Sunday mornings are special. As I kid I would dread getting out of bed on Sunday mornings because then I was that much closer to 11:30 mass and having sit and listen to Father David drone on and on and on for what felt like an eternity in my kid mind. Then again, my kid mind (and stomach) knew that Sunday mornings held the promise of a delicious breakfast: crème brulee French toast, blueberry pancakes, waffles or something else amazing made by my mother. On those rare occasions my mom didn’t make something for Sunday breakfast, my siblings and I would groan and moan, but we’d be sharply reminded by our dad that our mom was not our personal chef.
Before breakfast on Sunday mornings my brother and I would watch Sportscenter. Most kids watch cartoons on weekends; my brother and I watched sports highlights. After the advent of the Playstation we’d spend our Sunday mornings completely absorbed in FIFA, Madden or 007. Eventually my sister was old enough to play, and then we’d spend our Sunday mornings watching the clock and waiting for our turn on the Playstation.
It’s an unspoken rule, but the time between Sunday breakfast and church in the Moakley house is reserved for my dad to commandeer the entire living room and listen to his music. Sometimes the music is of questionable taste – one memorable morning my father decided to listen to Tubular Bells, possibly the worst and weirdest collection of music known to mankind, and my mom actually asked him to turn it off, it was THAT bad – but for the most part my dad has good taste and will put in a classic rock album or some jazz.
Often while my dad listened to his music I’d spread out on the living room floor with the Sunday paper. One of my earliest memories is of reading Calvin and Hobbes. My mom can testify to the fact that when I was in 1st grade I was crazy about Calvin and Hobbes. Gradually my interest expanded from the comics to the other sections of the paper. Nowadays my family jokes that a new Sunday morning tradition is for me to whine about how terrible the News and Observer is, but let’s not kid ourselves – I do that every morning at home.
In high school Sunday mornings meant long runs at Bond Park or Umstead with the cross-country team. During my first years in college Sunday mornings were my most productive time of the week; I’d get work done while waiting for my friends to rise from their slumbers. Eventually we’d make the pilgrimage to Ram’s Head for brunch and recall the crazy stories from the night before. These days I go out for long, solo rides on Sundays: just me, my thoughts and my bike. When I get back from my ride my brother almost always has a new bag of coffee beans from Crema that he’s excited about trying, and my sister will usually be in bed and avoiding the kitchen at all costs – Sunday morning is her day to empty the dishwasher.
As I write this I am trying to do my best to re-create the Sunday morning vibe of home. I’m in my pajamas and I’m listening to Kind of Blue, but it just isn’t the same. This last week has been the low point for many of us here in Cape Town. Most of us have completed our South African “bucket lists” with the exception of the Garden Route road trip next weekend, our final hurrah. The atmosphere in the house is a mixture of homesickness and stress about our final assignments. The lousy weather hasn’t helped. I was out on the bike for a total of 45 minutes yesterday before rain and wind forced me back. I’ve spent most of the weekend reading Grapes of Wrath and pouring over sources for my final project. Last night I watched Hero and read more of Grapes of Wrath. Today the weather is still lousy and I’ll probably spend the day reading more Grapes of Wrath and pretending to do some work on my final project.
Only in the absence of things does one being to realize their true importance. During my NOLS course we all realized how much we appreciated simple comforts like non-dehydrated food, showers and toilet paper. We craved contact outside of our little group of 14; after a month of no contact with the outside world I was so happy to see my mother in the airport I had to fight back tears. (I also had to fight back tears at lunch that day at El Dorado over the joy of eating an enchilada, but that’s another story.) Here in Cape Town the experience is a little different; we have most of our creature comforts and contact with our friends and family. But while I can talk to my family and exchange e-mails and pictures, it just isn’t the same. The absence of lazy Sunday mornings with the family has helped me realize why they are so enjoyable.
When people ask me if I’m glad I came to Cape Town for the semester I tell them “yes,” and rattle off different sights I’ve been able to see, or I talk about some of my weird experiences around the town. However, the best experience of the past few months has been the absence of “home.” It’s fitting that I’m going to be getting home early on a Sunday morning – I’m looking forward to spending a lazy Sunday with my family, fighting off jet lag with their company and a cup or two of good coffee.
