While I’ve never been one to be at a loss for words, sometimes I get tired of speaking them. How often I have found myself trying to express a quick thought and my tongue tripping in the direction of not-quite-what I wish to say. At night as I try to fall asleep, those regretful tarnished words slip in and out of my head as I reinvent their order, neatly packing them into what I meant to say, until slowly they settle into a peaceful calm dream. Yet try as I may to hold my thoughts, sometimes I can not help myself, as the words bumble out passionately on a subject close to my heart, splattering around the space with a life of their own. As I say, I am rarely at a loss for words, even if I have to make them up.

But not in my new life in Europe. Here, I am a quiet guest, mostly prone to listening, as I am no longer speaking in my mother tongue. One could even consider me a perfect dinner party guest, eager to listen, quick to join in laughter. Choosing my words carefully and thinking about what I will say, I speak only when I have to and I annunciate every vowel, making sure that for the few moments I have the stage, I use my time well.

As I slowly settle in to my continental life, I am beginning to seek out new friendships, for I am a social creature, in need of conversation and good times. I find the thought that I can reshape a whole new ‘me and my world’ invigorating, and I am not in a rush to do it, sussing out each person I meet and slowly choosing who it is that fascinates me, resonates with me and more often than not, makes me laugh. But new friendships are hard work, for it is you the stranger in an established world, and it is you that is vulnerable, occasionally even needy and wanting. Every now and then when I meet someone and think – they’re going to be a new friend – like a nervous young dater, I make an effort to show my interest in seeing them again, but I do it gently, making sure not to scare them off.

Sometimes you may be invited spontaneously to join in a social circle, as my ‘new potential friend’ did the other night. She included me in her birthday dinner. As the front door opened onto her colourful cosy dining room, I felt a wave of nervousness hit me as I faced an array of ten new faces, all glancing up to see who has arrived. While my host cheerfully introduced me, I followed the custom and leant down to kiss each person’s upturned cheek, in turn saying Bonjour, Bonjour, with my best French accent. Turning away, the guests returned to their conversations, while someone casually pulled a chair out for me from under the rough surface of the large wooden table.

Within moments I am handed a delicate wine glass, into which my glowing hostess pours a dash of red ruby wine, urging me to tuck in. I smile and sip quickly, needing to keep my hands busy as I feel a burst of shyness. I find myself thinking about how whenever I am served wine, no matter the glass, it is always poured to just under the halfway mark and never to the top. Peeking around me at the guests, I wonder what the evening will hold.

I was late for the dinner, as I had got lost on the way, something to which I am becoming accustomed as I track my way around the city on slow-moving evening buses up and down similar looking hills. The European summer evenings stretch languidly into the night, the skies only darken at around 10pm, leaving me enough time to see the numbers on houses as I jump off and hurriedly walk to my dinner party.

While my potential new friend giggles from the kitchen and the hum of chatting envelopes me, hungrily, I pick up my plate and scan the table. I feel a moment of secret joy as I spot my favourite cheeses piled onto chunky plates dotted around the table. Red and blue paper-wrapped blocks of butter lie next to bowls of electric green lettuce. Tapping on my shoulder, my friend proffers up a bright orange ceramic dish filled with freshly sliced baguette; I dip my hand into it and gingerly take two round pieces. I spead some soft white brie onto the springy bread and bite into the flavours, savouring the moment.

The woman next to me has shifted her position to include me in her conversation, as her piercing blue eyes glance at mine and her luscious lips pout out her story, I realise she thinks I am French speaking. Smiling to myself, I replay my perfect vowels in ‘Bonjour’ and nodding at her gestures, I relax into the evening, happy to be a quiet guest.

Reactions to me being a South African in different parts of Europe are varied. If I could give a name to a spatter of everyday people grouped by their facial expressions in the moments when I reveal my nationality, it would have to be ‘Surprise Labuschagne.’ Pronounced La-bu-shey. It’s clear the suprise factor is largely to do with the freckled creamy skin, green eyes and blond-brown hair I sport, which just don’t make sense when the word Afrique passes my lips. As they till their heads looking quizzically at me, I try to pronounce the ‘de Sud’ part so there’s no confusion, but it doesn’t always clear things up.

I usually take time to explain the situation to the Suprise Labuschagne’s, so I can make things easier for any future freckled SAfricans visiting these shores. Nelson Mandela? I ask, batting my eyelids… Yes yes of course, they know him, ‘he’s South African!’ they beam, feeling less confuzzed. Apartheid? I ask, with a patient teacher look on my face… Yes yes, a little less smiley now… but wondering where it’s leading. So you remember the story: arrogant group of people that look the same make the lives of another group of different looking people a living hell because they think they’re better than them? Oui, oui they nod frantically, not sure where to look. I rub the skin on my arm, which is not as tanned as I’d like it to be considering it’s ‘mid-summer’. “I’m not one of ‘them’, but I’m from there.” Ah, they say. Were you born there? I tell them yes, in Johannesburg. Looking down at their watch and then deep into my eyes, they try out some English. ‘Nice to meet you’.

My accent means I am often asked by someone or the other about my nationality. When answering, I occasionally observe a telling clear flash of dark recognition followed by a flick of the eyes and a firm setting of the chin. Rather than giving up precious croissant-chasing time, on this cue, I sometimes ’spot’ a make-believe friend in the distance whom I wave at frenetically, excusing myself. Other times, I listen to how two weeks of holiday time were dedicated to building a house in Afrique. I ask them where and they tell me their tale, as I follow the ebb and flow of their liquid words in a tropical land far away.

Thinking about it, somehow I prefer Suprise Labuschagne’s.