Rain or Shine

RAIN


I breathe deeply,

the wind washing over my face

enveloping my body in its scent—

that metallic feeling

just before a storm

      Today's weather couldn't have ben more bizarre: we went from 90 degrees and blazing sunshine—plus humidity—to a blacked out sun, lost in a once-blue sky, now riddled with sweeping gray cloud-cover. Small mannequin birds dart and dash for cover; they know a storm's coming: so much for being “bird-brained” I suppose

     Maggie, Pilipili (“pee-lee-pee-lee,” Swahili for chili pepper), Carina and I have just survived our second power outage—third if you count the one our landlord instigated. The longest one was about three and a half hours, so nothing too serious. When the neighborhood went dark the first time, I told Maggie she could have ice cream with some frozen raspberries because, you know, it was gonna go bad and melt! We might as well enjoy it while we had the chance; the power was back an hour later.

C'estla vie. Such is life


     For the record, this is what me writing in the dark looks like.  I think it looks wicked cool.

 

     Stranger than the rest of the day was waking up, and still seeing gray. Usually, starting around four in the morning, en la madrugada, the sun shines it's way-too-much-of-a-chipper-morning-person attitude through my double windows and onto to my obviously angelic appearance. But not this time; my alarm went off and I was completely taken aback, thinking I must have set it incorrectly. Wrong! It was time to break free from my cozy nest of blankies and start the day

     Rainy days present a myriad of opportunities.  One of the girls favorite games would easily be the "hiding in the cupboard and everybody knows it" enterprise—a wise choice really, since this can go on for hours

     Another simplicity that never fails to entice Madame Maggie? puddle splashing. And the only thing that could make puddling better than it already is would be doing it in the nude, with her favorite coo-coo-cousin Lily (who was fully clothed at the time!)

      As for myself, I give myself the chance to make ridiculously adorable toddler food, like so. In general, I try to entertain as many grandiose schemes as possible, but this is one of my simpler convivialities come to life

     This is my super adorable apple-caterpillar cut from one apple!  How you might ask?  Half of the apple was green and the other half was red, so I decided to go for it, thin-slice-style and all!  Raisins for the eyes, and the stem cut in half for antennae.  Good stuff.   Maggie has also decided she's super into cucumber all of a sudden, which is fine by me-- veggies for the win!

     Lastly, rainy days also mean an additional excuse to bake tasty treats, as if we Rumbergerls need an excuse, bah!  So be sure to check out the Lily-Maggie collaborative effort that resulted in some delicious, but long-lived almond biscotti

SHINE

     But what about SUNNY days, you ask. Isn't this Africa? Why am I not sweltering under that pseudo-mythological “African sun”? Have no fear, thou ignorant knaves! There is indeed plenty of sun to go around here as well, and we've filled them to the brim with other fun pastimes. Namely, there was a public holiday last Wednesday—I know, super random, in the middle of the week and everything—meaning no school, no work, no problems.  

      That day we took a drive to Sheffield Beach; in addition to being an excellent not-too-far, not-too-close getaway destination, it also has a series of breakers which create tide pools and minimize the chances of our small people getting bowled over by mother nature. Naturally, Natty wanted to travel in style. And you can't really stop a diva when she's going all out to impress...

     Of course, nobody brought their camera to the beach, but I did snap a few shots of Natty at her last swimming lesson!  However, this is the last you'll see of this particular suit; since taking this picture, she's completely outgrown it!  That day seemed to whiz by, and, before any of us knew it, Ben was leaving for his two-week trip to Kenya and Tanzania.  Any time somebody leaves the house, it causes some amount of upheaval.  There's no avoiding it.  But so far, so good.  The girls definitely miss him and ask for him often, but he'll be home in less than a week now.  

     Another unexpected change with Natalie has been how much she, and Maggie also, have grown in their regard towards me.  At frist, Natalie was frightened out of her wits by being left alone with me and now, sometimes she'll get up from her nap and refuse to eat unless I hold the spoon.  There are still many occasions where all that will suffice is the mama, but those times have gradually numbered fewer and fewer.  And let's be real: toddlers aren't easy.  Sure, they're cute, but not even all my babysitting experience plus my older sister experience could completely prepare me from Maggie's antics.  Every kid is different, just like they all told us in preschool.  And let's get even more honest: I'm not a patient woman.  Sometimes I lose it.  I was not built for tolerating tantrums and emotional breakdowns with soundwaves the size of Machu Picchu.  Slowly, Maggie and I have come to our own understanding of each other's limits and the sadness dissipates.  Beyond that, we've grown as friends.  Now that we're not busy gauging which one of us is going to blow up first, we can actually play together, haha.  Our latest collaborative project?  Building a doll-house out of a cardboard grocery box I salvaged from last week's trash (if I haven't mentioned this, they only recycle glass and plastic here, not paper products, as far as I know.  Strange, eh?).  We're also collects bits for the interior, like the plastic ring off the milk jug to make the frame for the wall clock in the house, et cetera.  Any other construction ideas are welcome!

DRAMA

     In life, there is no way to guarantee that events will turn out exactly as planned.  This is even more glaringly true when your life involves toddlers.

Maggie and I were headed to the kitchen the other day to have mid-morning snack.  We turned the corner and our eyes popped, our jaws fell open, and we screamed ourselves silly.  On the kitchen island table, sifting through our fruit bowl, was a monkey.  So, yeah, this was totally one of those moments when you have to freak out and say "Wwhhhoaa my goodness, there's a wild animal in my kitchen?!  Dahh!"  No amount of girl scouting could have prepared me for that moment.  The monkey's accomplice was keeping guard in our kitchen window and after taking their share, they skeedaddled outta there.

     Of course, Maggie had had a good scare and I was busy pretending to be calm and what not.  We immediately closed up the house's windows/doors and then set about "calming our nerves" in a proper British fashion, starting with a good ol' cuppa.  Then we decided to stress bake, hence the almond biscotti.  After Maggie worked up the gumption to go outside again, Pili woke up from her nap (yeah, she slept through the whole thing) and the trio began constructing our first of (probably) many hopscotch arenas in the driveway.

...And days go by.  You know, like that cheesy country song.

Random:  no matter what, whenever I sit in center straddle (ballet position), things feel better.  I feel better.  I guess that's what you get after thirteenish years in a ballet studio.  Miss those days sometimes.  Everyone imagines they are a ballerina at some point.  I just got to pretend a lot longer.

Stuff South African Girls Say

That's right everyone. I'm doing my own rehash of this meme. Get over it.

found On Insanity

     Well, before we really get to the core theme of this post, I owe you a brief update/apology due to my—until now—inexplicable two week absence. Things have continued in much their usual manner here in the gorge, except for one or two changes. Since my last post, I've written several essays for school here (some of which were graded fondly, others of which received a sound thrashing), written several emails to my home university (UCSD) regarding my readmission (which has, finally, been granted), and read several emails, letters, and poems of consolation on behalf of Lander, who passed away during this hiatus. Let's just say, as this is the second puppy we've lost in a matter of weeks, I took it even harder. I'm pretty sure there was an entire day where all I ate was white rice, hot chocolate, and red wine. On top of that, I had to read an absurdist novella the same weekend for class, exacerbating my inevitable grief and depression. If you're interested in feeling completely hopeless and dejected, be sure to pick up a copy of Albert Camus's L’Étranger at your local book shop! My French professor insists that “if you read one book zis year, it should be zis one” (to which I replied, “where's your Prozac?”).

     And yet, I am reminded that there is goodness everywhere. If I wanted positive superstitious tidings, I'd have no farther to look than our backyard, where I've seen several cape wagtails—traditionally considered to bring good luck. We also had a thunderstorm-blackout; this quickly transfigured into a serendipitous opportunity to converse with our neighbors by candlelight and enjoy part of the blustery evening together. In the same spirit of new beginnings, Maggie and I have started a new project! I've been collecting knick-knacks here and there and mixing LOADS of paint for our new doll house :] Pictures of the finished product are guaranteed, but I'll try and scrounge up some photos “in-the-making” as well. Conversely, in the realm of happy endings, I just finished re-reading Eragon and Eldest, the first two books in a four-part series that I have yet to complete—of course, I was using the books as my own personal combo of escapism and the need to accomplish something.

Now, onward.

Keep Calm and Carry On

clerk: “clark”

as in, Clark Kent

South African for “clerk”

as in, legal clerk

the professor who mentioned this in a law class I've been sporadically auditing made it blatantly clear that it would be incorrect to say clerk in the American fashion and seem extremely naïve and unprofessional.

cross: “cross”

as in, cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye

South African for “angry, upset, crabby, or generally disagreeable”

as in, “she was so cross with me yesterday!”

definitely something I'd never catch myself saying, unless I intended to be sarcastically formal in some situation. The only time I've found myself getting “cross” is when I'm dehydrated: saline drip please!!

pleasure: “pleh-juh”

as in, Hermione Granger's response on the Hogwarts Express after meeting Ron Weasley

South African for “No problem;” usually follows after someone doing you a favor

most awkward phrase I've encountered by far—it comes across as quaint and sweet-natured when people use it—and yet, I can't bring myself to use it without bursting out laughing

cheers: “ch-earz”

as in, “three cheers for the mighty Hercules!”

South African for “adios muchacho(s)/a(s), hasta luego”

usually, this is how people end a phone call, short chat in line, or as a goodbye greeting to the security guards at the grocery stores. I mentioned the security dudes, right?

shame: “sh-A-m”

as in, Phantom of the Opera's “Il Muto/ Poor Fool He Make Me Laugh” when the chorus sings “shame, shame, shame” on the mistress for having an affair

South African for “poor thing, too bad, I'm so sorry!, pobrecito mi cariña”

after much deliberation, I've come to agree with Carina that this is a nicer alternative to the American habit of constantly apologizing for someone's misfortune/loss/bad luck/whatever because you're not really sorry, you just empathize and feel for them. This way, you don't have to get into the bad habit of your tongue tumbling over itself to say that sour word, “sorry”

slops: “sl-aw-ps”

as in, “here Wilbur, come eat your slops!” “Oink, oink”

South African for “flip flops”

I recently got another pair of flip flops in blue—my three year old, black Old Navy ones are really getting their wear and tear here—and a girl friend at “varsity” (South African for “university”) goes, “I like your slops.” I was pretty confused for at least three minutes before figuring out she was giving me a compliment... whoopsidaisies

margarine: “maw-juh-rEEn”

as in, a ridiculous, veggie oil processed substitute for good old-fashioned butter—blechk

South African for a majority of people's preferred spread for toasts and other baked tasties

One of the odd, early experiences I had here was how different the butter tasted. I'm not one to skimp out on the good things in life, namely, salt, sugar, and butter. When I'm sick, I can live off of rice with butter and salt, and maybe some juice. So coming here and having the general flavor/flavour of the butter be...not as delicious was disappointing and has caused me to splurge on imported butter for almost all of my baking endeavors here. Not a criticism, just something I'm not willing to adjust to I suppose. Go figure

must: “must-ard”

as in, “you have to, ya gotta, pretty please do x”

South African for “ I really really want you to do this thing so I'm gonna tell you that you have to”

Now, if someone in the States came up to me and was continually bombarding me with the phrase “you must, you must, you must,” I think I'd explode, or at least give them a snarky piece of my mind about it. But here, it's the norm, and the simplest way to tell someone you care about that you don't want them to miss out on some thing you think is the height of awesome

kokis: “coke-E-z”

as in, the fond nickname one might bestow upon their obsessively addicted friends

South African for “markers,” the childhood coloring implements

Tracey, one of my neighbors who I carpool with to school every week, has two daughters. The elder girl, Candace, was an au pair in Arizona for a year and Tracey was telling me about some of the “language barrier” issues she encountered. For example, telling the little boys to “pick up their kokis” was much more confusing than she originally anticipated

school jersey: “skool-jer-Z”

as in, what Americans would call a sleeveless sports top for one's school

South African for thick, pull-over sweater (not a button-up/zip-up)

Many of the newer buildings on campus are air conditioned, which is simultaneously refreshing and terrible; while it's nice to get a break from the hot & humid outdoors, after a few minutes indoors, you begin to shiver, goosebump, and wonder what the difference is between lecture and the freezer. My friend Aideen (“A-deen”) lent me her school jersey in the library the other day after I started getting goosebumps

sweetheart: “swEEt-harrt”

as in, the non-seasonally-affiliated equivalent of “valentine*”

South African for “gee, I wish we were much better friends”

*As a side note, I'm pretty sure this is the first year
 of my life that I haven't consumed an embarrassing
amount of these... My friend Mary Schreck's favorite
has always been the one that says FAX ME

So, as some of you know, I studied abroad in Spain this past summer. Before leaving, we were briefed on several customs of the country, such as kissing on the cheek when meeting [Spanish] someone instead of shaking hands [American] and other such things. Two behaviors we were warned about in Spain that have proved much more intense in South Africa were rampant catcalls and more blunt/rude comments. In Spain, most of the people calling out to young women—which is very common—are super old geezers who really don't mean any harm and, probably, couldn't do much harm even if they wanted to. Harmelss cajoling. The conversational rudeness manifested itself in a few different ways; example, Mónica, my host mother, telling me I was going to get fat from eating sweets (she was upset I didn't eat the fourth course of the dinner she made us). Obviously, I'm a bad person. But anyways, back to my point. People here unabashedly catcall/casually catcall and are rude WAY more often. Every time I go to the on-campus bookstore for something, the clerk there calls me sweetheart and chats me up as if we spent the entire past weekend hanging out. Totally bizarre. The catcalls here also feel more like threats, purely based on the fact that a lot more men here are likely to be rapists. Like 1 in 4 men. Definitely changes the reaction I have to what I wish were hapless jeers.

MORE ABOUT CANDY & ART

If you're not into the traditional candy splurge, there are several artistic alternatives.  I found these incredible shots on a wordpress blog that y'all may want to check out.  ZEITGUISED

Sundays and Cafés

     Ahh... it's Sunday again.  Just breathe in that sweetness lingering on the air as summer draws to a close and has its last bow.  The weather here is certainly a'changin';  only yesterday, we had behemoth cloud monsters swirling overheard all day without a single drop and then, finally, around 8:30 that night, torrential downpour!  Poor Abiqui--she always get a bit antsy during storms, so I brought her inside until the worst was past.  I mean really, how could I deny this love

It's actually quite sad in a way: Lander is so enamored of her and she couldn't be more indifferent!  Such is the life of unrequited loves, hey?  "Don't you know?" he says...

     In light of these strange weatherings, I'm hedging my bets for more wet weather by making some Simple Pumpkin Soup.  You know, as my cozy comfort the next time it decides to unleash the latest deluge.

A raspberry tart my friend Bella Masse's dad made
for her high school graduation party-- talk about talent!

     Living here has shown me so much about the diversity of geographic food cultures, as I term them.  Here, there are so many little pockets of culture (particularly, food culture) for me to explore.  Kwazulu-Natal as a province is actually quite famous for their "Natal curries" which, if you were wondering, earn that title: so spicy!  Even our nights at home--which are most of the nights, haha-- have their fair share of zest, especially since Carina discovered the world's greatest Indian food website.  We tried the first dal recipe on the list and it was literally addictive.  Like, I unintentionally overate it was so good!  I guess I've just been spoiled my whole life, by a complete lack of hegemony in my food exposure.  Thanks mum and dad ;]

     ... And speaking of tarts (wait, was I?  Meh.  Well, no matter!) I simply must tell you all about my experience at one of the local cafés!  It was a Tuesday morning and Tracey, one of my carpool drivers, had to finish up some work at the Kloof branch of the bank she works at before we drove into Durban.  She recommended that I check out the little place out front 

Sam Brown's Homegrown Café

     First off, the place is adorable and homey feeling without being too cute or kitsch: a nice combo!  Since the sky was still toying with the idea of drizzling, I chose a little side table inside, but with a decent view outside.  Half the place opens to the outside (mix of garden and parking lot) and the other half ends in an archway that connects to the rest of the shopping area/mall.  Their "L" shaped display counters look out over all the tables.  I browsed for a bit before settling down for some hardcore literature annotation-- think The Odyssey or Virgil and the like.  The beverage menu hangs up above one side of the L-counter and I had been perusing its contents for about a minute when a handsome man of, oh, I'd guess thirty-something, came and said, "Have you been helped?  Can I help you?"  I gawked at him, uncomprehendingly and said slowly, "I'm still thinking, I haven't ordered yet."  Swiftly cottoning on to me confusion he clarified: "I'm the owner by the way... not just some random guy [nervous laughter]."  And he promptly trotted off to do some other super-important bossy task.

     I finally decided that hot chocolate was the way to go: simply, affordable, and CHOCOLATE.  Which immediately makes me think of Daphne Reynold from "What A Girl Wants" when asked if she likes Cocoa Puffs (cereal) replying, "Dude, it's chocolate.  Need I say more?"  I placed my order at the pastry counter, eyeing the cinnamon twist in the pastry window the whole time but resisting.  It would've gone better with tea anyway.

     Afterwards, I headed back to the little side table I had selected on the way in and made myself comfortable.  Not too comfortable, but you know I got my reader for the class out and the necessary accoutrements to go with it: highlighter, pen, pencil, notebook, the works.  Seated beside me were two gentlemen, sitting across from one another, chatting amiably.  I'd been reading for maybe five minutes without looking up when one of them said, "Gee, I wish all kids could read like that!  What is it?  The constitution?"  And of course, we then got into a conversation about the text (The Illiad)  and what  I'm doing in South Africa, blah blah blah.  The first gentleman was Craig, the second, his colleague, Robert and the two cut dapper figures in the early morning sunshine.  Both had travelled to the States, Florida specifically, and were eager to know what I though of South Africa.  I told them it was beautiful and that the people had been wonderfully kind and helpful.  This gave them the chance to go into a round of head nodding and "mhmm"ing et cetera, much to my amusement.  Then they told me what they thought about America: not all parts of the country are the same, but the Americans that travel are the best, so they say.  Apparently, I'd garnered some points!  Woot!  Well, as time would have, they "must be off" but hoped to run into me again soon and they skipped out of the shop, side by side.

      Then, it was as if wee littl' angels began to sing, as my hot chocolate arrived.  It was very hot, so I had to squirm and keep trying to read while anticipating its awesomeness and imagining how delicious it would be.  I didn't over estimate.  It was absolute perfection.

     My splendid sipping gave me the opportunity for repose and anther chance to gaze around.  A lady had just finished her morning workout at "Virgin Active," the gym across the way and came in for a cup of coffee.  She parked herself at a table across from mine, where I could clearly read her graphic tee:  a stormtrooper in place of the Starbucks mermaid in the logo with the tagline, "may the froth be with you."

     In the midst of my silent giggle fit, the owner, presumably Sam Brown?, came back over and asked, "How'd your coffee work out?"

                    "Actually, it's hot chocolate, and it's delicious, thank you!"

                    "That's fantastic!" he said, with a genuine grin stretched out beneath his twinkling blue eyes.  "So glad you're enjoying your time here-- feel free to stop by any time."  Aaaaand he dashed off again, most likely to continue his important thingamajigs.

I'm already planning my next trip

     Today Maggie and I did some paintings together; whenever I lift the brush I just feel that rush of color into my veins, all blurring together...  She always has such fun when we paint.  It's a special time for her, since it's just the two of us-- we definitely are not  allowed to paint when Natalie is around; talk about trouble with a capital "T"!  Though the sky was clear all morning, starting at about for o'clock, it began raining off and on.  Then, the most bizarre thing was that it started to thunder while it was still sunny!  Very strange, indeed...  Now, we're experience another bout of torrential downpour, only this time there's lightning and thunder and a puppy on my lap.  I think he'll stay in my room tonight.  I hope he doesn't howl at the moon.  Plus, with all the rain, I think we'd be better off taking a rain check-- not the most marvelous night for a moondance.

reality check: the three part saga

birthday one

password: purple

     For the magnificent annual celebration of one Magdalyn Elizabeth, our benevolent queen Carina, via creative powers previously unseen in this universe, planned a superb three-course supper for Monday-birthday evening composed almost entirely of... da-dada-da! Cupcakes! Menu to follow

a light salad

thinly sliced cucumber slices, quartered

cocktail tomatoes, quartered

red onion, grated

tossed in balsamic vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

primary cupcake course

cornbread muffin base

with sundried tomatoes, sliced

cheddar cheese, shredded

with ricotta-pesto “frosting”

secondary cupcake course

pumpkin cupcake base

with butternut squash

and buttermilk

topped with hand-whipped

purple whipped cream

and

sprinkles

tertiary cupcake course

miniature meringues filled with

dark chocolate ganache

     Not only was this an entirely cupcake meal, this was also a gluten-free extravaganza, meaning that Maggie's Baba [Ben] could fully participate! Woot!

     In addition to this family dinner, we had a cordial Sunday afternoon celebration, consisting of vanilla ice cream, lemonade, homemade chocolate sauce, and hour upon hour of running through the sprinkler along the grass. It was one of the warmest days here: humid, close to 40 degrees Celsius (100 degrees Fahrenheit), with a slight zephyr. Presents and smiles abounded, even in cyberspace (her grandparents made their guest appearances via skype). Full of cartwheels, sunburns, and chocolate, the pre-birthday bash easily surpassed others in my memory... Admittedly, there are not so many pre-birthday parties for comparison; yet, this insignificant detail does not mar the day's beauty in the least.

birthday twenty

password: crème bruleé

WARNING: SEMI-ADULT CONTENT TO FOLLOW. PLEASE SKIP THIS SECTION IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE OR STILL HAVE THE PERCEPTIONS OF SOMEONE UNDERAGE. MANY THANKS.

     The morning of my seven thousandth-three hundredth-and fourth day on earth skipped to a start as many of the others recently have: waking up, finding the quickest route of clothing to a cuppa tea, and figuring it out from there. All that morning, I was lulled into that feeling only adults can find themselves subject to: the feeling that nothing special is going to happen on your birthday and, no matter how old you are, you feel that little self-pitying internal whine crying “boo-hoo” within. But, this was a short-lived sentiment, for no sooner had I settled into my lack of extraordinary expectations for the day than I received my first present! Impressively, the newly crowned three-year-old in residence was able to keep this gift a secret for three whole days. Talk about an accomplishment! From the family here, I unearthed, from a brightly colored little parcel, a bounteous glass jar of lemon curd wrapped in an adorable sun dress with olive lace.

     There was also an adorable, handmade card which I have since kept at my bedside as a reminder of my newfound responsibilities of adulthood /grimaces/

     Later that evening, I scrambled into a car with my friend Lyndle who, as aforementioned, is the au pair for Naomi, a little girl who takes swim lessons with Maggie. Her and a group of friends had declared they “simply must” take me out on the [local] town for my birthday and, as a helpless-hapless foreigner, I was in no position to complain! The night kicked off at an outdoor [not-really] Italian restaurant in the Hillcrest area called “Pappo Giovanni's.” Hillcrest is another suburb of Durban nearby.  I consumed a sizable portion of penne with salmon served in a creamy garlic and white wine sauce—a solid four-star dish.  On the table, a small saucer laden with freshly grated parmesean cheese, creamed garlic, olive oil, and pesto rested—a common practice at Italian restaurants, especially when they serve bread of some kind.  So, about halfway through my meal, I decided I needed to switch something up and add some pesto—not too risky of a venture, I should think. However, in retrospect (approximately, the retrospective period immediately following putting the fork in my mouth), I changed my mind: hot, hot HOT! explosion across my tongue, eyes slightly watering thereafter and then a quick draught of water. A minute later, more collected, I calmly asked the girl beside me, “By the way, what is that green sauce?” while pointing.  “Oh, that's a really hot chili oil sauce! The natal region is actually quite famous for their curries” ...deep sigh... Chili oil? At an “Italian” place? You're kidding me, right? On the upside, the oil actually improved the dish in an unanticipated way, after the initial shock of course.

     Once dinner had wrapped up, we headed to the next venue, and my first “real” clubbing experience. Now, to clarify, I have been to bars in the States, but really only for swing or ballroom dance events that are held there. And, generally, I avoided places that marketed themselves as clubs when I was in Spain because, essentially, every café was also a bar and the clubs had exorbitant cover fees that totally weren't worth it, at least in my opinion. So, this really was my first experience at a bar where I was legally able to consume alcohol (the drinking and driving age here is eighteen) and not going there for any other reason.

“Franki's” is a sweet joint in the Heritage Market complex where Lyndle worked for awhile as a waitress and the gang seemed pretty familiar with it. Though it seemed fairly safe and is located in a very safe part of town, the girls told me that you're lucky if you don't see at least one fist-fight during the night; I suppose my birthday lent the evening some luck?  Anyways, Lyndle introduced me to “Sausage Bob,” the club's DJ. Don't worry, his title is emblazoned behind his booth in blue neon lights, just in case you forget. We also chatted with the bouncers for awhile, both of whom are Congolese and insanely tall: over two meters, that's for sure.

     Now of course, everybody wants to know about the drinks. Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm not much for the typical image that may come to mind when thinking about America + college + stupidty. My nights in that do include drinking look more like this

     But... now was not the time to become bull-headed and stick to my old ways; it was time to experiment and celebrate! All in all, I tried three different drink: a vodka drink currently being promoted here called “vawter” served with lemon, a sickly, saccharine crème bruleé shooter, and a shot of tequila. The shooter was, as I said, far too sweet for my taste and very strange. The tequila was the most comic drink of the night by far though. It was sold to me like this by Earl, Lyndle's boyfriend: “Oh, there's this one shot that's kind of a thing here—a big South African tradition! I don't know if you've heard of it... it's called tequila.” I then spent the next five minutes explaining to him how tequila is actually from my good neighbor in the States, Mexico. Duh. Hahahaha...

     Good news! The festivies didn't end there! After I got home, I slept in til seven-thirty—a luxury these days, what with small people and puppydom ruling my waking schedule—only to feel like I was still in a dream: fresh pastries for breakfast!

     Then, we had sushi for lunch: how I've missed my fishy friends in their little bundles of seaweed and grain! And, you guessed it, more pastries for dessert, this time from a swanky place Carina and I have had our beady eyes on for some time heralded as “Chateaux Gateaux.” I must have some kind of affinity with cat-titled places, i.e. “Cuatro Gatos” in Spain as my coveted late night spot with my amigas. Anyways, we're already planning a return trip ('specially since I forgot my camera at home >.< so sorry y'all!) because if the charm dripping off each little doily and ritzy jazz song playing hadn't won us over—which they did—the chocolate walnut* cake knocked us over like dominoes in a tropical storm.

     Speaking of storms, we just finished getting pelted with non-stop rain, a result of the tropical storm Irene that was blustering around offshore in the area. It literally rained for over twenty-four hours straight. We checked the rain gauge afterwards: just over 100 millimeters or, for you American weirdos, 4 inches of rainfall. Yeah. Needless to say, it was a very wet weekend, much to the displeasure of Lander (our yorkshire terrier who has decided to be absolutely prissy and dislikes peeing in the rain; also, people don't say “pee” here—it's “wee” instead. Strange, eh?). He's also just gotten his “adult ears” which stick straight up, giving him the combined appearances of a bat, a bearded old man, and rat. Despite all this, he's still annoyingly cute and cuddly. Harumph?!

I think in my next life—or really just when I get an apartment that allows pets and I can afford to feed one—I'll own a Welsh Springer Spaniel, of the short-haired variety. If you don't know about these dogs, all you gotta know is they're cute. Period. Like, freaking adorable and yet, not totally idiotic IQ-wise. They're also a nice size, for me personally.

*if I haven't mentioned this before, for whatever reason, walnuts are pretty much impossible to get a hold of here, which is hugely depressing if you're a walnut addict like me. I should really see someone about that...

the rescue

password: date night

     Saturday night, following our walnut cake dessert coma, Ben and Carina headed out for a leisurely time in town. How cruel sweet Fate seems! For it was to be nothing of the sort... On their way into Hillcrest, they missed the turn off and had to turn around in a nearby alleyway between some commercial buildings. As they were headed back toward the main road, a young woman stuck her head out of a window and screamed for help with all her strength.

     Carina and Ben parked the car on the street and went into the bar next door, asking for help; some brawny men answered the call, along with the bar owner, a fierce blonde lady that stood at least two meters tall. The band rushed into the alleyway, up the stairs, and this is what they saw: a large male kneeling above the young woman who had screamed earlier, punching her repeatedly, again and again, without mercy. The bar owner decked the man and the rest of the crew subdued him in a corner while others led the girl outside. They later learned that the girl was a waitress at the bar and that she had been walking to her car to drive home when she was accosted by the man and taken upstairs and beaten. As Ben and Carina started to drive away, the bar owner bustled out and thanked them profusely, assuring them that they did the right thing.

     Thereafter, the two made their way to Makaranga and Ben had a drink or two—essential really—to calm his nerves. Other than the rescue mission, the night was unextraordinary and peaceful. Thank god they stopped. Thank god they did the right thing.

the lighter side

     In other news, what seems like an entire weaver colony has taken up residence in the available dead tree in our backyard, across from the veranda.

     Maybe it's just me, but it definitely made me think of that line from When Harry Met Sally when Harry says “But, really, whats so hard about finding an apartment? What you do is look in the obituary section. You see who died, find out where they lived, and tip the doorman. What they could do to make it easier is combine the two. You know, Mr. Kline died yesterday, leaving behind a wife, two children, and a spacious three bedroom apartment with a wood burning fireplace.” Forgive me for my dark side.

     Mystery 101: there is a perfectly round wound on the tip of my elbow of unknown origin. Did I mention it hurts like the dickens? I always wonder, when using that phrase, how Charles would feel about his surname being befouled in such a fashion. Alack-a-day!