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.

Romerberg Square

My first thought was that it looked like Epcot. Silly American.

…Is a surprisingly lovely city. Especially after spending the night, tossing and turning, on an eleven hour flight from San Francisco. I’m en route to Johannesburg, seemingly the longest flight in the world (I’m sure there are others, but right now I’m not on them). When I checked in at the Lufthansa desk for my boarding pass for Frankfürt to Johannesburg, the agent handed me the paper, routinely pointed out the gate number and boarding time, then halted. “Whoa. You’re not boarding until 22:10 tonight. That’s a long layover.” I nodded and smiled. Thanks for pointing out the obvious. My plan was to work during my 8 hour layover. That was all good and well until I sat down and realized I had packed my international, everywhere in the world converter in my checked luggage. I had a few hours left on my computer battery. Lovely.

I worked for a bit while sipping an exorbitantly expensive Diet Coke. (I asked if I could pay in US dollars, she said yes, then quoted me the price in Euros. The dollar’s not doing so well these days.) There must have been a shift change, because a young waiter approached me, asking if I needed anything else. I asked him how long it took to get into town. He assured me not long, we were very near the train station, the trains run every 15 minutes, the next one comes at 5:02. Without meaning to, laughter tumbled from my mouth. How is it that he knows the *exact* train schedule? Oh, yes, we’re in Germany. He wrote down the line I should take, where to get off, what to see.

On the train a surprising number of people were drinking bottles of Beck’s beer. I looked around. Were they selling beer on the train? Where could I get a Beck’s?

I watched as people got on, got off, talked to each other, read, stared out the window. I arrived at the designated station and got off. I emerged from the underground station. Sun! Light! Fresh air! A welcome change from the confinement and stuffiness of the airport. As I looked around, my first thought was “This looks just like Disney World.” I immediately checked myself. OMG. I’m comparing a beautiful European city to Disney World. Silly egocentric American.

The museums had closed; the churches had not. I entered several as I wandered along my route to the river. Beautiful, vaulted ceilings welcomed me. Austere saints stared down at me from stained glass. Severe wooden benches offered a place to sit as I calmed my thoughts and contemplated my upcoming weeks in Africa. I walked along the riverfront, watching boats gracefully slice the waters, sailing under bridge after bridge after bridge. I settled at an outdoor beer garden for a leisurely supper. I watched the bicyclists pedal home from work, briefcases slung over shoulders or attached to racks on back. Businessmen in suits and ties surrounded me, talking loudly and laughing over steins of amber ale.

I began my walk back to the train station. I passed by shop girls closing shop, locking locks and walking away briskly, ready to start their evening. The evening was still light, even at 8 pm. As I neared the station entry, I heard music. An outdoor concert, perhaps? Why was this strange? I listened more carefully. The singing was in English, not German. That’s what was strange. I had adjusted to not understanding and suddenly I could understand. I looked closer. “Jüden für Jesus” was emblazoned in white block letters on navy shirts. Nice. A Jews for Jesus rally. In Frankfurt. I made my way down the stairs, prepared to navigate the ridiculously punctual German train station back to the sterile Frankfürt airport.

Happiness

I didn’t realize how quickly one could fall in love… Oh, hammock, my lover…

Protector

As we arranged our bags underneath our grass shelter, we noticed a tiny green leg sticking up out of the sand. I pulled at it, and realized Michelangelo, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, was here to protect us. First task, guard our beers while we went swimming. He did a great job.