This morning, I missed my train. In the scramble to get to work, I hopped into the first taxi I could find. As I settled into the seat, the gaatjie leaned over, caught my eye, and, without saying a word, asked "Where to, boss?" with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm going to town," I replied - the words tumbling out of my mouth, just as they had done the morning before. And the morning before that, too. And then, as if hearing the words for the first time, I paused. I'm going to town. The words hung in the air, suddenly strange, almost unfamiliar, like I was stepping outside of myself to examine them.
I couldn't help but think how perfectly 19th century it sounded. I'm going to town. It sounded like something straight out of Pride and Prejudice - something I could imagine Mr. Darcy, fiddling with his suspenders, announcing before climbing into his horse-drawn carriage. Jump cut to 2025, and here I am, uttering the same words - except instead of awaiting a golden chariot, I'm requesting an Uber on my iPhone.
What makes these words so fascinating isn't just their survival through time - it's what that survival reveals about us. Whether in the 18th century or in 2025, "I'm going to town" has always meant something deeper: I'm going to where the other people are. At its heart, it's us saying, in the most straightforward way possible, that we want to be where life happens.
As language evolves around us at dizzying speeds, the phrase I'm going to town continues its quiet work, carrying centuries of human longing and journeys toward connection in just three words. There's something endearing about that - how it's lasted not because we preserved it, but because the desire it expresses remains as true now as it was when the first person climbed into their horse-drawn carriage, headed for where everyone else would be.
The fascinating thing is, we barely notice these linguistic time capsules until we stop, just for a moment, to really hear what we're saying.
How's that for meta?
