Most of the time, I love surprises. Not so much on this trip.

While washing my hair (in the bath tub, the shower not only floods, it has no hot water), I reached over to grab some of the hotel provided conditioner. It smelled vaguely familiar, like a summer’s evening in the south. I waited the requisite two minutes for said conditioner to condition, then tossed my head under the faucet to begin the rinse process. Except it didn’t. Rinse, that is. I tried again. Once again the viscous substance clung to each strand of my hair, refusing to rinse.

I picked up the bottle, thinking maybe there was a special trick to getting it to rinse. Oh. Not conditioner. Insect repellent lotion. With citronella. That familiar smell of summer nights in order to ward off mosquitoes. Well, as least I won’t get bitten…

Knock, knock, knock. “Housekeeping!”

I sleepily peeped at my clock. It was 6:34. AM. I rolled over.

Knock, knock, knock. “Housekeeping!”

I sat up in bed. “Yes?” I yelled.

Knock, knock, knock. “Housekeeping!”

I heaved myself from under the oh-so-heavy, oh-so-warm, oh-so-I-don’t-want-to-leave you duvet. I reluctantly slid my feet into my flip flops and shuffled to the door.

“Yes?”

Silence. Interesting thing about this hotel. If staff knock at the door, they won’t speak to you until you open the door. I opened the door.

“Good morning, madam! You have the iron?”

I stared at her. Was she asking me if I had the iron, or I wanted the iron? What did it matter, the answer to both was no.

“No,” I said sleepily as I shook my head.

“You do not have the iron?”

Now I’m wondering why a hotel with 40 rooms only has one iron. Surely there is a misuse of an article happening here.

“No, I do not have the iron.”

“You really do not have the iron?”

“No, I really do not.”

She appeared completely perplexed, not sure what to do next. She looked at me, then with utter amazement said, “You were sleeping?”

Yes, I was sleeping. Which I don’t find that hard to fathom, considering it’s 6:30 in the morning. Yes, it’s light outside, but still. Yes, I requested a wake up call, from your establishment, at 7:15. Which would indicate that I would be sleeping until that point in time.

I smiled and simply replied, “Yes.”

“Rest well!” and she was off.

I returned to my room and this letter greeted me:

To Our Esteemed Guest,

We would like to apologize for the constant flooding of the shower areas that you may be experiencing. In the meantime, we advise the use of the bath tub.

By Management

One of our in-country staff had made the reservation for me. It was a new hotel whose tag line was “Stay Healthy!” I was somewhat excited about this prospect. A hotel with a gym facility certainly wouldn’t hurt me at this point in my trip.

As I was checking in, the desk attendant offered me a complimentary medical exam. It was part of the “Stay Healthy!” promotion — blood pressure, blood tests, lung capacity, etc. I respectfully declined. For the most part, I avoid needles. Getting blood drawn in a makeshift hotel room cum doctor’s office in Lusaka, Zambia, just didn’t appeal to me. She presented me with a sheet of paper. There was a lot of fine print and a place for my signature at the bottom.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“In our commitment to healthy living, we require all guests to sign a waiver stating they will not consume any alcohol or tobacco products during their stay here.”

I looked at her, expecting her to say, “Just kidding!” She didn’t.

“Please sign, ma’am.”

I knew most of the hotels were booked solid because of Laura Bush’s visit that week. I knew that I really enjoyed a glass of wine with dinner after a hard day’s work. I smiled and signed the waiver. I just traveled 25,000 miles to check myself into detox.

“We wish you a pleasant visit and stay healthy!” she proclaimed.

I arrived to the lodge for dinner. James, my host, took me on the deck. In a lovely, barely susceptible English accent he said, “Here, let me adjust the telescope. Jupiter is quite bright tonight – you can see the planet and most of its moons.” He stepped aside and motioned for me to look. I was speechless at the sight before me. Even without the telescope, the evening sky left me dumbstruck. Layers upon layers of stars twinkled brightly in the sky. The Milky Way cast an opaque net over the black expanse.

Dinner was dish after dish of scrumptious flavors presented before me. Bobotie, a traditional Afrikaans dish, was the main course. Sweet pumpkin and creamy spinach accompanied it. Cilla brought me tipsy tart for dessert. As I was eating, James brought me a glass of fresh strawberry sorbet resting on a plate surrounded by delicate rose petals. The beauty of it stunned me. The deep, crystal clear red of the sorbet contrasted with the delicate pink of the petals. I ate each bite slowly, savoring, peering out over the expanse of the valley.

We gathered on the couch for an after dinner drink. As we were sipping and chatting, James enthusiastically, though silently, insisted we come to the deck. There, just feet away, four wild zebras were grazing. The five of us humans stood still. We watched in silence as the zebras bumped each other, grazed, and brayed, oblivious to our wonderment.

One of the reasons I chose to escape to Cape Town for the weekend was to distance myself from the pervasive violent crime in Johannesburg and Pretoria. I had been told to visit Cape Town, the most beautiful city in South Africa.

My taxi driver from the Cape Town airport told me how he had just gotten out of a 13-month stay in the hospital because 4 passengers tried to kill him as part of a gang initiation. We then pulled up to my hotel, where police had cordoned off the area because a robber had taken a bank employee hostage right around the corner. While driving down to Cape Point (the southernmost point of the Cape of Good Hope), the guy sitting beside me on the bus (another American) told me how he had just been a victim of an attempted mugging right before he got on the bus.

So much for safety.

This is one of those places I’ve only ever imagined visiting – Kathmandu, Cape of Good Hope, Galapagos Islands. Those far away places mentioned in books. Places that conjure up romantic ideals of travel: beautiful sunsets, open spaces, clean air, deserted areas.

Upon arrival to Cape Town, the weather took a nasty turn. Dark clouds crowded the once clear skies. The two attractions I had my heart set on seeing, Robben Island and Table Mountain, were closed because of the weather. I understood why Robben Island was closed, the water was choppy and could make transport to the island treacherous. But Table Mountain? How do you close a mountain? The concierge assured me that yes, the mountain was closed. “I’m only in Cape Town for two days. What else would you suggest?” In response to my enthusiastic inquiry, with lackluster, he pointed to a rack of brochures.

I perused the brochures lined up ever so neatly in the racks. I’m not a particular fan of organized tours, but I wasn’t up for renting a car and driving on the other side of the road (I’ve almost gotten hit several times because I look the wrong way before crossing – no need to introduce a motor vehicle into that equation…) I glossed over the pictures. I didn’t really want to go to the wine country. I wasn’t in this part of the country for long enough to do a safari.

Cape of Good Hope? Really? For some reason I had not connected in my mind that Cape Town and the Cape of Good Hope were close. But of course. I leafed through the brochure. The half-day tour was scheduled to leave at 1. I looked around, trying to figure out what time it was. The large, nondescript clock behind the check-in counter told me it was 11:30. I asked the concierge to book me on the tour.

Soon thereafter I was in the van, along with other Americans, English, Germans, Moroccans, Italians and French, all on our way to the Cape of Good Hope. We stopped along the way to view a penguin colony (incredibly happy with the wet weather) then wended our way over narrow curvy roads, stopping in a parking lot nearly at the end of the earth. I took the tram to the top, relishing in the strong winds and fresh mist that whipped my hair about my face. I climbed the hundred of stairs to the top of the lookout, peering over the edge that gave way to perilous cliffs, ending at the Cape of Good Hope.

Or so I thought. It wasn’t until I had taken loads of pictures and was on my way back down to the tour bus that I realized I had been taking pictures of the lookout at Cape Point, and not the actual Cape of Good Hope. Sigh. Oh, tourist attraction. Foiled again. With only a few minutes before our allotted meeting time at the bus, I meandered around until I found the actual Cape, snapped a few shots then continued on.

My first memories are of dinner parties. People in fancy clothes, beehive hairdos, heavy rimmed glasses, clinking crystal, laughing between bites. Church potlucks – long wooden tables covered with flimsy white plastic laden with casseroles and gelatin salads and overcooked vegetables and potato salad and fried chicken and… And tables and tables of people laughing and joking and calling each other hon’ and darlin’ and sweet pea.

Food = social.

Except when you’re on a business trip by yourself in the off season in Africa.

The first several days I was here I couldn’t face the thought of going out to a restaurant by myself so I instead consumed the energy bars I had packed in my carry-on in case of hypoglycemia on the plane. It’s Day Four and I’ve run out of energy bars.

I looked out the window. The rain was sheeting against the window, causing the buildings in the distance to waver and sway. Could I just go to bed and wait until breakfast to eat? For some reason eating breakfast alone doesn’t bother me. Eating dinner alone does. I checked my cell phone. 18:54. Let’s see, subtract 12, 6:54. Oh, criminy. I can’t go to bed at 7 pm.

I bundle up, grab a book and my purse, and take the elevator downstairs. I stand in the doorway, mesmerized by the rain. I can’t do it.

I turn around and walk towards the hotel restaurant. I ask to see a menu and study it. Meat, meat, and more meat. I’m craving pasta, but craving warmth more. I ask to be seated. “How many?” She asks. I look over each shoulder. There’s no one else nearby. “Just one, thank you.”

I sit down and spread the white linen napkin in my lap. I look around the restaurant. There are seventeen open tables, me, and two older women with bleached hair and long red fingernails sharing a table in the corner.

My waiter approaches me with a wide, beautiful grin. “Hallo tonight. How are you?” I smiled, said I was well, and asked him how he was. “So well. So well. I’m Daddy and I will be helping you tonight.” I suppressed a smile, noticing that his name tag did indeed say “Daddy” and nodded. He offered to bring me water, while allowing me a few moments to look at the menu.

When he returned, I ordered the petite ostrich fillet with a side salad. “And for your starch, miss?”
No starch, just a side salad.”
“But you are having meat. Would you like mashed potatoes, potato wedges, or a baked potato?”
“I really don’t want potatoes.”
“You must order a starch. You are having meat. You cannot have meat without a starch.”
“But Daddy, I don’t want a starch.”

Did I really just say that?

Yes. I did.

Undeterred, he continued. “You must order a starch with the meat.” Realizing I would not win this one, I conceded. “Okay, Daddy, please bring me a baked potato.”

Satisfied, he jotted the order, grinned, and walked away.

A long while later, he brought my plate: ostrich fillet, salad, and baked potato. I chewed my ostrich then took a bite of baked potato, lightly salted. Mmmmm. That was good. Damn good. Thanks, Daddy, for insisting on the starch.