I'm Sorry

For not updating sooner. I don't believe in long apologies, especially about something as trivial as a blog, but I have to say it and it will end at this full stop.

I had a going away party that lasted till 4am. The next night, I had to pack till 3am. Then I flew from Port Elizabeth, to Johannesburg, to London, to Amsterdam over the space of about 24 hours. Then, because my friends were only there for the weekend, we partied for two nights in a row. The following Monday, I had interviews and admin stuff to do. I flew back on Tuesday.

I do not like airports. Everyone in them would rather be somewhere else.

My five hour layover at Johannesburg international was made only slightly more bearable because I bought and read 'The Five People You Meet In Heaven' from cover to cover while I waited, which glossed over the thousands of people coming and going with a kind of white haze.

I'll just note here that on the day I flew, the Rand, South Africa's currency, dropped to its lowest in 6 years against the Pound. Suddenly, enough money to buy a new car back home became enough money for a week in a decent hotel.

In a very cliché manner, I arrived in a rainy London carrying two suitcases and a backpack, which is the synopsis of my life at this point. Clothes, a laptop and some toiletries. Several scribble pads.

I had to carry all of this through what I discovered is Britain's busiest train station, Clapham junction. Then find my way, in the rain, to my friend's house where I was due to stay.

A girl stopped me on the way, looking for signatures or donations for the Red Cross. She saw my cases and my backpack and asked

"Are you coming back from holiday then?"
"No."
"Are you going on holiday?"
"...No."
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm not exactly sure."

And we left it at that.

So naturally, after six days or so of two continents and one island, not sleeping, economy class seats, wondering the streets of Amsterdam till all hours of the night, on Wednesday I woke up on a couch, 'sick as a dog' as my father would say.

This sickness, whatever disease they inject foreigners with at Heathrow, lasted almost a week. During that time, I left the flat once to do some shopping and that was about it.

The rest of the time, I spent on the couch sleeping, sniffing and coughing.

I got better.

I eventually went out to start meeting the 6 billion South Africans who now live here and have all left at one point or another over the last 10 years or so. I met people from high school. From college. From work. Their accents all in varying degrees of decay.

I am not used to being able to understand every single conversation in the room. Everyone speaking English sounds like having the volume turned up too high on the TV.

I'm not going to have to get used to it because I'm flying back to Amsterdam tomorrow and start work on Monday. So hopefully the sounds of Dutch will replace the Afrikaans and there are enough other languages floating in the air to make me feel at least slightly, at home.