Ending on a high note

Watching the United States fight its way into the knockout phase of the World Cup satisfied my soccer fix.

There were a trio of matches I thought about attending, but as I told a few Americans at my hostel after the dramatic victory, “I’m going to end my World Cup experience on a high note, why ruin it by going to another game?” As it turned out the Slovakia-Italy match proved to be an exciting one; however, my company trumped being with thousands of stunned Italians in Ellis Park.

Lauren, a former au peair for my older sister, picked me up from a mall on the eastern edge of Johannesburg. I was in South African version of Wal-Mart looking for another bag to fit all the possessions I bought for myself and others when she walked up in all black with a big smile and a larger hug.

She was my company for the afternoon and evening and the one who showed me a side of Johannesburg few tourists (intentionally) see.

The plan was to spend my final two days in South Africa hanging out with Lauren and her friends and catch a few museums.

Once she told me that the museums feature things that South Africans learn in school, I was not as enthusiastic about going—since, I was under the false assumption that the museums were a supplement, not a complement, to education. Nevertheless, we did make our way to Soweto to walk through the house Nelson Mandela returned to, albeit briefly, following his imprisonment.

We made our way to Rosebank, her favorite part of town, to watch the exciting finale to Italy’s reign as world champions before grabbing a few drinks at a nearby bar. (As much as I resemble my mother with my non-existent drinking habits, I told Lauren my hard rule was bent in special circumstances.)

Thursday Lauren and I went to a bar in Melville to enjoy what South Africans call a Puza (check the spelling) Thursday. I had a couple more drinks and went into the lower level of the bar where there was dancing and other excitement. (Usually, I do not drink, go to bars/clubs and above all dance, but as I said it was a “special circumstance.”)

Friday was more of the same. I met Lauren’s brother Verny, who is my age and the center of attention. Everyone seemed to know Verny and the relationship appeared mutual.

Verny and his boy Leroy took me for a drive through Eldorado Park where they all grew up. For a few hours I spent time with the fellas, eating, getting a tour of the hood and a deeper appreciation for truth in my reporting. (Both thought Americans had notions that were not completely true because the media in this country highlights the worst of Joburg and doesn’t bother to fill in the edges that were scribbled over in journalistic crayon.)

I told the two that the only difference between Eldos and some areas of the U.S. was not as many people had grass on their front lawns. Eldorado Park had some nice houses and some that needed a lot of work. It was a township of people who not only owned their homes, but lived in them for generations.

I felt like a novelty in that I was “the American” but it was a friendly novelty. Verny and Leroy introduced me to their crew and encouraged me to get comfortable in Eldorado Park. Time leads to intricate details of our conversation being lost to activity, but as we drove through the neighborhood, I couldn’t help but think it was very similar to the area surrounding my grandmother’s house.

To cap off a Friday with the fellas, we all went out to a club in central Johannesburg. Le Mix Room recently opened, but the vibe in the two-level club was an inviting one for conversation, drinking, dancing and “other things.” I partook in all of the above with my motto being “what happens in Africa stays in Africa.”

(Earlier in my trip, someone else mentioned the same line. My instant retort at the time was “except AIDS.” However, there was little possibility of that happening at Le Mix Room Friday evening.)

What can be reported is I dressed up like a preppy American in khakis, a white button down shirt, a red sweater — apparently South Africans call them jerseys — and white and red shoes finish off the motif. Eventually the police shut down the party a little after 3 a.m., but not before I had a few drinks, bought a few more, listened to DJ Fresh and enjoyed a relapse into undergraduate impulsiveness.

The temperatures, and the cops, were not temperate after the party concluded but everyone stopped long enough to take a few pictures to remember the night and the time an American got a true taste of Johannesburg.