My life is not remotely similar to the one I had when I was in the fast lane in South Africa in the eighties.
As it turns out I was forced to take a job at a restaurant as a server. I am still with the rich and famous. But now I am serving them.
When I was a journalist there was less drama in the newsrooms while covering Bosnia-Herzogovina than there is in the restaurant in which I am now working.
It’s the kind of chic restaurant to which men bring women they want to impress.
Like eating an artichoke, waiting tables is a lot of work for a little reward.
When I clock in on Aloha, it says ‘Server,” not PeeAar, or radio-show host or columnist.
I have become a different person to Jani Allan-of-the-Sunday-Times. I am the den mother at the resto.
This bohemian river town is a rich seam for a transplanted journalist. Therefore I came to realize that the pen is stronger than the table crumber.
The column is once again the needle that pulls the threads of my life together, the focus of all my energy. Striving for the summit is the only escape from the chasms of emptiness.
I no longer have diamonds, a sports car or blonde hair. I am living quietly and happily in a blaze of obscurity in New Jersey.
You see I am learning to rock with the waves.
I am trying to invent a new way of being in the world.
Continue the journey on this blog and at http://janiallan.com/