There’s a holiday special at Gautrain. You can park your car at the Sandton station for R1 per day until the end of January. For the twelve days I’m gone, that’s cheaper than the 0.25km cab from my front door. Brilliant!

Well, simple supply and demand laws were in effect and after twenty minutes of circling through B1 and B2, I think I got the last spot. So naturally I missed the 5:57 train that I’d had “soo much time” to get to. As I’m boarding the 6:27 train I decide to confirm with the security guard.

“The one rand a day special parking applies if I’m coming back on January 2^nd right?”

“Only if you go the airport AND come back. Those are the Ts and Cs.”

“No problem, I think my flight gets in around 8:30pm on the 2^nd from Cape Town, so I’ll just take Gautrain back instead of driving back with my house mate.”

“Mama, Gautrain stops at 8:30 every night. You’ll have to pay the regular rates…425R for five days and then 85R each day after that.”

Ah, crap. I’m trying to do math in my head, and reach for my phone to do it for me, but realize that I don’t even think my punch pad has a calculator. Feeling very grateful that I can play Luxor Quest instead. Let’s see, 12 days… 425R plus seven times 85R… What is that, 1020R? One thousand, twenty rand instead of twelve. Are you frickin kidding me?

And then my plan comes to me. I’ll ride home with Anjarae, then start my first day back at work at the Gautrain station at 6am, when I can buy another ticket, ride to the airport, and then go back on my Gold Card, earning the 12R parking. I work haaard for the money.

I’m sitting on the train, laughing to myself at my absurdity, and at the book I’m "reading"—Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages. It was recommended highly from our “self-help” bookshelf at home…Don’t ask. While it’s actually pretty interesting content (about how people communicate love differently – through words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch), the quality of writing is almost as bad as the purple cover (depicting a couple walking along the beach with a big heart drawn in the sand). 

Being a self-diagnosed QT girl myself, I can’t control myself when I read tip number 10 for my “spouse” (I’m single, by the way):

“10. Camp out by the fireplace (or an orange lamp). Spread your blankets and pillows on the floor. Get your Pepsi and popcorn. Pretend the TV is broken and talk like you used to when you were dating. Talk till the sun comes up or something else happens. If the floor gets too hard, go back upstairs and go to bed. You won’t forget this evening!”

No, he won’t forget this evening, Gary, because it will be the night I dump him. After throwing the "orange lamp" at him. The man sitting opposite me keeps looking over but his lazy eye makes it unclear whether he’s looking at the 7 year old boy with a Christmas tree shaved into the side of his Mohawk (Where are your parents?) or at me, looking like a desperate divorcee trying to get her lover to speak her “love language.” The redeye outfit -fat pants and a fleece- aren't helping my cause. Is there any hope for me, Gary?

Seventeen hours and an Ambien later, I’m woken up by US customs forms fluttering in my face. “Ten minutes to touchdown.” And just like that, I’m in New York. This is the first time I land in the US where I don’t reach for my phone. The girl next to me, however, exclaims “Twenty-FOUR voicemails? Didn’t people, like, know that I was in Af-ric-aa?” Probably all from her mother. “Oh hey, Mom! I know, it’s like, such a pain for you, but we got in 30 minutes early. When they were like ‘We’ll be landing at 5:30 instead of 6’ I was like ‘Oh Shaaaame!’” Oh, Is it?

The arrivals hall glowed like a hospital. In line to be welcomed “home,” the man in front of me turns around and points to my chest. Oh crap, which airplane meal did I spill on myself? “You work at ALA?” he asks. My fleece, phew. And I’m awake, babbling excitement. A friend of Fred’s he was on his way back from meeting with him. And then it’s his turn, and boom, bang, he’s stamped and gone.

After 40 minutes of staring down the luggage belt and the SAA203 crew had dissolved, I knew I was screwed. Thinking of the Christmas presents inside, my toothbrush, and most importantly, the giant foam Christmas tree costume I was going to barge into my house in and yell “SURPRISE!!!” in a few hours to my (poor) unsuspecting family.  

But I wasn’t the only one. A tall, slender, spandex-ed 20-something paced and stopped next to me, putting down her bags and bending at the hips to stretch. Lower and lower until her palms were on the floor. Yuck. And she had transformed into full-on yoga class in the middle of the baggage claim. Whatever works for you, sistah.

When that North Face duffle came around the bend, I was so happy I almost took out the Christmas tree costume then and there to wear it through customs. But then I’d have to repack it, and … myeh. That and the snapping German shepherd didn’t look like he liked Christmas very much.

I recheck my bag with an attendant singing Feliz Navidad to himself, jollily swaying in his oversized coat. I find my way up to AirTrain towards Terminal 5, and step into the train. It’s crammed with beanies and down coats. The girl next to me has her lavender scarf pulled up to her nose, her purple hooded coat pulled down to her eyebrows, so only her glasses show. Her earbuds trail down to her iPod and she doesn’t look like she’s moved in months. Everyone is so stiff. I can’t move either, but it’s because my stomach matches the red bikini I read in yesterday on my roof deck. I feel like doing jumping jacks and yelling “LIVE a little, people!” but I’d rather sleep in my childhood bed tonight than the psychiatric ward.

The lines at JFK. Eish. The security line was a tease, starting near the entrance but then snaking further away before it got closer. Away from the entrance, but towards the Dunkin' Donuts. And I wish I had gotten a donut. I don’t even like donuts, but it seemed like the festive thing to do. The line snakes around again, and I’m face to face with...yoga girl. She gives me a once over and passes me with a “I’m skinnier than you” look. Yes, yoga girl, yes you are.

At the security conveyor belt, I know why the line is so long as the woman in front of me asks me to pass her a bin. “Another one. Another one. Yep, one more. Ohh, another one…” until she has lined up eleven bins for her family of four. But I can’t really judge, as I have three bins to myself, two for each laptop. “Charlie, don’t forget your DS!” she nags as she strips down to her see-through heather lululemon bodysuit. No need to go through the body scanner, lady. 

All clear, and what’s waiting for me on the other side? Dunkin Donuts, courtesy of JetBlue, being doled out at the base of the giant Christmas tree decked in blue and silver balls. How PC of you, America. I don’t like donuts, but what the hell, I think, as I pick out my free donut. “Green, not the blue one, thanks,” I request, out of respect for baby Jesus. My face covered in all-natural lime green icing, I realize I do like donuts, just as yoga girl speedwalks past with a judgy look.

Might as well just embrace it and get a coffee, too. It’s what the NYPD would do. At the Illy stand, I order a nonfat Caramel latte because, what the hell, it’s Christmas. And as I dig through my purse, pulling out bills of water buffalo and Nelson Mandelas, the barista says, “That’ll be five forty-four.” And then I realize. Crap, I’m “home.”