Is surprisingly tender and delicious.

Is what our lawyer always says in exasperation. I find it surprisingly refreshing, just like the real thing.

“I won’t be here for a couple of hours, I need to take my car to get a tracker installed for when it gets stolen,” my colleague announced this morning.

I laughed. “Not when, if. If your car gets stolen.”

“No, no, no. Here, it is not a matter of if, it is a matter of when….”

From reading my posts, you might think I love many things: Google (I’d marry you if I could, oh fount of all knowledge), anything that sparkles (bright and shiny does it for me), just about anything with sugar in it (with the exception of cheesecake, bleh!), and adorable endangered animals.

Yes, I do love all of those things.

But most of all, I love Puff n Sip. What is that? you might ask. Let me tell you.

Puff n Sip is a tradition started by my dear friend Stas. Otherwise known as Cactus. But that’s another story.

It wasn’t a tradition when he started sending the emails every Wednesday, announcing a meeting place at a local watering spot, then venturing on to Cigar Bar, where cigar aficionados could puff their hearts away. But week after week, he sent out the emails, and the faithful came. And it became a tradition. Something everyone could look forward to every Wednesday night.

I’ll admit, I haven’t attended every Wednesday night. However, that doesn’t diminish my love for the mid-week gatherings. Because when I do show up, I’m greeted by hugs and love, as is every visitor. And when I’m not there, I know that there is love waiting for me once I do return.

We noticed the fliers in the hotel lobby. Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Playing at the State Theater, just down the street. A world renowned South African group, playing in their home country. What were the chances we could get tickets the day of the show?

Pretty good, actually.

We were shocked the theater was only about half full. The show was amazing. Harmonies, and laughter, and dancing, and more laughter. We clapped and sang along. Two hours later they performed their last song, walked off the stage, and the lights rose. We looked at each other, quizzically. If we clapped more, wouldn’t they come back for one more song? Encore! Encore! People excused themselves as they stepped over us, still sitting in our seats, willing them back to the stage.

Alas, they were done.

I’m trying to fall in love with you, South Africa. I really am. I want to love this country of yours, of struggle, of independence, of beauty.

It hasn’t happened yet. Each time I arrive to ORTambo, I open my heart, ready to be swept off my feet.

You know how some countries are like an old friend, welcoming you with hugs and kisses and all over, nothing-but-goodness, when you arrive? Well, South Africa, you are more like an asshole who’s always up in your face and yelling belligerently. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

It’s hard to love you, but I’m trying.

At lunch, we, three adult women, are discussing our past, our insecure periods.

She, the African, says: In high school, I was so skinny, I ate, and ate, and ate. I just wanted an ass. I wanted calves. I wanted to be popular like the chubby girls.

We, the Americans, say: We always thought we were so fat. We dieted, and refused to eat, and exercised. And look back on the pictures now and realize how skinny we were. And never knew.

She, the African, says: But have you always been so skinny?

Me, the American, laughs: By American standards, I’m considered heavy. Maybe if I lost 10 – 15 kg, I would be considered skinny.

She, the African, in utter surprise: What? No… You are not heavy. You need meat on your bones. African men, they do not like the bones. You need to be solid.

We, the Americans, look at each other and smile. Oh, to be African…

I’m in Pretoria. At the Court Classique hotel. I have to wonder about an establishment that uses an alternative spelling in its name. I approach the lobby, walking through a gaggle of ducks. No, a gaggle of geese. But they weren’t geese. So according to Google (my love, oh Google, my dear) a brace of ducks, or a flock of ducks, or a flush of ducks, or a paddling of ducks, or a raft of ducks or even a team of ducks. Ducks abound. Quack, quack, quack. I ask my driver/protector, “Do you hunt?” He replies, deadpan, “Not ducks.”

We avoid the ducks and continue to the lobby. I notice there is a preponderance of feathers. Not duck feathers, but fluorescently dyed feathers strategically placed in what could be considered lovely arrangements. Or not. The lobby boasts a display of hot pink feathers amid a profusion of silk Gerbers and Snapdragons and other such flora. The restaurant, aptly named “Orange” professes vibrant orange feathers surrounding, almost suffocating, a single rosebud in a vase on each table. As I walk to my suite, more feathers, in increasingly non-natural shades, appear.

Not exactly my version of “classique” but hey, who am I to define fashion?

Hot or cold. So glad I bought an extra bottle of water yesterday.