WEEK TWO

 Four weekends ago, I did a little exploring on my own and took in some nearby sights and attractions.  I walked down to the V&A (Victoria and Alfred) Waterfront and checked out the shops and restaurants.  I happened to arrive just in time for a catamaran tour that was on the verge of departing.  It was a windy day (although, almost every day is a windy day), so there were only about 10 of us on the boat since it gets pretty chilly out on the water.  The cruise was about 2 hours long, and it was a lovely way to spend the afternoon.  I enjoyed a glass of sparkling wine and light conversation with a group of locals who insisted I come out to their place for a braai (barbecue).  I politely declined, though I was tempted to go on the adventure ... too soon.

The next day, I took a hop-on, hop-off double-decker bus tour around the city center with Damiana (the production coordinator).  It was a great way to begin to get my bearings.  Among the highlights were:  1)  District 6 – a part of downtown Cape Town that was torn down during Apartheid because it was very integrated community.  It’s still mostly grass and weeds and has yet to be redeveloped.  2)  Table Mountain – we rode up to the cable car departure point and saw breathtaking views of the city below and learned about the pine trees that grow on the mountainside --  the trunks are bare and the branches and needles fan out at the tops of the trunks. 3)  The western face of Table Mountain and the beaches in that area—from afar, the oceans look inviting and very Caribbean;  however, I’ve been told that the water is very, very cold.     I’m a little embarrassed to admit that on more than one occasion I’ve opted for the rooftop pool in lieu of the Camps Bay beaches (which are just 10 minutes away) because of the threat of the ocean’s chill.  In my defense, I feel it’s important to point out that the roof deck has a bartender and double-bed-sized, terrycloth-covered lawn furniture for comfortable lounging (one of my favorite pastimes while I’m working).    Anyway, during our tour, we hopped off downtown at a sidewalk café that offered an extensive selection of game.  After much deliberation, I opted for the kudu filet.  It seemed the mildest of the bunch in a menu that boasted zebra among its selections.  Kudu, in case you are interested, tastes  very much like beef filet mignon.  It is a curly-horned antelope.  I tried to imagine that my kudu steak came from a majestic beast that was hunted down in the bush.  I suspect, however, that my tender kudu – along with ostriches, zebra, and springbok (gazelle) and warthog that are common at most steak restaurants here – are raised on farms and are probably not as athletic as their cousins who live in the wild.

This weekend, Adam (my boss) invited me and Damiana to a play called The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists.  It was amazing.   The performance troupe is trained in classical opera, and they executed the most moving, electric performance that was filled with African dance and beautiful singing in English, Afrikaans and Xhosa (The “x” is pronounced kind of like a “k”, but you have to simultaneously make  a clicking sound when you say it, as you are pronouncing the vowel.   There are, fyi, 3 types of clicks.  The “x” click is a bit like the sound you make when you are riding a horse and want to get it to move.)   The play told the story of a group of construction painters who lived in a township during the early 20th century who were preparing for the annual workers’ performance for the owner of the company they worked for.  It was an exploration of the relationships and the dynamic among the workers, how they related to their black foremen, who in turn worked for black supervisors who answered to the white owners of the company.  Without going into great detail, I’ll just say that it was one of those exquisitely crafted pieces that left you laughing, crying and thinking.  It didn’t matter that I only understood the English portions – the play transcended language; although, I’m sure I would have laughed a great deal more if I’d been more familiar with Xhosa.

Here’s a link to a video that explains how to pronounce the different clicking sounds that are part of Xhosa:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31zzMb3U0iY

I expect to hear that you have all mastered your clicks by the next time I check in.  Stay tuned for my adventures as a driving citizen in Cape Town.  I was issued my rental car this weekend.  

  

WEEK ONE

I’m staying in a beautiful one-bedroom “self catering” suite at the Cape Royale in the Green Point section of Cape Town.  Picture a “huge” (by NYC standards) alcove studio apartment on the upper west side.  Modern and tasteful, beige and white and the epitome of New York City luxury – I have a dishwasher, washing machine and dryer camouflaged in the kitchen cabinets!   Of course, I have yet to use any of those appliances because I’m having so much fun acclimating to having a butler and housekeeper. I could use them if I wanted to… but for now I’ll settle for peeking inside them every time I’m in the kitchen.   It’s awesome.

And speaking of awesome – I’ve got three floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto a ledge with a railing. There’s a lot of light, and because I’m in a corner room I have both a mountain view and stadium view.  (I’m just down the road from the new stadium, which is quite beautiful though I have yet to see it lit up like it is in all the pictures.)

I’ve been here a week and am still adjusting to all those little differences that remind me I’m very, very far from home.  There are the expected differences, like driving on the left-hand side of the street.  But what I didn’t expect was that I’d climb into the driver’s seat when I got picked up at the airport.  Riding shotgun feels like driving with your mind.  It’s very disconcerting.  Maybe that’s what the cars of the future will feel like – you know, the ones that will drive themselves?  I’m also re-learning how to cross the street and walk in social situations.  I keep looking the wrong way when I cross the street and have more than once found myself screaming and narrowly escaping death.  And then there’s the whole walking thing where I think I’m getting out of the way and inevitably wind up getting in the way. This will all pass soon, I know.  But for now, I feel like an idiot.

It’s the unexpected differences that really get me, though.  Cans of soda are 200mL.  Picture a skinny Red Bull can that’s about an inch or so shorter.  Love that.  Each electrical outlet in my apartment has an on-off switch, and the on-off switches on everything are backwards – up is OFF and down is ON.  Very confusing.  I’ve got a heated towel rack, which is very cool.  I finally found the “on” switch today – it’s not in the bathroom.  (It’s not cold here, but there is nothing like a warm towel to cocoon yourself in after a shower.  I will save that luxury for once a week.)  In fact, there are no switches or outlets in the bathroom (apparently this is common), and there is only one switch in the whole apartment that can handle a hair dryer – which is stored in the bathroom but you have to use it in the hallway.  That was a fun hour spent figuring that one out.  I’m determined to conquer the microwave this week.  It scares me because it’s got a chrome rack inside.  Shiny Metal+Microwave=Bad, no?   I’ve pushed every button on the damned thing, and so far I’ve only managed to set the clock.  Maybe that’s a good thing.  Maybe that thing isn’t a microwave…

TV here is terrible.  I’ve got 10 channels, 5 of which are non-stop football/cricket/rugby.  Then there’s Disney and MTV.  That leaves CNN, some movie channel (it’s OK), and a local station whose idea of prime-time evening programming is very odd.  More than once I have turned on the TV and there’s a lady encouraging people to call in to win a cash prize if they, for example, pick out the cartoon drawing that is different from the others on the screen.  The prize is around $150, and she is sitting there pleading for someone to call in while the clock winds down.  The time gets down to "5 - 4 - 3 - 2 …  2 … … 2 ….. Anyone?  2… Surely one of you has the answer…  2 … 2 …  1 … 1 … 1 … " Then she calls someone on her headset and asks for more time, so the clock gets reset, and the prize gets doubled.   I can’t confirm this, but I believe that--if I read the fine print correctly--you get charged if you guess incorrectly, which would explain why nobody was calling in.    I’ve watched far more of this show than I’d care to admit (more than once); I suspect I’ll get sucked in again.  I’m comforted by the fact that others on the crew have encountered this program and found themselves watching it for 20 minutes or so.   I’m also comforted – oddly – that soon I will be so busy that I won’t have the energy to watch TV anyway.

TRAVEL DAY

I'll begin with my pet-peeve cliché about how flying business class internationally is the only civilized way to travel.  I can’t count the times I’ve rolled my eyes at those people who “only travel business” when going abroad.  I try to forgive them by reminding myself that they are rarely the ones footing the bill for such privileges (at least, the people I know) and tell myself that if given the opportunity to actually pay the extra $6,000 it costs for this privilege, they would admit that it is absolutely not worth it.    That said, as I sit – no, recline – no,  lounge suspended -- in my seat wondering whether increasing the lumbar support will intensify the personal massage feature I’ve been enjoying in my seat for the past six hours, I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve become one of those annoying people.    Then again, if I take myself back to that return trip from Thailand and remember the metal bar that I sat on for seventeen hours in that seat that wouldn’t recline, I can say with confidence that even then, had I been given the opportunity to pay for an upgrade, I would not have thought it worthwhile to make a massive savings withdrawal to take that pain and numbness away.  That’s like, one-third – no, one-half a car!  Would I pay one-half a car for a vibrating chaise lounge in the sky?  Probably not.  Definitely not!   But for now, I will sip my very lovely Dutch wine that paired oh-so-nicely with my salmon bonbon and buttery hand-cut melba toast and discreetly take my cues from the refined gentleman sitting next to me as I try to pretend that I’ve done this before.   Does my eating every last bit of minced marinated peppers and cucumbers off my plate give me away?  Probably no more so than my writing about this experience while sitting right next to said refined gentleman.

I lucked out with a somewhat shortened trip to Cape Town.  Instead of having an 8-hour layover in London, I had a 4-hour layover in Amsterdam from 6 AM to 10 AM.  After a successful skype call with Andrew, I took Dan’s suggestion to hop the train to the city center for breakfast.  I bought some Euros, negotiated with the train ticket machine and successfully extracted a one-way first class seat to Amsterdam.  I had no idea what class seat or train I actually rode in, but I am fairly certain that I paid at least twice what everyone else I was riding with paid for their seats.  I met a nice guy from Kuwait who asked me if he was on the right platform (poor guy), and I explained to him that I had no idea… but that we were both trying to go to the same place.

I was so looking forward to a scenic train trip to the city and was quickly disappointed to learn that the sun rises very late in the Netherlands in October.  All I could see out the window was my grinning reflection as it dawned on me that I had officially begun this adventure.  8AM, Amsterdam City Center – Pitch Black!  I ventured out beyond the train station and was instantly struck by the image of a sea of parked bicycles.  Thousands of them were crammed in this crazy 3-level parking structure.  Oh right – Amsterdam… where they ride bicycles everywhere.  I knew that…  But to see it!  It was overwhelming.

I headed over to a little tourist area and walked down a narrow street lined with hostels, bars and “coffee shops” which did not seem to actually be coffee shops.  Eventually, the smell of bread baking lured me across the street to a little café that wasn’t quite open.   They let me in anyway, thankfully.   I ordered a cappuccino from the perfect Dutch waitress in the perfect café in that perfect city on the most perfect version of a layover that I could have experienced.  I caught a glimpse of my chipped nail polish as I devoured the most delicious croissant I’d ever seen, much less, eaten.  It was giant, warm and hollow but also dense and flaky sweet.  This definitely beat an airport manicure – my intended layover activity.  I sat for almost an hour listening to some wonderful classical piano music that the staff was whistling to.  They knew the songs.  This was about the time that I began to feel so American — a little uncultured, a little isolated, and generally unworldly.  This old café looked old because it was old – it wasn’t faux-finished, distressed or decorated … it just evolved.  The staff there listened to classical music for fun.  It hit me that this was the vibe that many cool American joints go for… but this was just so raw and real and organic.  I wish my layover had been longer.  This was just magical.  No wonder John Irving is obsessed with this place.

I walked back to the train station and had a nice chat with the “bike attendant” who saw me taking pictures.  He had much to say about the state of this lot – which was one of 6 lots surrounding the train station.  The lot I was in held 4,500 bikes – most of which were stolen or abandoned.  The other lots, when at capacity, hold about the same – so, basically, you’re looking at 26,000 parked bikes on any given day at the train station.   Anyway, I learned that the bike situation is actually a real problem that needs to be addressed in the city.  They are currently in the process of building a bike basement for the train station, which will hold another 7,500 bikes.  But this guy said that as soon as it opens, it will be full in 3 or 4 days and just be yet another place where thousands of abandoned bikes sit.  Nuts, huh? The bike guy had a solution to offer, which I found rather charming.  He said that the mayor should publish a notice in all the papers for FOUR MONTHS stating that all of the bikes that aren’t moved out of the lot will have their locks cut and be impounded.  And then, four months later, the city should impound all the abandoned bikes and put them into a machine and crush them up.  Ya! All better!  I love that he suggested a four-month notification period in the newspapers… how about a few signs and a news report?  So freaking cute.  His impression of a giant bike compactor was adorable, too.    ... Almost as adorable as the fact that they do not sell chewing gum in the Schiphol airport.