A Call to Arms

There has been an uproar among the masses (and when I say uproar, I mean nagging and when I say masses I mean two people) for me to return to the blogosphere. And here I am. I cannot make any promises to be diligent about this new task given my new found aversion to, well anything that occurs after 5pm. I also cannot make any promises of coherency (blame it on the decaf) or any semblance of consistent theme or, well, intellect, humor, or interesting content. I know, you’re brimming with excitement already, but hey, there’s a campain promise I can keep.

Really, the motivation to blahg is that my current relocation feels rather a lot like my term abroad. The South is full of foreign-ness, and possibly of a variety I was less prepared for than with Denmark. What can I say? I’m well versed in standoffishness, sarcasm and saying nothing. North Carolina, it might seem, is not. I’m attempting to assimilate, mostly by talking to strangers. I’m not sure how I feel about this incarnation, except that she is definitely not as cool as EuroJenny or as fun as Aunt Jenny.

The other major similarity between this and my life abroad is public transit. Duke thinks it’s okay to charge $96/month for reasonably close parking to my building, so I take a bus. Like in Scandinavia, I read on the bus during my commute, but very very unlike Denmark, there is no silence, no Stille Zoner. There are, however, unbearably cold and loud air conditioning, bus drivers who speak to you, and seats that force you into physical contact with the inevitably obese person sitting next to you. Thanks to the bus, however, I have gotten to know/experience/witness the gentleman who seems to also work from 8:30-5:00 and who calls himself “The King.”

The King is a tall, Southern gentleman, who shouts “Bus!” as soon as it becomes visible alerting the parking lot to rush forward and usually causing me to pour hot coffee into my lap. On board, His Majesty sits proudly on the broad silver “armrest” between the back seats, which puts him an extra 8 inches above the rest of us peasants. Every day, he (or should I say “He”) boards the bus from the middle door, but shouts his hellos to the bus drive, brushes the invisible dust off of his chosen seat, complaining about the servants forgetting to clean his throne. In Boston, this man would either be shot curious glances or, more likely, ignored, as one should never encourage the crazies. Here, though, the whole bus laughs and loves him. I laugh too, and blush when he calls me darling. Maybe I’ll be converted, yet.