Apololgies for the photo above. We couldn't resist--it's like a virus. Congrats to the Buckeyes on their bowl win, and thanks for the rather unnecessary heart attack. An easy victory? What fun is that?
So much for a calm, relaxing final week. I’ve spent the majority of my time running around tidying up loose ends, in classic headless chicken style. The down time in between is spent on my cell phone cancelling contracts, holding for someone who will inevitably transfer me to someone else. Planet Fitness is notorious for continuing to charge customers after they thought their memberships had expired (fine print and all that). So despite notifying their customer service line, the reception desk and head office of our intention (in writing! in duplicate!) to quit the gym, I fully expect to be charged for another month’s membership after we leave.
Finding someone to buy our car was simple enough, but the process of transferring ownership has proved educational. I was hoping to avoid the soul sucking drudgery of another visit to the traffic department. But somehow, after nearly a year’s worth of clean driving, Marnie managed to get a speeding camera ticket last month. I found out through a traffic fine hotline (as usual, the government is only efficient when it comes to collecting money), but a physical ticket was never mailed to us. We could just ignore it, but then the guy who buys our car would be on the hook for it. Or conversely, he could just not transfer ownership, and rack up a bunch of traffic fines in our name, thus turning us into international outlaws on par with Julian Assange.
Our apartment is slowly reverting back to the spare shell of furniture and appliances in which we originally found it. The fridge looks distinctly collegiate—all condiments and no food. The pile of stuff we’ve accumulated in our time here now sits in a menacing heap on the couch. Despite giving the majority of our clothing away to the Somalis, the task of fitting an assortment of awkwardly shaped African crafts into our luggage is daunting. Here’s hoping that it all survives the passage through the notoriously sticky fingers of OR Tambo’s luggage handlers.
Speaking of Somalis, Marnie has been taking our giveaway stuff to Mayfair this week, and my handy downs have proved quite a hit with the guys. Literally. One of Marnie’s friends tucked the clothes into the trunk of his car for safekeeping, and another guy thought he was taking the lot for himself. Fisticuffs ensued. Unfortunately, no one can be found to fit into my flipper sized shoes. The Somalis are throwing us a going away party on Saturday, which should prove a stern test of my listening skills. As if comprehending them isn’t trying enough, they tend to all speak at once, the voices dribbling over each other like the sound of ducks at a pond. Marnie’s used to it, but all I hear is quack quack quack.
Despite all the chaos, we did manage one last meal at the Grillhouse the other night. With our bellies grumbling at the prospect of large hunks of grilled meat, the waiter delivered our wine, only then telling us the kitchen wasn’t open for another half hour. Grrrr. The clock is ticking on you, South Africa, and you’re making it awfully easy to leave.
So much for a calm, relaxing final week. I’ve spent the majority of my time running around tidying up loose ends, in classic headless chicken style. The down time in between is spent on my cell phone cancelling contracts, holding for someone who will inevitably transfer me to someone else. Planet Fitness is notorious for continuing to charge customers after they thought their memberships had expired (fine print and all that). So despite notifying their customer service line, the reception desk and head office of our intention (in writing! in duplicate!) to quit the gym, I fully expect to be charged for another month’s membership after we leave.
Finding someone to buy our car was simple enough, but the process of transferring ownership has proved educational. I was hoping to avoid the soul sucking drudgery of another visit to the traffic department. But somehow, after nearly a year’s worth of clean driving, Marnie managed to get a speeding camera ticket last month. I found out through a traffic fine hotline (as usual, the government is only efficient when it comes to collecting money), but a physical ticket was never mailed to us. We could just ignore it, but then the guy who buys our car would be on the hook for it. Or conversely, he could just not transfer ownership, and rack up a bunch of traffic fines in our name, thus turning us into international outlaws on par with Julian Assange.
Our apartment is slowly reverting back to the spare shell of furniture and appliances in which we originally found it. The fridge looks distinctly collegiate—all condiments and no food. The pile of stuff we’ve accumulated in our time here now sits in a menacing heap on the couch. Despite giving the majority of our clothing away to the Somalis, the task of fitting an assortment of awkwardly shaped African crafts into our luggage is daunting. Here’s hoping that it all survives the passage through the notoriously sticky fingers of OR Tambo’s luggage handlers.
Speaking of Somalis, Marnie has been taking our giveaway stuff to Mayfair this week, and my handy downs have proved quite a hit with the guys. Literally. One of Marnie’s friends tucked the clothes into the trunk of his car for safekeeping, and another guy thought he was taking the lot for himself. Fisticuffs ensued. Unfortunately, no one can be found to fit into my flipper sized shoes. The Somalis are throwing us a going away party on Saturday, which should prove a stern test of my listening skills. As if comprehending them isn’t trying enough, they tend to all speak at once, the voices dribbling over each other like the sound of ducks at a pond. Marnie’s used to it, but all I hear is quack quack quack.
Despite all the chaos, we did manage one last meal at the Grillhouse the other night. With our bellies grumbling at the prospect of large hunks of grilled meat, the waiter delivered our wine, only then telling us the kitchen wasn’t open for another half hour. Grrrr. The clock is ticking on you, South Africa, and you’re making it awfully easy to leave.
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