i won, i won... I managed the costumes etc - ok, well, Monica managed the costumes... Have a look!

fall

So when I got back from the States, I had the plan all worked out in my head - get my masters here then take that knowledge back to Cleveland and study law at Case, hopefully while teaching a class or two re migrants, refugees, etc. We'd move to Cleveland Hts (not Washington DC) and I'd be happy, healthy, wealthy and wise. Steve was very confused in the -I'm sorry where did this law thing come from?-sort of way, but as I had it all worked out, I just wasn't phased.

So I gave myself one week to catch up on sleep and figure out what continent I was on, then I spent the second week figuring out what was happening at work. I think I can be forgiven for waiting until the third week after my return to have a good look at the application procedures for Wits. So Monday I started looking and I couldn't find an admissions deadline anywhere online, so I phoned.

"Yes, the deadline for that programme is the 30th"

"Of this month?"

"Yes"

Shittttttt - "This Friday?"

"Yes"

So thats what I've been doing this week, arranging transcripts and writing an essay and asking other people to take time out of their life to write me references and updating my cv / resume and and and...

And for the past few days it has felt like fall/autumn, so it all seemed so perfect in my head: the stress, the cool breezes, sporting my new KSU hoodie, a desire to drink beers (only from green bottles though - not an overall urge). So I was feeling very confident that it would all work out.

So, somehow, today I submitted my application to obtain a Masters in Forced Migration Studies from the University of the Witswatersrand. Yeh! Being on campus was great and it felt like moving forward again. And it is such a gorgeous fall day.

Later on, I had an email from Monica (of American couple fame) who said she was working on her application to Wits and shes excited because its fall and fall always means school. I wrote back that I was feeling the exact same way.

Here's the problem. Should I be accepted into the programme, classes will only start in February - at the height of summer. Meaning - thats right - its only springtime here and fall is only in my head... I really hope that my lack of understanding re seasons doesn't stand in my way of getting in.

for relaxing times...

When you run out of money and you are still waiting for a replenishment of supply – you just have to learn to make do. I usually switch over to raman as my staple supply of food (called 2 minute noodles here, which of course is appropriate, but I still call them raman). And when it really gets down to the wire, I have a knack for making meals out of nothing. Last night I made pierogies from scratch (that’s right, mixing up the dough myself).

Usually, when we get this poor, Steve switches from cheap Castle beer in cans to 17 year aged Japanese whiskey. What??? Yep. For fiscally difficult times, make it Suntory time. It was a gift and there it sat on our shelf, used only for when we could not replenish the Castle supply. When not pregnant, I usually have wine or girly drinks or gin and tonic. (Don’t ask, I just haven’t developed a taste for beer here – not that there aren’t better beers than Castle – cause there are – I blame it on the altitude or something.)

Well sometime during our last broke spree, Steve finished the bottle of Suntory (so if it sat on the shelf for 3 years, does that make it 20-year-old whiskey?). So this time round, he was probably very concerned as our liquor shelf contained 1 x Malibu (and only I can enjoy that straight), 1 x Cranberry schnapps (again, mine) and 1 x Gordon’s gin (with only a little remaining). Imagine my surprise when a voice from the kitchen asked if I would like a G&T. Um, sure, but do we have any of the necessary T stuff? Really? Ok, I’m in.

As Steve got up to make another, I was standing in the kitchen (desperately trying to avoid my dwindling stash of graham crackers) and he stated that he would have to drink 5 litres of G&Ts to prevent malaria. What happened in my brain was something like this: I was told to drink 2 litres of water everyday when I was getting dehydrated during my pregnancy with Oscar and that was damn near impossible. But I don’t like water, so maybe G&T would be easier. Hold on, 5 litres is a fucking lot of G&T. I wonder how many gin & tonics, measured in litres it would take me to get drunk. And I bravely tried to do that sort of math in my head. Now look, this all happened in the space of about 3 seconds. Then it hit, sorry, did you say, "to prevent malaria"?

He mumbled something about quinine in tonic water and with the levels present in the 1 litre bottle, you’d need like 5 litres to do this. But he had already lost me on the word quinine. I become completely lost. Yeah, people across Africa have been drinking gin & tonic for centuries to prevent malaria. Didn’t you know that? Everyone knows that. But you don’t really need the gin, do you? No, just the tonic water. I was completely baffled, how had this escaped my attention? How did "everyone" else know. Well, I took momentary comfort in believing that it was probably not true. But it is, quinine has been used as a cure or a preventative for malaria for over 300 years. More, it is better than some medications developed in laboratories (please pronounce this as lab-ra-toe-rees, not lab-or-a-trees when reading this aloud – especially useful pronunciation tip for non-Americans) because certain strains of malaria have become mutated and are drug resistant.

Then I opened the fridge and noticed 3 cans of Castle lager just sitting on the shelf, waiting for Steve. I assumed he just didn’t want to mix his drinks. No, he says, Castles are the best, so I am saving them for last. One good thing, despite my lack of alcohol trivia knowledge, is that its nice to know that he doesn’t know everything either. I mean, everyone knows Sammy Smith’s Pure Brewed Lager is the best (unless Killians are going for $1 on draft).

www.straightdope.com/classics/a990813.html incase you are interested in how quinine prevents malaria...

chakalaka

When I was at Erich’s, I noticed the tin of Chakalaka sitting on the shelf above his stove. I sent this tin in response to a conversation we had about what people eat in South Africa. I said people eat chicken. Its not an exaggeration. People here eat a lot of chicken. But chicken wasn’t a good enough answer for Erich, he needed more than a list of one I believe. So I added in Paap (pup), which is also referred to as Mealie Meal (mee-lee meal), coming from mealies which is what I call corn. Here you can say corn, but I think it is predominantly called maize or mealies. Maize I understand and mealies is an Afrikaans word. In any case paap is kind of like polenta. A list of two was clearly rather unsatisfying and I was pressed for more… Um, chakalaka. People eat chakalaka with their paap. It’s a fun word to say so Erich and I bantered it about for awhile and of course a description was necessary. Its kind of like salsa, you know, tomatoes, onions, chillies – that kind of thing.

"What else?" Boerewors (see previous blogs), biltong (also previously mentioned), ostrich, springbok (lion fodder), then I started running out of interesting things to say. Um, there’s naartjies, which is a South African orange (and way better than the oranges available generally in the States). Naartjie by the way is pronounces nar-chi. That "tjie" still screws with me though. A potjie is pronounced poy-key and is (after much household discussion around the subject) a three-legged Dutch oven that is used for making stews at braais and other outdoor eating experiences.

Basically South Africans eat the same things (less my running American shopping list of Taco Bell, Combos, Graham Crackers, Ranch dressing and the like) – some things are just called differently. "And you eat biltong and chakalaka?" Actually no, I eat McDonalds and KFC and Subway (I’ve eaten all three on 4 different continents – suggesting, perhaps, a long-standing issue with American food). And I eat bacon and eggs and ham sandwiches and spaghetti and steak. I still don’t eat cheese no matter where I go though. (Okay, some carefully placed cheddar on tacos is acceptable, so long as it is not melted.)

But I do like Nando’s a lot, a South African grilled chicken chain (which is actually based on Portuguese style chicken). And I always order the Sprigbok carpaccio at Wombles, my favourite restaurant. Ditto that sentiment with the Ostrich burger at Moyo (which certainly ranks within my top 5 restaurants). Although I usually order the Mpumalanga (go ahead – try that one out) Salad when we go there at dinnertime. On the British tip, we often have bangers and mash and (meat) pies. And in line with the things that SA ex-pats miss, I really like Mrs Balls Chutney.

Whatever. I don’t think anyone but Holly spends this much time or energy contemplating food. Yet, I am completely comforted by the little stash I have at home right now. Really, its like a little shelter from everything. I kept the tin of pumpkin Julie gave me for well over a year before I caved. So Erich, keep the chakalaka up on the shelf for as long as you like. I understand. I’ll bring you another tin next time I come home so you can try it. In the meantime, the ladies from "How Clean Is Your House?" suggest applying a coat of clear nailpolish to the bottom of your tin to prevent rust…

graham cracker fiasco

So before I made the pilgrimage back to Cleveland, I was busy growing my obsession with American things and especially all things Cleveland. For example, I never minded baseball and I was starting to like it alot before I left, but since I have been here, I've gone crazy and I whine about the fact that ESPN here plays one baseball game a week and thats at like 3 in the morning on Monday nights. Whats worse is that I have actually stayed up late to watch said baseball games, just because.

So of course my Taco Bell and other obsessions grew exponentially at the same time. I was visiting the TB website regularly and still checking out Old Navy's specials, even though they don't ship internationally.

Look it doesn't help that the things I want are really pretty unknown here. Combos, graham crackers, The Christmas Story, Cleveland. Oh no wait, they do know Cleveland here, because the only thing Cleveland has exported is the world's worst TV show. Ok, its not the worst, but its hardly worth watching and it really isn't the way I need my hometown being portrayed. (Maybe I should have chosen the "Defend Cleveland" t-shirt.) But, in my madness, I started watching the first five minutes of the show on a regular basis just to see the skyline during the intro. Everyone around me pretended to understand - but I am not too sure that there is any excuse for watching the Drew Carey show, is there?

In any case, I went home and ate pizza rolls and taco bell everyday - because I couldn't take those home - and stocked up on dry goods, canned goods, bottled goods, etc to bring home. Half of my luggage was a grocery supply. And everyone, save my immeadiate family had their gifts purchased at Big Fun, so that I could keep them nice and small. (And they'd never heard of Garbage Pail Kid Cards before - soooo - okay, they are crap gifts and I was selfish.)

So you can imagine how I freaked out today when Felix took a packet of graham crackers off the counter and ran around the house to escape my clutches, throwing little bits of craker into the air as he ran. It was not the crumbs on the floor I was worried about. (Last time he ran like that, he had a ketchup bottle upside down and was squeezing it as he ran from room to room. I was worried about the mess then.) No, what I was worried about was the graham crackers to floor and graham crackers to Katie ratios. It wasn't really working out in my favour, you see.

In any case, I hold the graham cracker fiasco directly responsible for what later: I watched the Drew Carey show, not just to see the skyline, the whole damn show - and I even laughed.

I think I need to frame one of my treasured skyline postcards and place it on top of the TV - or I need a guaranteed and regular delivery of graham crackers to South Africa. Anyone care to spare me from Drew Carey hell?

soul-less

So as an American outside of the United States, you get used to getting a lot of flak about the American culture - or as the rest of the world sees it, the lack thereof. At least I thought I had gotten used to it. Look I haven't been everywhere, by all means, but I've got experience on 3 different continents, 4 if you count North America. In Australia, the US is alright, but kinda far away and nothing in comparison to Australia. In Europe, the US is new and uneducated and nothing in comparison to Europe. Here in Africa, the US is soul-less and the enemy and nothing in comparison to Africa.

Now, it is safe to say that I have pretty traditionally adopted the European point of view on American culture. But since, my conversion to Cleveland - which only happened after I left for three years - I'm through the roof about American culture. And I am beginning to take great offense to the concept of America as soul-less.

I'm not quite prepared to say that Africa, South Africa, and South Africans are soul-less. Actually that is pretty far from what I want to say. If the music and the art and the style and the whatever of a place move you, I suppose some would call that soul. And I'm not saying that nothing about this place moves me, but the truth is that very little does. And that applies alot to the population general. I mean what good is "the soul" if you aren't sharing it with people. And look people here have their friends and family and I'm pretty sure that there is some soul sharing going on. But people here are often downright unpleasant to be close to and I often wonder why I am sharing the air with them.

The unpleasantness, as far as I can tell, comes from fear. Everybody here is afraid - for themselves, for their friends and family, for their things. And what does everybody fear? Everybody else. So no one is particularly nice. No one goes out of their way. No one will get close enough to help you out for a second.

Case in point. Standing at the top of an escalator with the stroller / pram with Oscar in it and no other way down and I've got a piece of luggage to boot. How does one get down, knowing that it all has to get down in one go? Well, you can stand there for 15 minutes looking helpless, hoping someone will assist (as I did), or you can ask someone who works there so that they can send you to the other end where they swear is an elevator/lift, which there isn't (as I did), and you can march up to some gay German tourists and respectfully demand their assistance (as I did). Then you find yourself facing a curb of no challenge in the States (Cleveland Heights to be specific) and the first person by asks if you need assistence getting up on to the sidewalk. And as you manage to get up before they've even finished the question, they say something nice and wish you a pleasant rest of the day.

I call that soul. And it moves me.

current score

So I haven't done an exact count or anything, but it is about 6 weeks to Halloween. If I was tucked safely in to my other life back in Cleveland, this would hardly be anything to comment on. However, here I am 10,000 miles away from any Halloween costumes, with two little boys who must be taught the rituals of trick or treat and a logistical nightmare ahead of me to make this possible.

Fortunately I am not alone. Last year, probably almost exactly, I picked up some stranded Americans at Exclusive Books. And for the 2 odd weeks they camped out at my house, it was like a little vacation home. And when they left, the house was oddly quiet and deserted feeling. Hoping, I think, to re-create this lovely feeling, Steve "picked up" another American couple for me two months ago. He met them at the pizza place. I'm not exactly sure of the conversation, but it must have gone something like this:
(upon hearing the accent) "Where are you guys from?"
(knowing the accent was a dead giveaway and bracing for the imminent criticism) "We're American"
"my wife's American. She's homesick. Be her friend."
(thankful to not have to once more apologise for Bush) "yes, we just got here and we don't know anyone yet"
(number swapping)

That settled, I phoned Monica (the female counterpart of the America couple) the next day and we arranged to hav drinks a few nights later. It was a nice night. We swapped stories on how we got here and I think I may have talked alot about Combos. Monica was bound home for a few weeks and she left with grocery list in hand. So she left and then, surprisingly, so did I.

In Mentor, having lost my sandals (and prior to their subsequent re-entry into my life from underneath the couch), I went shopping for a new pair and as we were right there, my mom & I stopped into Burlington to look for a pair. No luck on the sandals, but they had some amazing Halloween costumes for all of $12. My mom offered, but had to go and get some cash first. I, being all flustered about stores not carrying a basic black, high-heeled, open-toed sandal, decided that we should just get out of the area as soon as possible. I bought a pair of sandals within the hour at another store and then went to browse the most amazing collection of yarn I have ever seen at Jo-Ann Fabrics. Costumes, halloween, and shopping for small boys then escaped my mind altogether. Which didn't matter anyway, cause how was I going to pack them?

Monica, having returned from the States while I was still there, with the much discussed Combos, could not find my number, but having no idea that I had gone to the States, waited patiently for me to find her number. But she saw Steve at the Zoo Lake Jazz Festival first - with another woman. Having no idea that the was just our friend Jude, she marched right up to him and demanded my phone number. Whole story gets explained and Monica decides to keep one box of graham crackers for herself while she awaits my return. I phone and damn near the first thing out of my mouth is, "did you buy Halloween costumes while you were there?" Nope, but she thought maybe we could get some patterns and get someone to sew them for us. Hmmm, I had already tried to order the patterns with no success. But she is conviced that a good seamstress should be able to pull something together. And we agree that 6 weeks is like next week as far as Halloween is concerned. But no time for that now.

Yesterday, the American couple and the other woman come to our house for a braai (which is Afrikaans for get drunk while waiting for the boys to decide the fire is right for adding meat to it and then putting it on the table when everyone is so ravenous they don't notice the eating boerewors - which is Afrikaans for "Afrikaans sausage") and the Americans bring hamburgers, cause thats what you bring to a cookout, right? And after they are forgiven for not yet knowing that you bring lambchops or what have you (Katie says, "just go to the grocery store and buy a slab of meat - I mean it, a slab of meat...") we talk about life here, life there, in between dealing with the plethora of hungry and demanding boys.

On the way out, I mention that we still have Halloween around the corner, which is what it is when costumes are not readily available and you are more likely to be eaten to death by guard dogs than receive candy when knocking on someones door. But I'm tired and they're on their way out - so there's no time for that now.

Current score: Halloween-1, unprepared moms-0...

star newspapers

The thing I hate most about Jo'burg is people standing in the middle of the street - vendors, beggars, etc. It drives me insane, first having to dodge these people when I am driving by and secondly having my space imposed upon everytime I am stopped at a light (which by the way is called a robot here - don't ask, cause I can only speculate myself). I really don't want giftbags, garbage bags, sunglasses, toys, flowers, fruit, vegetables, cellphone accessories, you name it being forced upon me every block or so. I really don't want it. The beggars are even worse. The blind (many of them Zim refugees I believe) "hire" a sighted person and then they go from car to car at the "robots" begging for money. There are also people missing limbs, mothers with babies (which drives me really crazy) and the people holding signs blessing me in exchange for food or work. Also present at intersections are the so-called service providers. These people wash your windscreen/windshield persistently despite any and all overtures to the contrary and then demand their money. There are also the trash collectors which might just be the worst as pretty generally these are the people that give me the "die white bitch" look when I deny their service & therefore the two rand "owing" to them. And if you've "got nothing, really", you still get hit up for a smoke. Driving here becomes strategic, avoiding the worst places if possible - though there is rarely anywhere that is vendor/beggar free, except on the residential-only streets and being as cartographically challenged as I am, I kind of need to stick to the main roads.

So a couple of months ago, I found myself, strangely "adopting" one of the newspaper vendors (which by the way is the only breed of corner people that I find to be legitimate). I don't really know what happened, but every Saturday and Sunday I would drive by with the kids on the way to the grocery store and this guy was really friendly and non-intrusive and accepted the first time round that I wasn't interested in the paper. (You get a lot of - "but my business is doing so badly, just buy, I need...." What? I haven't been home in three years and the end of every month is a disaster & I should support you just because?) Then one day I had to screech to a halt at this particular corner because of some truck (that was clearly more important than me), cutting me off. And this guy caming running up to make sure the kids were ok - not to sell me a newspaper. So he was in. The next day I bought a paper. And every Saturday and Sunday since. We have a small chat. I give him a smoke, that he doesn't ask for, but certainly appreciates. Thats it, my one and only friendly interaction at the corner of Jan Smuts and Bolton.

Then I was rudely interupted by a "service provider" of the garbage collecting kind. He just appeared one day and was persistent in his pursuit of my money. Just 10 cents, c'mon, I'm not even asking for a rand. The answer is no, more no, and a bit more, um, NO! And he keeps bothering me. Look I go through that particular intersection, alot and although 10 cents a day is only R365 annually, the guy is just not deserving as I get a lot of the "die white bitch" look from him. One look in particular starts to really disturb me and I am so tempted to call the police. I mean these people aren't supposed to be here anyway and this is getting out of hand. Instead, I tell my newspaper vendor. He sorts it. He asks me to point out which one and then makes him come to my car and explain his actions and apologise to me. Problem solved. Friendly corner again.

Today was my first Saturday at the corner since returning to Jo'burg. And there was my newspaper guy - ready and waiting.
"Where have you been?"
"I went home to the States for awhile"
"I was worried something happened to you when I didn't see you two weeks in a row"
"No, everythings fine, but thanks for your concern"
"And the kids"
"They're well"
"Welcome home, see you tomorrow"

I wonder if thats what being home is - when you have a newspaper vendor concerned about you and your family. Now, if I only could really make Six my bar, I might be able to make it through the next couple of years...

vits

When I was 6, we moved from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin (pronounced fond-da-lack wiss-caa-n-sin) to Mentor, Ohio (pronounced men-ner o-hi-yo). I was six, so I don't really remember much of what was happening, except we were moving to a big house in the same city as Garfield's house. Like the cat - wow that was exciting - no like the President. I was six, I didn't care too much about presidents past or present. I do remember being told however, that soda was called pop and bubblers were called water fountains. Just a heads up on that one and when you are six, those things are important.

Flash forward, it has just occurred to me that Cleveland isn't called Cleveland, its pronounced cleve-lin or perhaps cleve-lind depending on the liaison with the next word. And I have discovered that this may indeed be the biggest stumbling block in my objective to successfully promote Cleveland in South Africa.

Q: "Where are you from?"

A: "I'm from Cleve-lind"

Q: "Where?"

A: "Cleve-lind... Cleve-land"

Q: "Oh - Ohio, Cleve-land rocks" (which by the way is pronounced with an "a" not an "o" if you come from the rockin city of Cleveland - consequently this also becomes a problem). "And you prefer it here, hey?" (let me not answer that question)

Now reverse the situation. I'm hanging out with Geoff and he says this is one of my oldest, bestest friends visiting from South Africa.

Q: "South Africa?"

A: "South Africa."

Q: "Where in South Africa?"

A: "Jo'burg"

Q: "Huh?"

A: "Johannesburg"

Q: "Oh, Johannesburg. Do you like it there?" (meaning of course that they have no idea where Johannesburg is located although everyone who lives here is pretty convinced that this is indeed the centre of the universe - the answer is .... Jo'burg, not 42 kind of thing)

Without taking too much notice of the way the stereotypical Q responds when they have narrowed down which two places I belong to, lets go back to the difficulties in communication. I actually have a preference for calling Johannesburg "Jozi" which is quite acceptable here, but certainly an unknown place in Cleveland, just as "shy-town" (phonetically in order to give a better example of the confusion) would be here. In any case, I was a little concerned that Jo'burg was a little un-recognisable. I mean I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have said Jo-han-es-burg in full. Look, I still don't say Durbs, but thats really because I think it sounds lame. It is a much classier city when pronounced "Dur-ban".

So thinking back to a year or two ago, Steve was having an issue with the pronounciation of Kabul as "cobble" - which really is a bastardisation I believe. Look, I don't get offended when people say men-tor or cleve-land, nor do I get offended when people say men-ner or cleve-lin. Its kind of one of those things that isn't important. My sister used to live in Loo-a-vul and Nawr-lins is 50nder water, but whatever. So the actual pronounciation doesn't bother me, what bothers me is having to repeat myself over and over again. I do this enough with the kids, why on earth should I have to do this with adults? I mean, does anything else come to mind when you hear Cleve-lind? Of course not (though please correct me if I am wrong). I think what actually happens is people want me to say I am from New York so they can say that they've been there or that their friend has and so on and so forth. But I'm simply not gonna do it. And thanks to my recent investment into Cleveland t-shirts, I can now say "I'm from Cleve-lind" and point to my t-shirt for proper spelling of the city. This will however pose a problem when I go back to the States with a Wits t-shirt. I mean, "I go to the University of the Witswatersrand" will hardly be an easy one to point at as it is pronounced vits-va-ters-raant. This is why of course it is called Wits (vits) - cause its way easier, just like men-ner.

registration situation

In South Africa, your vehicle registration comes in the form of a small circular disc which must be displayed in the lower corner of the passenger side of the front windscreen (windshield – as you will…). This happens in other places as well – Pennsylvania for instance – however, when you are required to affix something to your car in Pennsylvania, the cleverly supply you with that something in a self-adhesive format. But despite the South in it, this is still Africa, so of course the registration disc is not self-adhesive. More, the disc doesn’t even come in disc format – no, it comes as part of a regular sheet of paper and you need to practice your cutting skills to make it in to disc format. Then you have to find a circular sticker larger than the (not un-reasonably sized) disc so that you can affix the much discussed disc to your car.

In any case, the annual change of the vehicle registration disc was due to take place while I was home home (see previous entries for explanation on that one) so I figure I will pick up some circular stickers while there. What is the point of representing the local grocery store when I can in some way represent Cleveland and we all know I’ve got the I-love-Cleveland-bug in a big way? And the sticker has to be there for a year anyway, so… I figure I’ve got a pretty wide range of sticker choices, haven’t I? So I start looking.

The first stop is the Indians store back at the Mentor mall because I’ve got to go there anyway. No circular stickers though. No problem. I go up to Lakeland to visit some friends. No round stickers. Kent State – nope again. Record Rev. No. Big fun. No. High Tide. No. Record Den. No. At this point I start getting desperate because the only place I can really think to go is Ohio Surf & Skate and I really don’t want to have to make that stop because Ultrasound has moved next door. So I try tower city – like 3 different shops. No love. The Rock Hall. No. The Science Centre. Nope. I even went into Hot Topic to have a look and was rather relieved when I didn’t have to purchase anything from them. I went really crazy looking for one, just one damn circle sticker. I was obsessed and time was running out. It had to be done. The Surf & Skate mission was planned. I walk in and as the stickers are pretty much the closest thing to the door, I went straight for them. Oh it was such a lovely sight to see so many stickers all piled up next to each other. But wait, whats this? One and only one sticker that is a circle big enough to affix my vehicle registration to my windscreen. And to top it all off, I don’t even recognise the logo. So I ask Tim, in fact I explain the entire non-adhesive vehicle registration situation to him. Tim tells me it’s a new shoe company. He shows me the shoes (I mean if I’m going to be representing them for a year, I at least want a look at their products). Not my favourite shoes, but at this point I was desperate and I took the sticker (in addition to a few other stickers & a t-shirt to add to my Cleveland collection). Relieved I walked away.

Today I affixed the vehicle registration to my car with my new sticker of a shoe company whose name I have already forgotten. And as I came back in and sat at my desk I realised that the damn sticker doesn’t represent Cleveland in any way at all. Its just a shoe company, despite the fact that it was purchased at Ohio Surf & Skate. A bit of a let down really. So when I got in the car to get some lunch this afternoon, I had a good long look at the sticker. And the crazy thing is that I had memories of the places I had been in the quest for the sticker just flying through my brain and I realised the sticker actually represents ‘my’ Cleveland better than any other sticker could hope to do as it took me everywhere I had to go. So some unknown shoe company is actually representing Cleveland to me for a whole year instead of me representing them. And now I know better. I’m starting now for next year. And I am accepting any and all donations from well meaning parties. In fact I think I will start a sticker chain mail…

stop all the downloading

I found Lee road. A bit backwards of course, I took 271 to Cedar and followed that through. I remembered last minute that Lee road comes off of 480 which is how one goes about getting to Cleveland from Kent. Coventry road intersects Cedar road (meaning of course that coming from Lee road, I would have turned left on to Cedar and taken that through until making a right onto Coventry, from there I would have normally turned right at Euclid Heights blvd and an immeadiate left into "my" parking). Some questions answered. More questions asked. Not quite meaning of life questions but certainly a bit more substantial than "where the fuck is Lee road?".

This week has been the most amazing dream (is this real?) of my life. From the minute I landed in Cleveland, I was impressed. I still look around me in awesome un-belief. For starters, this place is really clean. I mean it, everything looks so fresh, shiny and new. And everyone is so damn friendly, courteous at the minimum. Look, some things have changed, for sure. I can’t seem to find a blimpies to save my life and for some reason paninis Coventry has changed sides of the road. But overall, what has changed is me. Not in a bad way, I just appreciate the place more. I like where I come from. I have a strange desire to read the entire Les Roberts collection, I’m glad I’ve finally spent more time on the Westside than just “passin through” (though believe me, I am still a Cleveland Heights girl through and through), I’ve noticed things I’ve never seen before, I love Cleveland. Really. In a way that only the people who have previously heard me rant and rave will appreciate. I’m really digging the small minutes here – sitting on library steps, remembering whats coming up next on a street I haven’t traveled in over three years, the taste of my beer, the skyline, the airshow, Wade Oval pond with the girls, catch phrases (stop all the downloading), college bookstores, oh the music, (sorry, have I not yet mentioned) Taco Bell, white castle fries only come in one size, looking into a candle on the bar counter, remembering how to fill my own gas/petrol tank, opening my jewelry box, finding my gym bag, MLKJ blvd, old memories, older memories, oldo memories.

I have been thinking it for so long now, but really, its true. This place is home. It consumes me more sweetly that any breezy Geneva night, it loves me more than South Africa could ever hope to, it calls to me more than my promise to one day get back to Australia, it beckons me to walk its streets, to sing its songs, to find happiness on a Cleveland Hts park bench. I need to be here… and I hope we will be here for a long time, someday soon. I can not bear the otherwise…

landing

It was a little bit strange. I cried when the plane touched down in New York yesterday. I couldn't help it and I certainly didn't fully comprehend it, so I chalked it up to the fact that 18 hours on a plane with a 1 year old will totally screw up even the most level-headed of people. Fortunately, there were two guys sitting across the aisle who were willing to put the carry on up and down as needed in exchange for a share of the cookie supply that Oscar was allocated by the flight attendents which he got just for smiling. Truly, there are worse people to travel with than Oscar...

Eventually, I landed in DC and after the luggage was dealt with, we went straight to Taco Bell. Oscar was not the most responsive to the bites I gave him, but I have decided to chalk it up to disorientation before I write him off completely.

The grocery store was an experience. Aisle after aisle of brands and foods I have dreamt about and had previously decided were probably not real. How can staples like pizza rolls not exist worldwide? And I was carded buying beer at the grocery store. It hadn't even accurred to me to bring my passport with me. And then I was carded trying to buy a lighter. What the hell? I took this phenomenon as normal when I lived here, but yesterday, I finally understood the confusion of every previous international visitor.

Last night it was Papa John's with Pete's Wicked Ale. Lovely. And this morning I saw a squirrel. The heat is overpowering, and I've forgotten the way airconditioning "smells", but everytime I look at Julie, I'm not sure I've ever been away. But for now... off to show Oscar the capitol...

eish

countdown continues... We're looking at 25 hours before I leave the house. How absolutely strange I feel - as if I am watching someone else's life. And worse, its sort a bad copy and a little grainy and I can't quite make out the details. I guess its normal I mean, in all my travels its the first time I've felt the complete and total urge to go home and although I have felt at home in lots of places, its the first time I'm leaving home to go home and then come back home again. Isn't that a bit of a wierd one. I suppose not for most people, but I have suddenly adjusted to the fact that I have two homes and I guess I am still adjusting. Here in South Africa we would call Cleveland my "home home". Funny - but I think its Zulu that has "sky blue" and "tree blue" - I'm sure you can figure that one out...

25 hours and counting and I have only sort of packed, which I only did so we didn't use up all the clothes I want to take for Oscar. My clothes are a little easier to deal with (though my closet isn't the masterpiece of order it once was), lets see - 4 pairs of black pants (check), 2 pairs of cream pants (check), 1 skirt (check), 1 pair of jeans for the flight (check), 1 black dress (check), unknown quantity of black tank tops and assorted black shirts (check), 1 cream sweater (check), 1 black sweater (check), 1 jacket in case the heatwave ends (check), 2 pairs black shoes - including for travel - (check), 1 pair cream shoes (check), assorted pjs and underwear (check) DONE. (except toiletries) Oscar on the other hand, having just learned to walk and appreciating the act of getting dirty, but not being dirty requires (14 days / 2 - for laundry x 3 because he needs to be changed ALL the time) = 21 tops and bottoms + socks + shoes. But the real hassle lies in his accessories. 1 playpen for sleeping in (not yet packed away), 1 stoller (cover being washed and structure being bent back into shape), minimum 3 bottles + accessories, including bottle brush (still in use in the house, pack only at the last minute), 2 tins formula (not yet purchased), 1 cup for juice (not clean) sunscreen (where is it?), children's tylenol/panado (haven't purchased a 2nd bottle and Felix needs one here as well), quantity of diapers/nappies (not packed), package of wipes (still on changing table), favourite blanket (currently using for nap), favourite teddy (currently using for nap), few small toys for the plane (will pack last depending on room), 1 car seat (still in car), 2 pacifiers/dummies (currently using one for nap, bound to forget the second), assorted creams and other toiletries (lets hope I remember). And if I am lucky I will remember the passports, money and other relevent items when its time to go.

Of course, coming home (not home home) will be an even bigger challenge and I'm still not clear if I stand in the line/queue with South Africans or not, but I suppose if I throw out words like: yebo, howzit, china and lekker, they'll just wave me through. Eish this is Africa afterall and sometimes it werks, hey?

northern shore meets southern africa

I’m not going to lose my accent – either by choice or force of years. It is just too recognisable. It has softened up a bit, I will grant. It now sounds like I come from the middle of Lake Erie – not quite Cleveland, maybe a little more Canadian – but I don’t say the word ‘house’ funny or add eh? at the end of questions. Of course, South African’s tend to use the ending hey? at the end of questions (or more correctly that’s how they actually form the question). And I found out a few years ago that Clevelanders put unnecessary prepositions at the ends of sentences. (Where are my shoes at? – hey?) I of course do the same and had never noticed it and probably still do this without thinking.

However, I don’t think I’ve met any South Africans who have ever been to or met anyone else from Cleveland. And it must be noted further that when I guessed correctly that the guy in front of me at the video store was from Toronto – he said it was the first time in South Africa that anyone’s ever been able to guess correctly. I’m sure people ask him where in the States he’s from all the time. It can get annoying and I’m sure he has been annoyed, but at least he can say “I’m Canadian” without lying. To be honest, I’m not distressed in the least that my accent has moved me in to the Lake – with America’s foreign policy these days it doesn’t hurt to sound like you are from north of the North Shore when outside the States.

What does disturb me more and more is this question: So you like South Africa better, hey? How does one go about answering that? I’m sure there are possibilities I haven’t explored, but I have broken it down into three main categories of answers:

A) Yes. It’s a lie, but who cares really. Its not like the “asker” is really going to remember having asked the question 3 minutes on. I would like to note however, that this response is reserved almost completely for the following groups of people: 1. The Elderly, 2. Children (except mine), 3.Various other persons with whom communication is generally a problem (e.g. those who are only pretending they can speak English, those who really have a hard time communicating in any language, etc.)

B) No. It’s the truth, but it’s a really hard answer to give. What can I say, I don’t prefer it, but its where I live. This always leads to more challenging questions though: Q: Whats better about the States (A: Look, I didn’t say I prefer the States either or depending on the mood –service, prices of luxury items, pop culture, access to information, crime rates, but pretty generally the education systems are lacking in both countries, so we both lose) Q: Why are you still here? (A: Because I’ve been too busy having babies and subsequently wiping bums and noses to actually find an option somewhere else and I don’t want to imply that I am lazy, just tired) And so on and so forth. This answer is reserved for people I either really want to engage in conversation or for people I really don’t want to engage in conversation. My friends are supposed to understand and not ask dumb questions like this, but if it comes up – they deserve honesty. The second group of people – well I just don’t care if I offend them as they have probably already done something to offend me (like asking uncomfortable questions).

C) Well, I’m a little homesick right now – you see I haven’t been home in three years and my family and friends have never met - my family and friends. It’s the most diplomatic answer, of course, but I am really getting tired of saying this and it really is just avoiding the question actually.

Perhaps I could learn to fake a South African accent that I could put on and take off when necessary. It certainly would be a step closer to assimilating in to the population. But I think I am going to leave it at knowing: how to pronounce Lesotho and Vanderbijlpark, Ngubane and vd Merwe, understanding Mugabe jokes, spelling words with (the optional) u and ise, pronouncing z as “zed” (which really presents a problem at the end of the alphabet song, by the way), making use of the words queue, serviette, braii and nappy. On occasion I even say chips instead of fries, boot instead of trunk, jersey instead of sweater and I think I may have been fully converted into saying toilet or loo instead of bathroom. Ketchup is fortunately becoming an international word (see, McDonalds does good things) which is handy because no one understands when I say I want tuh-may-toe sauce. And although few Americans can tell the difference between English, Australian, South African accents, I can, and I will be aware of my failures in this regard. And in the end, it doesn’t really matter because most South Africans are too wrapped up in South Africa to believe that it might not be the best place on earth and so long as I answer yes to the question: So you prefer South Africa don’t you, hey? I can be spared another rendition of how lovely this place is. The unfortunate thing is that it means I am constantly lying to old people, young people and the English impaired. But at least most people see me as a rude Canadian rather a rude American.