And while home-brewed coffee, 702 and patience have made the Jan Smuts traffic in my first Jo’burg month bearable, were it not for my Free State number plates, I would be curled up under my bed clutching onto a copy of Herman Charles Bosman’s collected works, humming Somewhere over the rainbow over, and over, and over again.

I have chosen to overlook the “this isn’t Bloemfontein buddy” barks from the occasional Sandton yappie Mercedes-driving drone, because overall, my cheetah-marked plates have done me more good than harm.

I find taxis and old guys letting me sneak into tight spaces during bumper to bumper traffic, and the majority of drivers tend to steer clear of me. Most drivers overlook my discrepancies, leaving me feeling a sense of camaraderie with all the other poor sods locked together in the commuting madness.

But my FS plates have also illuminated an underlying cultural divide in this city, dampening my enthrallment with the towering grime and smoky lustre of the JHB cityscape.

After a festering night of sweat, skanky indie kids, and Spoek Mathambo’s shoo-wop girls jiggling their bits at the Alexander theatre this past Saturday night, my little car and its denizens set out for Greenside. When I pulled out of a parking spot in the most civilised of ways, a jock-y drunkard passing by began shouting out less than flattering comments about Free-Staters.

Before my companions and I could process his drunken slurs, the oaf started pounding my car boot with a beer bottle. Not being one for confrontation, especially when on the eerie evening streets of witching hour, I slammed on the accelerator and motored away, taking only the assailants dents and spilt beer with me.

Maybe my lucky parking spot offended him. Maybe he wanted a ride. Or it was just my plates. I’ll never know. Either way, I think I may slowly be discovering what it means to live in this place. Its people are vibrant and eclectic, sometimes outgoing but also remote.