Letter from Atlanta

Dropping unexpected “howzits” on unsuspecting Americans with Kieran Legg.

She blinked at me. The man preparing a ceremony of plastic bags at the end of the conveyor belt stopped what he was doing. Behind me, I heard a mother “shh” her young daughter. Outside, a Sherman tank screeched to a stop.

I’m brandishing a cardboard Starbucks cup with “Karen” scrawled in big black letters on the side. This is a sign that I’ve undergone the country’s age-old rite of passage, a ritual observed by countless Americans every morning. It gives me an opportunity to exchange a glance or two with my fellow cup-bearers, maybe mutter something about politics: “This administration, am I right?”

I’m busy infiltrating their ranks, slipping under the radar as I park my (comparatively) minuscule Toyota Corolla in a spot designed for a Sherman tank. I roll an oversized trolley between two looming aisles and spend three hours googling breads to help choose a loaf from the near-infinite selection stuffed onto the shelves. I pick out a wholewheat loaf engineered to double up as a taco. I spot someone collapse from exhaustion in the cosmetics aisle, a toothpaste tube clutched to her chest.

I’m watching baseball at a local bar, cheering as a man thwacks the ball at a churning crowd of peanut-eating fans.

It’s not a six, it’s a home run. I’m drinking diluted domestic beer and calling chips “fries”. I’ve learnt their lexicon. I know aluminium is pronounced a- lu- minum, and that you’re in for a bad time if you ask for a tomato instead of a toe- may- toe.

I’m undercover, and they don’t suspect a thing.

But last week my cover was blown.

“Hey, how are you doing?” the cashier asked. In typical American fashion, she neither expected nor wanted a response. “Howzit!” I said before I could stop myself.

She blinked at me. The man preparing a ceremony of plastic bags at the end of the conveyor belt stopped what he was doing. Behind me, I heard a mother “shh” her young daughter. Outside, a Sherman tank screeched to a stop.

“Excuse me?” asked the cashier.

A full year of work had just been dashed on the rocks of my South African enthusiasm. For months, I’d resisted the urge to drop impromptu “howzits” on my unsuspecting American compatriots, limiting myself to a polite “how y’all” as is custom in most parts. Now I had to prepare myself for the inevitable inquisition, and that fated, terrifying question:

“Are you Australian?”

“Actually, I’m from South Africa,” I mumbled, before those words even left her mouth. “We play cricket too, but we’re just not, um, Australian.”

Still, she looked confused, like I was speaking another language. “Cricket? South Africa? Are you sure?”

Like most Americans, she believed I was an Australian or a Kiwi on the run. Before I knew it, I’d be answering questions about dangerous spiders or quizzed about whether I’d met Steve Irwin. (Sadly, I never got the chance.) It’s a unique trauma that my fellow expats might understand, or at least those foolish enough to blow their cover.

I’ve lived in America – specifically in Atlanta, Georgia – for just over a year. It’s been a baptism by fire (or fries) for someone who didn’t happen to grow up two metres from a McDonald’s. But beyond its supersized proportions and turbulent politics, Atlanta is an inviting place. Like every American city, this thriving metropolis has its own rhythm. Unlike New York, where my chilled Capetonian approach aggravated fast-talking waiters, bartenders and cab drivers, Georgia’s biggest city prefers a South African pace.

All of this has helped me realise something about the places I’ve lived in and visited, and the difference between feeling at home and feeling like a stranger in a foreign place.

Fitting in isn’t about superficial details or material differences, it’s not about carrying the right coffee cup or rehearsing greetings. It’s about finding a place that works for your way of life, a city that mirrors your rhythm. Staying in a place like New York or San Francisco, I felt a constant tension, a need to floor the accelerator to get out of everyone’s way. It’s why, despite Atlanta’s many monolithic monuments to consumerism, endless traffic and sweltering heat, I feel happy here. Atlanta is a place where you don’t have to feel bad for slowing down. It’s a place where people take it easy and have time to notice your accidental “howzits”.

It’s a city where I have the energy, and patience, to be called an Australian.