“I think you’re rubbing off on me,” Anjarae said when I picked up the phone last Thursday night.

“What are you talking about?”

“I somehow locked my keys in my trunk. This is your life, not miiiine!” she cried, laughing.

It was a good start to the weekend. Friday morning, as I dropped my daily letter in the big red Post box on Blueberry Road, I realized I had forgotten my passport. Could I get to Durban with a California driver’s license? But I'm an organ donor, sir, please! Doubtful. I went to call Anjarae but not only had she forgotten hers, too, but she had gotten rear-ended on the way to work.

“Yea, and they don’t really say ‘rear-ended’ here apparently. Everyone keeps looking at me funny.”

I couldn’t stop laughing, until my Outlook refreshed. FWD: from Anjarae: Disruption to flight schedules at Johannesburg’s OR Tambo airport following contamination of fuel supply. I thought she was going to lose it. Is this real life? Why is this hap-pen-ing to me? I read further to see that our flight would be fine. Relief.

Rushing out of the office, I tried to leave with plenty of time to swing by and pick up Anjarae from Melrose Arch before arriving at the airport in time for our 5:40pm flight. Traffic. Someone’s had an accident. Or I took the wrong exit. Hard to say. As I reach for my trusty Samsung (that I’ve charged twice in two weeks, by the way), I realize that my credit has run out. Super convenient aspect of life in SA – you have to go into the store to top up your SIM card if you let it expire. So I’m late, in traffic, with no form of communication except for my Cell C Speed Stick. Emailing eoms from my laptop wedged in between my lap and the steering wheel, I can’t believe our luck.

I finally find her and we’re off…into more traffic. Quarter-cup raindrops start splashing the windshield and Nugget's roof sounds like an aluminum cooking pan being beaten with a wooden spoon. Yep, we’re driving into a storm that appears to be epicentered precisely at the JNB runway. The stress is mounting as Jane keeps updating our ETA. 4:54… 4:56… 5:04. PANIC as we whip into the parking garage. I go to press the blinking button for my ticket and there it is:

 

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OK.