomstick. Right. I tell Roger he is an idiot. Roger does not appreciate my thoughts on the subject.

Eventually, we team up and chase the bird around the living room, banging on the rafters with our broom and mop every time the offending creature tries to land. After a good fifteen minutes of this ridiculous routine, the bird is as exhausted as we are and flutters down to the floor where it suddenly sees the light and makes its way to the open door.

“And STAY out!” I scream as I attempt to slam the sliding door shut. But the thrill of victory is short-lived. I look around my living room and see the many purple presents the bird has left behind. My living room looks like a Jackson Pollack. Seriously. There are even a few drips on the wall.

I take a deep breath and look at Roger who is trying very hard not to laugh. I’m trying very hard to resist the urge to punch him in the nose. But I control myself. Instead, I take my mop and use it for the purpose it was intended.

So how do I feel about crime in Johannesburg? We’ll get to that some other time I guess. However, if a burglar ever does get into my house, he better watch out for me and my mop.

...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.

The whiny one.

Or
The Things We Think and Do Not Say

Remember that? It was the title of Jerry McGuire’s “Mission statement.” You know, the one that got him fired and thus set the whole story in motion. I loved that movie. And I always particularly liked the title of Jerry’s little memo. It appropriately jumps into my head when I’m thinking something I know better than to say. Such as, “Did you mean to do that to your hair?” or “You’re gonna marry him?” or lately, “Can we go back to America now?”

We all do it. We have thoughts we have no control over. Even the nicest girl (ahem) has thoughts that aren’t so nice. Does that mean her nice exterior is a fraud? Is she really just as bitchy as the next chick? Or does her guilt about said thoughts atone for the thoughts themselves, therefore redeeming her niceness? It’s tricky, see? What makes someone nice? How they act or how they think? And then there are those girls who whole heartedly embrace their bitchiness – they allow it to define them the way I have defined myself with this nice-girl routine. I envy those girls. In fact, my best friends are usually those girls. I love to hear them vocalize my inner thoughts. To hear Katie say that Janine looks like she let a blind guy do her makeup and not have to admit that I’ve had the very same thought about Janine (because that would be mean), well, it’s liberating somehow.

I’m straying off course. The thing is, despite my protests to the contrary, I am having secret remorseful thoughts about my move to Africa. I don’t even believe in regrets, but I’m having these terrible thoughts. The things we think but do not say.

It’s pointless, I realize that. And I’m sure it’s temporary too. Everyone has second thoughts about big decisions right? It’s like I said months ago, my grass has always looked greener elsewhere…and this is no different. I suppose the only thing that’s remarkable about this particular hidden thought is the very fact that I feel the need to keep it hidden. But who am I hiding it from? My family? My friends? Why? If I’ve learned anything so far on this planet it’s that my friends and family will always love and support me…and they’ll never say I told you so. They might think it (the things we think but do not say!), but they’ll love me no matter what, and even if I came crawling home after only a year in Africa, I believe most of them would still respect me and the choices I have made.

And yet, I am terrified to say it out loud.

I suppose, I am most afraid of sharing my secret regret with my husband. Certainly, we all have a tendency to keep our darkest thoughts hidden, but for me, when I found Roger I found the one person to whom I could reveal everything. No secrets. And yet suddenly, I can’t have a conversation with the love of my life without biting my tongue in fear that “the things we think but do not say” will slip out of my mouth. Because I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want him to worry. I don’t want him to be angry.

Okay, yes. As most of you know, Roger is very aware of this blog, so if I actually find the courage to publish this much too personal whine-fest, well, the big secret will be out. Not that it’s much of a secret anyway. If I’m honest with myself, and if Roger could be honest, we’ve both known for awhile that I feel this way; we just haven’t said it out loud. We don’t discuss it – probably because there is nothing to be done about it. We’re here. We’ve started a life. And we’re okay, I guess.

This is when I miss my girlfriends. If Katie was here we would analyze the situation for hours, and although it wouldn’t change anything, it would make me feel better simply to have fleshed things out. But because the very definition of man is “problem solver,” to discuss all these feelings with Roger would be a futile experience. He would get frustrated because there is no solution. Why talk about a problem with no answer? We can’t pack up and move home at the moment. In a few years, yes. But not now.

God, even if we could…would I want to move home right now? The answer seems obvious, and yet, I think I’m enjoying all of this forced introspection. I feel like I’m growing…or something. So while I may want to go home, maybe I’m not ready just yet. The thought is definitely there, but when it comes down to it – I suppose I wouldn’t change my current situation. It’s like therapy…it’s not fun, but it’s good for you. It’s probably not, however, good for you, the ‘audience’ of this little blog. I know there must be limits to your tolerance of my inner drama. I can only imagine your secret thoughts: “God, would she just get over herself already!” On the other hand, part of me has to believe that at least a few of you are enjoying my overly introspective ramblings…right?

Okay, well just in case, I promise to be more entertaining next week.
I’ll try anyway.

The bitchy one.

This week, I wrote two blogs. The first one was a bit whiny. And way too personal. So I attempted to write another. After evaluating both of them, I was frustrated. One was whiny and the other was bitchy. Why this surprised me, I'm not sure, because if I'm honest, lately I've kinda been a ...well, you get my point. But here goes. The bitchy one won out...

I’ve never been a very good driver. No major car-totaling wrecks so far (knock on wood) but I do tend to bump into things occasionally. Mailboxes, poles, cement columns, construction trailers…mostly stationary objects. Despite this tendency, I have – so far in my life – managed to back out of all my parking spaces without hitting any other cars. It’s not too terribly difficult. I’m sure most of you can spout the same record.

In South Africa, however, backing out of a parking space requires personal counsel. In almost every parking lot, you can be sure to find a “parking attendant” who will not only show you where to park (because with thirty-seven spaces available, how should you know which one to choose?), but he will also stand behind your car and direct you as to when and how to back out of the space when you are ready to leave. For this service, he requires a fee – at your discretion, of course – but should you choose to return to that parking lot when he is once again on duty, well, you better hope you have paid him appropriately.

It’s a service that you have no choice but to receive. South Africans hardly notice it. Every time they back out of a spot they routinely roll down their window and offer a two or five Rand coin to this annoying stranger. But that’s just it – he’s not annoying to them. He’s a fixture. He’s the parking lot attendant.

I know I sound bitchy, but it’s not about the money. It’s the principal of the matter. The thing is, I don’t need your help, Buddy. I got it. I’m fine.

I acknowledge that my irritation may seem a little ridiculous. In fact, I often find myself trying to “sneak” past the attendant on my way back to the car. If he’s on the other side of the parking lot when I’m backing out, well, he can hardly expect payment now can he? But he inevitably spots me before I’m completely out of the space. He sprints over to 'help' and sure enough, I feel the need to roll down my window and toss a coin at him. I can rarely even muster a 'thanks' because quite honestly, I’m not thankful.

He sometimes doubles as a sort of 'bag boy' too. Now, perhaps I should be grateful that he is trying to expand his usefulness, but come on, I’ve usually managed to get the grocery bags and the shopping cart all the way down the elevator from Woolworth's and halfway across the parking garage before the attendant spots me. He runs to my rescue and takes the cart as I unlock the car. I tell him I’m fine, really, but he says nothing and scoots me out of the way while he places the bags in the trunk and I frantically look in my wallet for some change to give him for a service I, once again, don’t actually need. I mean really, the hard part isn’t transferring the bags from the cart to the trunk. If he wants to come home with me and help me carry them from the trunk to my kitchen and then put them away…well, for that I’d give him ten Rand, but this?

And it’s not just parking lot attendants. It’s the gas station too. Do you know I haven’t pumped my own gas since I moved to South Africa? It’s not laziness, people – there’s no option to do it yourself. You pull up, someone directs you where to go, they ask what you need, they take your gas card, they wash your windows, they check your tires. It’s nice, I guess, but once again, I can do it myself, thanks. But I don’t – actually, I’m not allowed to – so once the credit card slip is signed I find myself handing over a fiver for a service that I didn’t request.

I know pointless services happen in America too. The bathroom attendant comes to mind. There’s nothing more irritating than feeling obliged to leave a dollar in a basket because some joker has handed me a paper towel. But that was never an every day thing…at least not for someone like me who rarely went to clubs or fancy bars. The parking lot attendant though…there he is. Every time. Everywhere.

Am I just being cheap? I don’t think so. To prove it’s not about the money, I will cite an example that doesn’t even require tipping. The movie theater. When the show is over, I routinely reach down to pick up the empty popcorn tub and diet coke, and each time, Roger has to remind me to leave it. There aren’t any large trash cans at the exit in which I could deposit the evidence of my overindulgence anyway. The staff will come in afterward to collect trash and clean up. Sure, movie theaters in America have a clean up crew too, but here, you’re really not even supposed to pick up your trash. My sister-in-law scolded me the first time we went to the theater together. “What are you doing, man? This is Africa; you could put someone out of a job for doing that.”

She's right, I guess. I'm starting to recognize that all of this willingness to 'help' is probably a good thing. These people aren’t stealing or living off the government. They are eager to work for their money…it’s not really work that needs to be done, in my opinion, but it creates a job in an economy that desperately needs them. So, I guess I’m just a bitch. In my defense, however, I can promise you that I will continue to hand over a five Rand whenever someone transfers my groceries from the cart to the trunk. And I will leave my trash behind at the movie theater. I will not pump my own gas. I will continue to contribute to the South African economy.

But I’m afraid the attempt to hide from the parking lot attendant is instinctual. And maybe kinda fun. Hell, if I look at it that way, I suppose if he can catch me he deserves the five Rand.

And at least as long as I’m here, perhaps I will maintain my good record of parking lot performances. And that’s a good thing… I guess…

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

It’s that time of year again. The baseball playoffs are approaching; college football has started at last…but much to my dismay, I’m not sitting in a bar with a pitcher of beer and buffalo wings. No, I’m in Africa, unable to watch American sports (Of course, after the way UGA performed last weekend, I’m not sure I want to!). It’s ironic actually. Finally, I’m not spending my Saturday’s working, and yet, I still can’t watch football.

I am a sporty girl. Not sporty in the sense that I can throw a ball without considerable embarrassment, or catch – well, anything, but sporty in the sense that I like sports. I’m not one of those women who whines about my husband’s fantasy football league (tease, yes; whine, no). I certainly understand his passion for Arsenal, the English soccer team he grew up supporting. I don’t even mind his English and South African pride when it comes to national tournaments. Soccer, rugby, cricket, tennis, football…I get it. He loves sports.

Now, here it is – you knew it was coming – the big fat BUT.

I understand that he loves sports, but lately, it’s non-stop. It’s one never-ending ballgame. No matter what day of the week, what time of day – there always seems to be a ‘big game’ on. After all, when you support twenty-seven different teams, one of them always seems to be playing. Or one of their big rivals – who, of course, must be closely monitored as well. It’s true; he has always supported these teams, but in Atlanta – even with our platinum cable package and weekly pay per view bills – there were limits to what he was able to watch. No one would broadcast the England/Sri Lanka cricket match (a five day affair by the way) or the Durban/Gauteng rugby game. In South Africa, however, these games are in high demand, so lucky boy – he can see it all. He can even catch a few middle-of-the-night NFL games on ESPN International. That’s right ESPN. Even in Africa, there is no escaping Sports Center. We also get the British Sky Sports News, just in case we didn’t get enough information from the seven South African all-sports-all-the-time channels.

I’ve considered the fact that perhaps lately I am less tolerant because I don’t really understand these foreign sports. I’m willing to learn though, and perhaps the part of me that cried during the UGA/UT game last year needs a new place to direct my energy. So, I’ve watched a few rugby games on TV; I’ve inquired about the rules of cricket and even sat through a few half hour segments of the seemingly endless matches, but I’m just not there yet. Rugby is kinda growing on me, I guess. At least the game lasts a reasonable amount of time (and the players are often quite ruggedly handsome). Cricket on the other hand – well, any game that breaks for ‘tea’ is just a little too ridiculous for me. It’s often compared to baseball, but I see very few similarities. Baseball is simple. One, two, three strikes you’re out. Or you hit the ball and run. Not so in cricket. Six pitches, nine wickets, twenty overs, fifty overs, unlimited overs. Roger will explain it to me during one game, but by the next I’m lost all over again.

To make my point – a lesson in scoring.

Baseball:
“Who’s winning?”
“Braves, 5 to 3, bottom of the seventh.”
“Great!”

Cricket:
“What’s the score?”
“England has 157 runs for 6 wickets after 62 overs.”
“So, who’s winning?”
“Well, Australia hasn’t been up yet.”
“Hasn’t the game been on for two days already?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oookay.”

Roger insisted that I would only appreciate the game after experiencing it live. He had a point – part of my love for baseball comes from my early memories of cheering on the Braves at Fulton County Stadium. Plus, who can resist a ballpark hotdog? So Roger got us tickets, and Tuesday night we attended the opening ceremony of the 20/20 Cricket World Cup followed by the South Africa versus West Indies match. Now, the 20/20 version of cricket lasts about four hours as opposed to five days, so it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was kind of fun. Seeing it live, with a husband patient enough to explain it to me for the fifteenth time, was exciting. And he was right, with all that beer and junk food, I was bound to have a good time.


So maybe I’ll come around to cricket, but I’m afraid that won’t change my status as a sports widow. I certainly love American football, but I wouldn’t watch NFL games all day either. So, what to do? No one wants to be the nagging wife, begging her husband to spend time with her. I used to feel sorry for those women – clearly they needed to get a life of their own. Yet here I am, alone again on a Saturday while Roger and his dad watch Arsenal. I’m hoping we can go see a movie later, but I suspect the rugby or the cricket or the tennis or the Formula One racing will once again take precedence. I’ve asked Roger to make me a chart, so I’ll know when I can make plans for us that don’t involve sports. He hasn’t come up with it yet, and I suspect it has something to do with the fact that until both the Rugby World Cup and the Cricket World Cup are over – I’ll be a party of one.

I’m sure I’ll cope. Now that the weather is getting warm and I’m in my own house, I can do my own thing. I didn’t get married for a twenty-four hour companion, anyway. I’d like him to notice I’m alive occasionally, but if that doesn’t happen until the end of October I’m sure I’ll manage. Besides, if the worst thing I can say about Roger is that he’s obsessed by sports, I consider myself lucky.

And when he comes looking for me next month, well, he can find me and my laptop by the pool…

You Must be THIS Tall...

When I was six or seven my parents took Darby and me to Six Flags Over Georgia. I was desperate to ride the newest roller coaster, the Z Force. We waited in line for awhile, but as we approached the final stretch we came to the dreaded sign. It was the sign that had almost kept me off Space Mountain two years previously, the same sign that had banned me from the Gravitron. You know the one, usually printed on a wooden cut out of some obnoxious cartoon character – the “You Must Be THIS Tall to Ride” sign. I fought back tears while my father argued with the man guarding off munchkins like myself. My mom quietly slipped out of line with me. A few hours later though, Munchkin Guard went on break and my dad decided we’d try to sneak past New Guy. New Guy was not quite so attentive. Mission accomplished.

I think our rule breaking caused a bit of a fight between my parents (not that it took much). My mom felt that the rule was there to protect me and that my father was wrong to sneak me past the guard. While I would have argued the point at age seven, looking back I can see that she was probably right. At forty inches tall, maybe the seat belt wouldn’t fasten right on my little body. Perhaps I risked slipping out from the handle bar. Maybe my brain wasn’t developed enough to handle the head-rattling ninety seconds of the Z Force.

As it turned out, I survived. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, but it was nothing compared to the emotional Z Force I am currently riding. And once again, I feel like I have slipped past the Munchkin Guard. I certainly don’t feel emotionally ‘tall enough’ for the ups and downs of this life I’ve chosen. One minute I’m Meryl Streep in Out of Africa and the next I’m Sally Field in Not Without my Daughter (or dog in my case!). Last week I was curled up in my old bed at my Mom’s house; this week I’m tossing and turning on a new mattress in a cottage in Africa. One minute I’m crying in the bathroom, the next I’m dancing with Roger in our very own kitchen. Yesterday I was thrilled to be shopping for cookware at Mr. Price Home, and today I’m nauseous over the fact that I own things I can’t take home with me. I can no longer simply pack up my bags and leave. I own a car; I’ve purchased furniture; I have to pay taxes. Pardon me while I hyperventilate.

While the reality of having my own place to live is freaking me out considerably, I am relieved beyond words to be out of my in-laws’ house. We’re still waiting on a few things (a sink in the bathroom? Who needs it?), but we’ve moved into the cottage, and it’s really cute (pictures coming soon). I know I should be ecstatic – and I am – but I’m sad too. Tonight Darby called and I spent the first half of the conversation excitedly telling her all about our new place and the second half fighting back tears. I'm sure this is why men say women are crazy. We have the unique ability to simultaneously feel seventeen opposing emotions. This often results in laughing, crying, shouting, pouting and smiling – all in the span of twenty minutes. My husband simply squeezes my hand and tells me he loves me. The man deserves a medal.

I’m okay, really. But just like I knew it would be, coming back to Africa after such a short time with everyone I love at home, well, it was heartbreaking. It’s not that I’ve changed my mind about our move, I just want to pack up the people I love and take them with me…but that’s not possible. And I can’t be in two places at once, hard as I may try via the phone, email, and this far too revealing blog.

I have to admit, it was hard to sit down and write this weekend. I wasn’t really sure what to say. Most of you tune in for the neurotic-but-witty version of me, but tonight I’m not feeling very witty (okay, maybe I’m never that witty but please let me hold onto my delusions!). To be honest, ever since I hugged my sister goodbye Monday afternoon, my brain is feeling a bit rattled. It’s the Z Force all over again. Then again, while the Z Force gave me a serious headache, I still went back for more. I think I rode it three times that day. So perhaps I subconsciously crave the emotional drama. Surely I didn’t think moving across the planet would be easy. Was I searching for an adventure… with a little angst on the side? After all, some of the best writers were tortured souls. So, maybe a mini-quarter-life crisis will be good for me (wow, I guess I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis, when did that happen?). Oh well, hopefully all this drama will be good for my ‘art.’

Hey, it kept your attention for the past three minutes.
Thanks for that…