Uptight. Anal. Pannies-in-a-Wad. 80-year-old-woman-in-the-body-of-a-20-year-old. These are all descriptions my friends and family have lovingly bestowed upon me throughout my life. But it's alright. I have accepted it and vowed to use my compulsiveness for good and not evil. After all, it's endearing right? However, my inner perfectionist has finally met its match in an adversary called Cape Town.
Day by day (and queue by queue) during orientation week I began to slowly accept the fact that my schedule and business were totally out of my hands. Whether or not I had brought the necessary paperwork, fulfilled the necessary requirements stateside, or done every little thing asked of me while jumping on one foot blindfolded with a monkey on my back was all irrelevant. Something would inevitably go wrong, each activity would inevitably take 5 times longer than expected, and I would inevitably get sassed by some person in authority. I realized after about a week or so that this was the way things operated in these parts and I could either roll with it or develop hypertension.
However, though I was slowly relaxing, classes had not yet started, and I held onto the hope that lectures/seminars would be my sweet spot, a place where I was prepared and ready for action. Think again, Schleiff. Think. A-gain.
Yesterday saw the official commencement of UCT undergrad courses. After our previous tardiness on Friday, Dana and I decided that we would not take any chances for our 8:00 class, opting for the 7:10 jammie instead of the 7:50. We confidently left the house at 6:55 AM (I know, hold the phone, fellow college students. This is not a joke), expecting to be chilling at the coffee shop on campus by 7:30, with muffins, espresso, and joy. So, when the bus didn't come at 7:10 we began to get ancy. But we resolved to wait thinking "surely it will be here soon. It must just be running late."--Let me just pause here to say that the word "surely" is quickly becoming endangered in my vocab. It's like "jou keep using dat word. I do not tink it means what you tink it means."--When it hadn't come by 7:35, we had reached that precipice where we had to decide to either put our faith in the jammie or give up and just walk. Opting for the narrow road, we decided to stick it out. We had come this far, we had already made friends with fellow disgruntled jammie-riders, and we had consequently journeyed farther away from school to get to this blessed bus stop.
Surprise, Surprise. 7:50, still no bus.
At 8:05, after class had definitely already started, a man drove up to the stop to reprimand us on our impatience with the jammie. "It is out of our hands," he said. "Please stop calling, and please don't give us any attitude." He then proceeded to turn to a middle-age woman also waiting at the stop to offer her a lift to campus. I have found that there have been rare moments on this journey when my American patriotism has suddenly risen up out of nowhere, and at that particular point in time I longed to go freedom-of-expression all over the man. However, like a good southern lady, I stored my anger within, letting it simmer to a slow bitterness, resolving to only fantasize about throwing myself onto his car rather than actually following through on it.
Let's just say I am not so proud of my attitude at this point. And at 8:30 when the jammie did finally come and we met our 9:00-class-attending roommates boarding the bus, I decided to ignore my previous resolution to not be another "loud American" as I lamented to my friends about how this whole thing would have gone down differently in say New York (I reveled in images of deaths by stilettos, international lawsuits, jammie station bombings, and college students chaining themselves to stationary objects. Can I get a witness?).
But, alas, I am finding in these experiences (although I think I might have read it somewhere before) that anger is a dead-end road. You can't get mad, you can't get even, you've got to get Cape Townian. Shoelessness in Arkansas may be an unwanted stereotype but here it is a badge of honour. Missing you jammie, missing your lecture, or missing the birth of your first child is small potatoes, bru. It's also alright not to know and it is ok to be ok with not knowing.
I have yet to understand how homework works here, I am not sure I am attending the classes I am registered for, I have not signed up for one of my mandatory seminars, I haven't seen my passport since I loaned it to my new friend, Sikote several days ago, and I have forgotten my middle name, but I am dealing with it. (Before anyone panics, only joking about the middle name).
Who needs Marijuana when you've awakened the Cape Townian Spirit, hey?
Day by day (and queue by queue) during orientation week I began to slowly accept the fact that my schedule and business were totally out of my hands. Whether or not I had brought the necessary paperwork, fulfilled the necessary requirements stateside, or done every little thing asked of me while jumping on one foot blindfolded with a monkey on my back was all irrelevant. Something would inevitably go wrong, each activity would inevitably take 5 times longer than expected, and I would inevitably get sassed by some person in authority. I realized after about a week or so that this was the way things operated in these parts and I could either roll with it or develop hypertension.
However, though I was slowly relaxing, classes had not yet started, and I held onto the hope that lectures/seminars would be my sweet spot, a place where I was prepared and ready for action. Think again, Schleiff. Think. A-gain.
Yesterday saw the official commencement of UCT undergrad courses. After our previous tardiness on Friday, Dana and I decided that we would not take any chances for our 8:00 class, opting for the 7:10 jammie instead of the 7:50. We confidently left the house at 6:55 AM (I know, hold the phone, fellow college students. This is not a joke), expecting to be chilling at the coffee shop on campus by 7:30, with muffins, espresso, and joy. So, when the bus didn't come at 7:10 we began to get ancy. But we resolved to wait thinking "surely it will be here soon. It must just be running late."--Let me just pause here to say that the word "surely" is quickly becoming endangered in my vocab. It's like "jou keep using dat word. I do not tink it means what you tink it means."--When it hadn't come by 7:35, we had reached that precipice where we had to decide to either put our faith in the jammie or give up and just walk. Opting for the narrow road, we decided to stick it out. We had come this far, we had already made friends with fellow disgruntled jammie-riders, and we had consequently journeyed farther away from school to get to this blessed bus stop.
Surprise, Surprise. 7:50, still no bus.
At 8:05, after class had definitely already started, a man drove up to the stop to reprimand us on our impatience with the jammie. "It is out of our hands," he said. "Please stop calling, and please don't give us any attitude." He then proceeded to turn to a middle-age woman also waiting at the stop to offer her a lift to campus. I have found that there have been rare moments on this journey when my American patriotism has suddenly risen up out of nowhere, and at that particular point in time I longed to go freedom-of-expression all over the man. However, like a good southern lady, I stored my anger within, letting it simmer to a slow bitterness, resolving to only fantasize about throwing myself onto his car rather than actually following through on it.
Let's just say I am not so proud of my attitude at this point. And at 8:30 when the jammie did finally come and we met our 9:00-class-attending roommates boarding the bus, I decided to ignore my previous resolution to not be another "loud American" as I lamented to my friends about how this whole thing would have gone down differently in say New York (I reveled in images of deaths by stilettos, international lawsuits, jammie station bombings, and college students chaining themselves to stationary objects. Can I get a witness?).
But, alas, I am finding in these experiences (although I think I might have read it somewhere before) that anger is a dead-end road. You can't get mad, you can't get even, you've got to get Cape Townian. Shoelessness in Arkansas may be an unwanted stereotype but here it is a badge of honour. Missing you jammie, missing your lecture, or missing the birth of your first child is small potatoes, bru. It's also alright not to know and it is ok to be ok with not knowing.
I have yet to understand how homework works here, I am not sure I am attending the classes I am registered for, I have not signed up for one of my mandatory seminars, I haven't seen my passport since I loaned it to my new friend, Sikote several days ago, and I have forgotten my middle name, but I am dealing with it. (Before anyone panics, only joking about the middle name).
Who needs Marijuana when you've awakened the Cape Townian Spirit, hey?
You are crazy. I like your blogs. And I like you. Miss having your anal self around here :)
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