Looks like I’m playing a looooot of backgammon during my long weekend in Nantucket.
Silver lining: lobster roll places are open rain or shine.
The Waiting Room
Most Saturday nights in Cape Town, I’d call up my friend Philip and we’d drive together to The Waiting Room— easily our favorite Cape Town bar, gritty and dirty and bathed entirely in red light. Like most of Long Street, it’s like a really fun lounge party at a crack house, but with leather chairs and $2 vodka-sodas. The night usually followed a specific routine: We’d pay cover, stroll in, I’d flirt with the bartenders, get yelled at by the DJ for requesting Kanye West, dance, drink, and then stumble out at 3 a.m. for a boerewore. It was a good life. Along the way, Philip and I had these very long, intense discussions about our creative projects and upcoming plans. The future was coming at us so rapidly, and our whole lives were laid out right in front of us. All we had to do was work, and wait. In the meantime, we had this place.The waiting room I inhabit now is a little different: no red light bulbs, only fluorescent. Like my old watering hole, there’s a cast of characters: two squashy, fussy elderly ladies who “still pray for Barack Obama (even if he’s running this country into the ground) because the Bible tells us to pray for our governments.” They have advanced breast cancer; they can’t pronounce “Ahmadinejad” when the TV is turned to CNN. There’s the boisterous, plump Croatian lady who is here supporting her ex-boyfriend, whose 6’4” frame was reduced to 110 pounds during a severe bout of Stage 4 lung cancer. There’s my sister and me, with our magazines, with our dad, who knows all the nurses by name and has been here every day for the last two weeks. The three of us give the rest descriptive nicknames: Those Old Republican Women, Cro-At, Slim. Like before, there’s a sense of camaraderie: we are in this nightmare together. Together, we will wait for radiation to be over, wait for hospitalization and transplant, wait and wait and wait until the word loses all meaning and just becomes sound. In the meantime, there is this place.
People keep on asking how the dreaded “transition” is going, how I’m adjusting and acclimating after half a year overseas. “The transition,” always the transition, this dreaded period about which I was warned. Though in some ways it feels like I’ve tumbled out of Alice’s rabbit hole into a world simultaneously recognizable and unfamiliar and parallel, it’s actually okay. I still have hope, I’m still waiting and wishing, still pleading for the future to hurry up and get here. My only request, I suppose, is another vodka-soda.
Two Items
1. I’m back at Borders for the summer, and after only a day of work I’ve noticed that people’s level of attractiveness is directly disproportionate to the amount of erotica and/or pornography they purchase. I’m not saying that hot people aren’t dirty birds too, but at least they have the decency and self-respect to consume trash in the privacy and comfort of their own homes via the interweb. Also, I almost threw up behind my register today after a 60-year-old obese woman with a beard bought S&M anime porn. (Called “Dungeons.” Wonder what it’s about.)
2. My vampire came back in today!!!! He looks paler and skinnier than ever. He left after a few minutes of browsing (non-fiction, weirdly enough, not Charlaine Harris books), but I still bet he could smell me from across the register. I want to be your human friend, Borders customer vampire! Please don’t eat me.
At IAD
Flight is delayed in D.C., so I broke down and bought some Internet to make it through the wait. And OH MY GOD, I am back in America. Everything feels weird. I heard a southern accent. All items cost about R5,000 and I’m “You seriously want me to pay 34 RAND FOR AN ORANGE JUICE?” like a kvetchy old lady, not realizing yet that four bucks for Naked Juice at an airport in Washington is actually kind of reasonable. People are driving on the right side of the road. There’s no Xhosa in the terminal, no Sepedi, no Afrikaans. It’s complete chaos.
And holy shit, I have a lot of Hulu to catch up on. PAM AND JIM ARE HAVING A BABY?!
There’s never been any place quite like this home
And for once in a lifetime
Maybe I’d be foolish not to stay
Goodbye, South Africa. I love you.
Last year, I had just arrived in New York with a very cool job and a near-microscopic apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. I came expecting a life I’d only seen in glossy magazines, but in my flip-flops and ponytail it was proving difficult. I was clueless and terrified, but mostly I was lonely. My friends were limited. I dated my bartenders and drank my feelings. But some nights on my way home from the East Village (drunk off something no one carded me for) I’d look up at the Chrysler Building, feel a surge of gratitude and joy, and think, “Things will eventually get better.”
This week marks the end of my semester in South Africa. Coming here has proved— far and away— the best thing I’ve ever done. The other night Nira and I were walking along the ocean on the outskirts of this tiny Xhosa village, separated by miles and miles from anything familiar. South Africa is so politicized, so volatile, always on the brink of another explosion. This place felt like nowhere— not the Eastern Cape, not South Africa, not even Africa itself. It felt like everywhere, too. It was one of those moments where you feel so insignificant and tiny but also a part of something so much greater than yourself. “I don’t think things could ever get better than this,” I remarked to Nira. We walked along for another few minutes in silence. The stars overhead shone so bright.
Shoes Stay On, Too
Since arriving in January, I have visited, flown out of, or arrived at five South African airports. At each, security takes approximately five minutes. While checking in, airport personnel ask passengers to declare any firearms they may be carrying. It is bizarre and bewildering.Backpacking Vacation Tomorrow!
Over the river and through the woods, up the Indian, along the coast, through dozens of tiny Xhosa villages, and on horseback— or beat-up Volkswagon— the whole time.
Tonight was my last night out with my housemates, and I can’t believe four months went by so fast. What a journey. What good people. My heart feels full.
Going quiet until my return on the 10th. Have a great weekend, everybody.
Some guy named "Lucifer Hell" is now following me on Twitter.
The only other people he follows are other women named “Emily Rose,” and also about fifteen women called “Linda Blair,” including “TheRealLindaBlair,” whom I assume is the actress from The Exorcist.
Which actually makes me want to say something:
Yes, this is my real name. And I really like my name. It’s pretty, short, and simple. I never have to repeat it, I never have to spell it, and when I get married I’m never going to change it. But up until 2005 people would just nod and smile, not pointedly ask, “Are you possessed by demons?” Another thing: The Exorcism of Emily Rose, while based on a true story, isn’t based on the life of a girl named Emily Rose. Her name was Anneliese Michel; she was a German teenager who died in the 1970s. Some Sony exec decided he liked the name and so now I can’t introduce myself to anyone without hearing “Oh, like the exorcism!” It was four years ago, people. And it was a mediocre movie.
I guess my point is this: other Emily Roses, if you are reading, I feel your pain. And you too, Freddy Kruegers of the world, Michael Meyerses, and especially, especially you, women named Linda Blair.
About Me
Hi! I'm Emily Rose. I was born, raised, and now attend college in Ohio, USA. I enjoy checking and answering email. Please enjoy your stay. This is my online happy place.
