Farewell to Wine!

Monday was my last Hurrah in the Cape Winelands!

Since my goodbye soiree at the Bistro was Monday evening, we figured it was a good last gasp for the Interns to do a final slurp and weave through Constantia before ending up at Steenberg. We headed out, Jordan, Katie, and I, as well as Katie's roommate Georgia, at about 12:30 in the afternoon, with Tunes and Map in hand, and headed for our valley.

Tally Ho!

We began at Eagles nest, mainly for the award winning Shiraz, but frankly their whole tasting list was quite nice. We name dropped Steenberg, introduced Katie as the new intern, and were not charged. It was a fantastic, hot, sunny day, so we sat in the sun and sipped happily.

"Bubblegum?"

"Needs more Cowbell."

 

 

 

 

After Eagles Nest, we planned on doing one more before hitting up Constantia Glen for lunch, but Beau Constantia was closed! Boo urns, so we headed to lunch early. It was a good thing, because by the time we arrived at Constantia Glen, we were all ravenous and slightly tipsy. We again sat in the sun, shared two cheese and charcuterie platters, and once we had mentioned Steenberg, we were brought considerably more wine than the regular four-choice tasting menu. We did, in fact, four Sauvignon Blancs alone, followed by their rose, a few reds, and their 3 and 5 blends. Despite the fact that we were all eating hearty soup and bread as well the cheese and meat boards, Constantia Glen is definitely where the wine started settling into a pleasant haze, because lunch ended up spanning nearly two hours and evolved from remarks about work and the weather to feminism, the U.S tax system, and the relative politics of the U.K as compared to Canada and other Commonwealth countries. We were all of us drunk enough to be opinionated and witty without being actually bothered by rival opinions. It was a perfect conversational balance. To quote Jordan; "It's shit like this that makes me appreciate being an adult."

 Never more than a single bottle away from chaos or communism.

 After Lunch, we found our way to Groot Constantia (oldest in the Valley) and, again, the magic word "Steenberg" got us their entire tasting menu (Oh, Damn... Extra wine. Boo.) as well as the fabled Vin de Constance, which was Napoleon's deathbed choice, as well as Jane Austen's recommended cure for a broken heart.

I'm beginning to have quite a taste for expensive things in small bottles.

By this time, it was nearly 5pm, and so we had time for just one more- Thankfully, the one we'd previously missed on our Constantia tour, High Constantia. We arrived just in time (4:55pm) and the attendant was thoroughly unimpressed. It probably didn't help that we were all of us (especially the non-driving ladies) clearly buzzed. None the less, the woman patiently walked us through all the wines (Despite our insistence that she just choose one white and one red for us for try... That would have been much quicker and easier on all of us, but I think her revenge was gained in giving us loads of wine and flatly denying us a spittoon).  We even started with their bubbly, which was lovely, and the background of High Constantia also looked like some sort of Fairy Tale Disney Kingdom, so the backdrop was perfect.

Sadly, no Unicorn. Only Baboons.

We had a minor setback when G-Wagon (The horrible but affectionate Golf Chico) didn't want to start again, but after a few minutes all was well and we were on our merry way to drop Georgia off at the Train Station, and then to Steenberg for dinner.

Once we arrived at Steenberg, the night pretty much became a happy blur of expensive food in delicate sauces with lots of wine. Katie and I were both drunk enough to not only take mirror pictures in the ladies room (to "remember the washroom" by...) but also to think it was totally appropriate to rant about abortion and evangelical Christianity during dinner. I do, however, recall showing people my pictures and talking about the Garden Route and Shark Dive, so I'm thinking most of dinner was probably alright, but to be honest, it wouldn't have been the first time Upper Management had seen me smashed (and arranged it, actually...Potjie, anyone-?) so I figure it wasn't a poor note to end on.

Drunken Twenty-Something Women Everywhere.

What WAS a poor note, however, was Jordan suggesting we head to Gorgeous (The Bubbly Bar on the vineyard property) with Chantelle. I don't know why I though leaving a drunken dinner after a drunken afternoon in the sun to go to a bar full of my ultimate weakness known as sparkling wine was a good plan, but off we went, and I can remember bits and pieces of posh booths, a shiny bar, and lots and lots of bubbles. I don't quite remember leaving, but I DO remember Jordan waking me up when we arrived back in obz, and having a blurry conversation with my highly amused roommate.

Drunken hooliganism and shenanigans aside...

Honestly? It was a fantastic send-off. I am going to miss the hell out of Steenberg, and of South Africa, and of all the (too many) times I ended up coming home sloshed off the bounty of the Southern Cape vines. It was a good thing.

Thanks, guys.



                                                          

Cheers!

Cheetahs, Elephants, and Ostriches Oh My

So, my last weekend in South Africa consisted of an awesome couple of days.

This past Saturday morning, I was collected at 7:20AM by HotSpot2Capetown tours, where were spent another hour or so collecting all other 12 participants, and then headed out onto the spectacular Garden Route Cape Drive.

I did the tour by myself, partially because I've been so enjoying my own company lately that I thought it would be like a nice wee trip with myself, and also so I could feel less guilty when all I wanted to do was listen to music and lounge across the back seat while watching the glorious mountains and valleys roll by. Which is what I did, for five hours, and it was magical.


After the five hour drive (which included a stop at SPAR for sandwiches and chocolate- Sustenance!) our first stop was the Cango Wildlife centre, which was essentially half a zoo and half research/breeding centre. We did a walkthrough involving everything from Snakes to Lemurs to Meerkats in their small animal area, and once that was done, we headed to the Big Cat area.

This walkthrough took us through Cheetahs, Leopards, two White Bengals, a pair of Lions, and a Tiger. We were lucky enough to be going through very shortly after feeding time, so many of the cats were working enormous bloody haunches of some recently slaughtered creature, and the Lioness in particular was working a ribcage with all the gusto of a poor relation (or College Student) invited to Thanksgiving Dinner.

Afterwards, a few of us were more than willing to sign to waiver to go into the Cheetah area, and hang out and pet them. These ones had been raised by humans and socialized from birth, so, while not entirely tame, they were fine with being stroked and touched. We were told only to stroke from the back, and not touch their faces, necks, or bellies. Not because they didn't like it, but because that implied that we were playing with them, and when Cheetah's want to be playful with you, they can hurt you if you aren't prepared for it like their gloved and neck-covered attendants.

It was amazing, and honestly a little intimidating. They were larger than I expected, not that that makes them less dangerous, and there were also two of them, which I didn't expect.  However... They started purring. And leaning back against my hands and knees. See? She is loving it! I am working my massage magic!

Left.....Lower...More left...Perfect. I shan't slash your jugular today.

After the Cheetah's, we phoned our ride while waiting in the Cango Cafe getting acquainted, and I let everyone try my Savannah (Which I will desperately miss.)

That night, we ate Ostrich and played cards in the Hostel, and I had a pretty decent sleep in a horrible dorm bed with a questionable comforter and squashy pillows. I was tired and over-stimulated enough to be out like a light by 11pm, and so the 7am wake-up wasn't too awful. The Hostel breakfast was also delicious, and I had the added bonus of being able to watch Cartoons because one of the breakfast ladies had her small son in, and he was parked in front of the wide screen. Either Cartoon Lineups haven't changed at all, or South Africa is about a decade behind on their children's shows, because I was surreptitiously watching Sonic Underground followed by Rescue Heroes and feeling like I was single digits old again. I wanted to hang around and see if Jackie Chan Adventures was next like I remembered, but we had to catch the bus out.

We went to the Ostrich Farm first, which was surprisingly enjoyable for all it was just about Ostriches. There was a wee dwarf ostrich, an Ostrich Riding Corral (No, I didn't. I Ostriched out), and I did feed two enthusiastic ostriches, and stand on some eggs, which can hold up to 160 kg.

"I don't care if their boys or girls as long as they have two wings and a beak..."

Following the Ostrich Farm, we headed to the Elephant Reserve, where, after another lovely nature walk, we got to hang out with three elephants, orphaned in Kruger, who were raised at the sanctuary and simply loved being fed by us. We each were given a bucket full of melon slices, and shown by the attendants how to offer them food, let them take it with their trunk, or how to ask them to raise their trunk so we could put the food in their mouths. Oh, and afterward, we go to cuddle with them.

D'aaawwwwwww!

 

After the Elephants was our last and longest stop, the drive through the Game Reserve- Hopefully to see the Big Five. Well, we got four of them. Over the course of two and a half hours, we saw, as well as astounding scenery and a beautiful day, 2 Elephants, 4 Giraffes, 3 Rhinos, 1 Lion, and a small herd of Cape Buffalo, as well as numerous species of Antelope, an African Wildcat, many Zebras, and Wildebeest. Possibly one of the most impressive weekends ever.

Day Seized. Cheers.

Monopoly, Dancing, and More Wine

It is my last day of work, and in my previous week I have packed in more than I've done over the past month.

I participated in no less than three executive wine tastings at work, one of which included a range of tiny, expensive snacks. Tiny, expensive snacks are the best kind, particularly when one is not paying for them.

I went on a late night Indian Food run to Cafe Ganesh, a tiny little hole in the wall semi-restaurant where people smoked indoors. The walls were unfinished, the art was alarming, the atmosphere was perfect and the peanut sauce was heaven. I sat with three of my roommates, and we had lengthy discussions covering everything from religious documentaries, bizarre DJ monikers, and the likelihood of accidentally marrying a half sibling in communities with multiple-donation sperm banks. You know how there's that one table that everyone is surreptitiously eavesdropping on? At Cafe Ganesh, that was us.

I had another round of Drunken Monopoly that, as usual, turned into capitalist ranting.

A couple of good ones:

"I don't anyone could win... We'd just go around the board and not be allowed to have property until everyone could."- Ciara, re 'Communopoly'.

"Oh yeah? I'll sell my houses to the bank."
"Oh yeah? What if the bank doesn't want your houses?"
"Oh yeah? They always want my houses!"
"Oh yeah? 2008!" -Me vs Ciara. She won that exchange...

This past Sunday, I headed to Mzolis again. Partially because I had nothing to do, but also because I was desperate to go again before I left. As usual, we ordered volumes of charred meat, bought three 6 packs of Hunters and Savannah, and this time- we danced.

Well, I danced, and Hope did. There was a gang from University of Cape Town, perhaps 15 males, all doing some sort of ritualized group circle affair where they were in a wide ring, everybody vibing, and taking turns with one man at a time jumping into the middle of the group and busting out his particular moves. When someone entered the circle, the was a mass set of rythmic hooting and hollering and clapping to whatever beat the DJ had going. It sounds a bit ridiculous, but it was actually incredibly impressive. Coming as I do from a country where men rarely dance, and almost never in an all male group ("That's Gay") much less as a bonding ritual, it was seriously cool.

Alpha dancer appeared to be the cocky one with the striped fedora. He was in the circle most often, called out who the next up would be when no one immediately jumped in, and led the clapping and hooting when the beat called for it.

So, naturally, when I reached just enough of a pumped up buzz state to feel bold, it was during His round I jumped into the circle after, and snagged his Fedora.

The circle immediately made a low "Oooooooohhhhh" and began the clapping and stamping ritual that I took to announce the beginning of a full out Dance-Off. Hat Man turned slowly, and I put on the Fedora, skipped back a few paces, and busted the hell out.

Needless to say, it was epic.

Over the next perhaps 10 minutes, we danced circles around each other, occasionally with each other, but mainly in sort of pantomimed, rhythmic fight over the hat. I was particularly impressed when, at the end, I managed to roll the hat off my shoulder, catch it by brim, and, with a flourishing bow, popped it back onto his head as we both spun-exited opposite sides. The hooting and applause was deafening, and passersby had stopped to have a look. Following that, I was riding a nerve and endorphin high all day.
They came to our table an hour or so later, to collect us for a drinking game. Good fun all 'round.

Yet another excellent afternoon of cider, meat, and madness at Mzoli's.

Very, very strange that I'm coming home so soon. I'm actually busy on my last Sunday here, so I won't be able to go again.

Oh, right- I'm going on a Safari bush trip after my last day at work (Today). I'll be headed up through the Garden Route, hitting the cheetah reserve, the elephant sanctuary, the Big 5 open-jeep Game Drive, and the Ostrich Farm. I'll be back Monday, which is when I will do a final Constantia wine tasting with Jordan and Katie (The New Me- Intern # 3, soon to be 2) followed by Tapas at the Bistro with Lida, Graham, Chantelle, Chloe, Jordan, Kaitie, and Anetha. Then, it is only a few short days until I head back to Canada. First to Montreal, to bring my Uncle fresh news of Africa, and then onto Home.

See you soon!

Peopled

Last week at work, I had a day full of bizarrely serendipitous introductions.

I was working the counter in the morning when a tired looking, perhaps fifty or so woman arrived, and asked about our wine tasting. She heaved herself onto a bar stool, opened the wine list, and announced,

"My daughter in law is in the car with three grandkids all under five."

"Oh," I said. Surprised, but polite.

"All under five. I am so damn sick of poo and pee and snot." She paused to look at a tell-tale, chunky stain on her shoulder, "Spit up too. Ugh. I came in saying I might buy one or two bottles of wine. How much can I taste in under 10 minutes before they get suspicious?"

"I'll start you off with bubbly!" My sympathies and humour thus aroused, I went double speed to ensure this woman's glass was not once empty for the entire 25 minutes she ended up staying.

"I mean, of course I love them, you know I love them... But they're sticky, and sometimes smell..." She trailed off and enthusiastically downed some red.

I assured her that it was the divine right of Grandparents to swan in and spoil and scold as they please without worrying about the more practical aspects of small child parenting. After all, she'd done her time already. Now to enjoy the fun bits without the diapers. We continued to chat over most of the classic tasting, and one or two of the ultra premiums.

Her name, I learned, was Debra from Chicago. She was asking me about what I was doing up in Cape Town, and eventually what I wanting to do with my life entirely. She was a medical volunteer, and I ended up telling her about my volunteering with the 55+ centre and about how'd I'd eventually like to volunteer as a hospice worker.

Well, Debra from Chicago was now convinced God had made arrangements for her to meet me today, because that was what she had spent much of her life doing, and she stayed the nearly full half hour (poor daughter-in-law...) telling me about her experiences and training in everything from medical work to alternative medicine to acupuncture. I kept her topped up all the while.

No, I am not planning to investigate alternative medicine or acupuncture. I enjoyed the conversation so immensely not only because I was talking to a Bad Ass Grandma who rented a car so her daughter-in-law wouldn't know she went... somewhere ("I can't tell you, dear. You're too young. We'll just say it's a place grannies shouldn't go."), but because she was evidently so sincere in her belief that she was meant to have come across me. It was a semi-spiritual encounter with a complete stranger that left me feeling quite touched. Like a vague nod in my direction from the Universe.

Later the same afternoon, a new worker from Gorgeous, the Bubbly Bar in our estate restaurant Catharina's, came to do a flagship tasting to familiarize herself with the wines. Because it was so slow, I ended up have a glass of wine and a chat with her about her background and we swapped email and facebook so I can arrange my bubbly tasting at Gorgeous for one of her shifts, and she directed me to a friend of hers who runs a wine room in Obs, where I live. Another afternoon-perking affirmation!

Encounter the third was, perhaps, the most both eerie and gratifying.

A family came in at around 4:30, a set of parents and a quite small girl. The small girl, in an eloquent and serious manner, asked me if I knew how imaginative she was. By this point, I had watched her for some time sliding off the bar stools in a quietly dramatic fashion, and I asked her to demonstrate how imaginative she was.
"Oh!" A look of inspiration crossed her face, "I think my fingers are people." And she acted out a brief and sophisticated dialogue between her two index fingers. On a hunch, I asked if she was a reader.

"Yes!" She thrilled, "I was on 12 page readers, then 24 page, and now I can read ever so many pages!"

She was 'just turned six', and the charming UK accent only endeared me to her well-spoken manner further.

I asked what she liked to read, and she rattled off some generic school-reader story books, and I discovered her favourites were the ones with 'proper stories'.

On a further hunch, I asked if she liked to make stories up.

"Yes!" She nearly fell off the bar stool (By this point, her parents were well into their wine tasting, having established that I did not mind their tiny offspring's company in the least, and would give them a wave if she "made herself a nuisance". ) She proceeded to tell me all about her collection of toys, and their assorted characters and names. It was shades of my own childhood, and I told her about the massive stuffed toy collection of my youth, and how each citizen of my wee bedspread town had distinct personal histories, likes, dislikes, and accents.

Mia, (her name was Mia), asked me what I like to read. I rattled off a few of my favourites, but before I was about to begin on my children's books, she asked;

"But what did you like to read when you were me?" I'm aware she meant when I was six, but the phrasing melted me a little. My mission accepted, I grabbed a sheet of paper, and began writing down every single children's book I could think of, spanning Dr. Seuss to Roald Dahl to all the Narnia books. Enid Blyton, Redwall, The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, The Secret Garden, my personal favourite, M.M Kaye's The Ordinary Princess... I dredged up every favourite story my brain could remember, and ended up, as we were chatting, doing up a list of nearly 30 some easy, some weighty children's stories. At this point, well over an hour had passed, and when the time came for her parents to leave, with her Mother's permission I added my address to the reading list and I now have a 6 year old Pen Pal and long distance reading buddy from London. My life took a seriously cool turn.

I enjoyed the last encounter so much because it quite seriously felt as though I met myself when I was six. When I was a wee thing, my eldest sister referred to me casually as "precocious to the point of disturbing". Once, at the age of four, I was instructed (with alternating coaxing and threats to behave or else) to greet my Mother's close friend and colleague politely... She came through the door to find a tiny, severe child saying  "Mrs. Petrone, I presume?" in a drawling, semi-British accent.

I think of myself as a child, a ball of mental energy and whimsy, and think of who I am now. Those traits that people are so often quick to dismiss as childish have been the formative aspects of my character and here I am- Still reading, writing, engaging, and doing my own thing. Whatever that happens to be this week.

I had a difficult time at school as a child, for no other reason than lack of focus, interest, and motivation. I sometimes wonder if I would be any different if I had been, say, medicated in order to improve my school performance, or put into classes or activities to make me less withdrawn from fellow students. I probably would be, and I'm glad I wasn't. For all I loathed school, I really love who I am, and what my strengths are. Even my weaknesses suit me just fine.

 Mia was one of the one in a hundred children who women meet and suddenly think 'Huh. I could probably have 10 of you, provided I have a guarantee that they'd be you'.
The reason I've always wanted to have children is because I have a life and a family and experiences and a future that is happy, relatively stable (as much as anything can be) and I could die tomorrow and it will all have been worth it. Why would I not want to give that to someone else, and watch another person discover who they are, and what they can become? As far as I'm concerned, the extent of my job is to see them foisted on the world with good manners and good character. They can take it from there.
My mother once remarked that by the time you have four of them, you pretty much realize they all arrive with their own ingrained personalities, even when they only weigh 5 pounds. You may not have a guaranteed Mia,  but you can give whatever comes access to what  made her.

Cheers,

~A Whimsical, Imaginative Full-Grown Adult (And Proud of It)

Scandal and Intrigue!

At work yesterday, Security was called to the Bistro to answer a 'disturbance'.

Since the tasting room is immediately in front of the Bistro, we saw the uniforms come in, speak to the manager, and leave again. Shortly thereafter, a middle aged lady, looking very high maintenance and forlorn, came out of the Bistro weeping and red-eyed, led by sympathetic looking friend of similar standing. Graham, who was covering till at the time, was closest to the action, so, being the ravenous voyeur of human behaviour I am, that's where I headed.

Me: What's going on at the Bistro?
Graham: The table that ordered the million oysters is being kicked out.
Me: ... What's going on at the Bistro?
Graham: No idea- Talk to Chantelle, she's in the know.

So, because I am clearly someone who minds her own business and doesn't hold with gossip, I found Chantelle to learn the news.

Chantelle, who had been nearer the Bistro than us all and chatting with a worker there, filled me in on the savoury details.

The weepy high-maintenance woman had been in the washroom with aforementioned friend, causing a fuss and loudly lamenting her cheating husband. Facebook photos were involved.
While woman and friend were deciding whether or not she ought to divorce him (Chantelle had been in the other stall at the time, bless my luck) her husband, and another man at the table (Her brother? Lover? Who knows!) start physically fighting in the Bistro. Tapas and fisticuffs all 'round, apparently.

Security was called, but by the time security arrived the two men had settled down, and all was apparently well at table. Because the table was a group of particularly high rollers (hence the expensive looking ladies) management didn't want to kick them out entirely, so were instead quickening service and giving the security men a cup of coffee in order to have them hanging around the bar area just in case.

Over the next 45 minutes, we kept catching periodic glimpses of domestic unrest. First-off, the lady and friend came out of the Bistro again, and hung about the hall in front of the Tasting Room and Bistro entrance, talking loudly about what her perceived options were, and whether or not she ought to "Just make a decision and go".

I was having a word with Chantelle near the merchandise about the implications of a grown woman monopolizing a busy thoroughfare with dramatic talk of divorce and adultery, and the entire conversation seemed more appropriate to a quiet morning coffee than a group dinner in a high end restaurant, but, to quote Chantelle, "To be rich, eh?".

After the ladies had returned to the Bistro, the first one came to the Tasting Room yet again, this time with one of the men. This time, they snagged a portion of our wine bar, and began what Graham and I suspected was the first of many state-of-the-relationship discussions. Still tearful, the woman allowed herself to be petted and comforted in a way quite inappropriate to public venue. I assumed this was perhaps the Husband, but after a few moments a different man arrived from the Bistro, and also began hugging and talking to her, while man the first was still present. The first man left, the second man stayed, and after more drunkenly affectionate maneouvering, yet another man arrived, with man the first again, and everyone apparently had a go at talking this woman off her mental ledge. The female friend was lurking near the Bistro entrance, apparently keeping a wary eye on proceedings.

At this point, Graham and I were speculating about the dialogue from a safe distance.

Graham: What-? What are they doing? Are they taking turns trying to convince her not to divorce him and take all the money?
Me: Maybe trying to coax her back into the restaurant?
Graham: Never a dull moment, eh?

Never a dull moment indeed. This was all taking place at 5:00pm, which put at closing time in less than an hour. It was very trying to attempt to keep up with eavesdropping without neglecting the closing duties. I needed to collect bits and pieces from other workers.

Perhaps, more Scandal to follow!

Out of Order, Sir!

Whoops!

Due to a backlog in editing draft posts, the last few posts were in a screwed up order. The one about being sick should have been before the post about TED talks, which was before the winery, which was before the post about Sharkdiving. THEN onto Braai Times. My bad!

So no, I was not ill again (although Jordan was... I told him not to breathe around me.)

Braai Times!

Last Tuesday, Lida (My manager) announced that there was to be BBQ at work on Wednesday night at 6:00pm. Or, more appropriately, a Braai, which is what South Africans call a BBQ.

I had initially figured it was simply a linguistic difference, a matter of a different word for the similar thing- Cooking outdoors, burgers, etc.

No. A Braai is a completely different atmospheric and experiential event that I hope I can recreate at some point. I think Canadians would love Braais. We like fire, we like outdoors, and we like cooking things more interesting than just hot dogs and pre-packaged patties sometimes.

The first major difference I noticed was that there isn't a such thing as an actual barbeque. No coals, no propane, no tidy grill area.

There was, however, a massive half cut steel drum that was packed with wood and kindling and set to bonfire for an hour and a half while everyone drank the new Sphynx Chardonnay, old vintages of red blends, and boxes of beer.

Once the fire had burned down to coals, JD Pretorius (not only Steenbergs head Wine Maker, but officially dubbed 'Braaimaster' as well) strapped on a headlamp, grabbed three enormous grates that to fill with homemade burgers, and went to work, piling them over the low flames, concentrating coals in different areas, etc.


The burgers were unreal. Moist to the point of dripping, and having a woody, smoky amazingness that came from from wood coals. We ended up in the tasting room, eating around the wine bar while making guesses about a mystery wine that turned out to be called "Shannon". JD gave me the cork as a souvenir!

Now, for Braai experience number two:


http://www.lonelyplanet.com/south-africa/cape-town/restaurants/bbq-meat/mzoli-s


A few days after this, my roommates and I decided to go to Mzoli's, which is a Braai restaurant in the Townships (The dirt poor settlements that ring around Capetown).

Once we got there, we were in line outside the door of what looked to be a little hole in the wall on a hot, crowded street full off people walking, vendors with sunglasses and hats, and coolers of beer. Once our turn came inside, we were at a counter of what was essentially a butchers shop, with raw meat of various varieties piled high behind glass, and three men running around behind scales, trying to move through customers as efficiently as possible.

What happens is this: you order however much of what you want, and it will be brought to you, after however long (depends on how busy it is) spiced, flamed, and sauced. There was five of us (going to be seven) and we put in 50 rand each(About $6.25). We ordered 100 rand worth of chicken, 100 rand worth of pork, 50 rand worth of sausage, and 50 rand worth of beef.

That completed, we headed out into the street again. It was already hot, and it was a perfectly clear day. We were heading across the street to buy drinks, which were purchased from peoples homes along the streets. We were beckoned onto a patio by a handful of vendors (more hats and sunglasses) and the woman inside the house was running a lucrative shop selling 6-packs out her front door, probably at tidy profit.

We bought 3 6-packs, two of Hunters and one of Savannah (both dry ciders) and headed into the Mzoli's "restaurant". I say restaurant dubiously, because it wasn't a restaurant. It was a sprawling, packed warehouse under sheet metal and wooden rafters, with plastic tables and chairs, barrels and bar stools, and a DJ already hard at work by noon. People were eating, drinking, dancing, and smoking left, right, and center.

We snagged a barrel and 3 stools on the far side, near the open edge half in the sun. What followed was two hours of complete and utter awesome. Music, meat, cider, and sun. I also had my picture taken by a couple of people, and a man came and drummed near our table for a while, so we danced, and gave him a handful of change.

When our (totally unreasonable volume of) food came, it was in a metal basin nearly the size of our table. Everything; sausages, pork, chicken; all thrown together and sitting in its own juice and sauce. No plates, no napkins (we brought out own). Just an enormous bucket of barbequed meat. You ate with your hands and enjoyed every minute of it, washing it all down with beer and enthusiasm.

After we ate what we could (perhaps half... Maybe less) we bought three take out containers for  2 rand each, and brought a hefty pile home each. We also filled our lemon container (Carolyn had thoughtfully brought lemon slices for the cider in a small tupperware container) with bits of fat and scraps of tougher meat, and fed the street puppies while we waited to flag a cab.

We snagged a cab, and went back to Howe street for 5 minutes to change, and I grabbed my (your) speakers and book, before heading to Camps Bay to watch the sunset. We did a Pick n Pay run for chocolate and chips (worst supper ever... my stomach is still annoyed at me) and sat on the beach, listening to music, reading, chatting, snacking, and just enjoying the day.

As I've been ending posts with more and more often;

Day Seized!

Congested contemplation

I was hoping that my week one review of Africa would be filled with interesting tales, fantastic sights, and general wonder.

No such luck. Day four of anti-biotics, and I  have stayed home from work because apparently 3 days of bed and tea wasn't enough. I am in bed, with a roll of toilet that has been serving as kleenex, watching old cartoons on youtube and reading and napping. Pleasant in its way, to be honest, but nothing I couldn't do at home.

I've had only two full days of work, and hopefully I'll be there tomorrow. I've been having awful coughing fits all day, and I'm fairly certain my lungs are trying to escape, given the unpleasant bits of matter rattling about in my chest and trying to make a break for my throat.

The things I have done:

• Investigated a nearby sushi/thai combo place down on Lower Main.
• Shopped for warmer business casual clothing for work at Pick n' Pay
• Been on the wrong mini-bus, heading into the wrong direction, on my way to work on day two. 
• Gone on an emergency chocolate run to SPAR with roommates.
• Had an unexpected 11pm kitchen party with 3 roommates on Saturday, drinking boxed wine out of mugs, singing along loudly to the Killers and Aqua, and trying to keep Carolyn from facebooking her exes(what we like to call 'White Girl Wasted'). This was also while I was on advil and medication, so it probably wasn't a superb idea, but really it was a bonding experience.

So, that's about my week thus far. My head still feels fuzzy from headcold, my chest is still rattling, and I'm tired all the time. The shade of green coming from my nose at least assures me that it's on the way out, and hopefully I will be well soon.

Wine and Sleuthing

Last week, Steenberg staff were touring various wine regions. Jordan and I (abusable interns) were to be among them, to familiarize ourselves with the nearby regions.

Also, to critique!

On Thursday, I went with Chloe and Leyden to Stellenbosch, where we did 7 winerys over the course of 6 hours. It was a stealthy endeavour.  We were to go in plain clothes, under the guise of humble wine-tasters, certainly not wily employees of a fellow winery, there to rate them on everything from security to outdoor appearance to knowledge of staff.

I got the feeling that most of the wineries pegged us as tourists (or at least partial tourists, because my accent is obviously foreign, and most likely American, to anyone hearing it) and it showed. Most only gave us a quick blurb about the wine, did not offer a wine list or water glasses, and only started paying attention once Chloe asked questions about technical details that showed she knew her shit. Just as a shout out to the fact that direct marketing actually does work, the only TWO wineries (out of seven) who managed to talk about sales or offer a price list were the two places we actually bought wine. Chloe bought a bottle from Guardians Peak, and she and  I  split a box of Semillon, each bottle only R30 (About 3.75 Canadian) due to the strategically placed sales talk.

After each winery, we lurked in the parking lot, ticking off ratings from 1-5 on various scales. I make it sound much more demanding and aggressive than it was- almost all the wineries were rated more positively than not, and a few even had aspects we felt were better achieved at Steenberg. I myself am an enormous advocate of having little snack bowls (nuts and olives) at tasting tables.

Ernie Els (overpriced and showy, to my mind) was my least favourite, whereas Guardians Peak, Peter Falke (Yes, of the sports gear range) and Waterford were my stand out favourites. Guardians Peak was beautiful, simple, and had lovely wines at an excellent price. Peter Falke had the most professional staff and beautiful grounds that I'd seen, and they also gave you snacks while tasting. Waterford was our last stop, after lunch at Dornier on the route.

Waterford was an excellent last stop, because they also gave you chocolate! Each wine you tried (3) was paired with a good sized chunk of chocolate created to pair with the wine, and it was a lovely way to end the day. As I was not driving, I had been happily swallowing since 9am in the morning, and was quite fairly drunk by the end of the day. I actually had a nap in the car on the hour or so drive back to town, and thoroughly (but kindly) mocked by both Chloe and Leyden. It was after this that I learned Jordan had done the EXACT same thing while he and Graham were stuck in traffic for an hour and a half.

Upon my arrival back home, I weaved about the kitchen making pasta, and then slept for two hours.

Day seized!

And there were Sharks, Na na na na.....

Last Sunday was wonderful in that due to a lucky chance, my two roomates Saim and Ciara had their day of Shark Diving cancelled due to weather. They were rebooked for Monday.
Guess who has Mondays off?
 So, over the course of an hour of epic text planning (seeing as I was at work at the time), I was booked for a Shark Dive.
My Monday began at 4:45am, which was when we were picked up by the shuttle to head to the coast. It was a two hour drive, and I lucked out in that I got the seat up front beside the driver, which reclined and was much more spacious and cosy than the shared benches in the back of the van where the other ten passengers were sitting. SCORE.
 I slept two more hours, and we arrived at 7:00am at Great White Experience. For R900 (Barely more than $120 Canadian) they had a buffet breakfast and coffee and tea for us while we were being breifed and filling out our forms. Once we headed out on the boat, all was magical forn about 25 minutes. We were heading out far out of the bay, where the currents were practically a superhighway for Sharks making their way to Australia Via the Atlantic. I love being on water, and I love the feel of wind, so all was well until we actually stopped.

 For my own pride, I need to put a word in here. Up until this past Monday, I have NEVER been seasick. I have been in boats, ships, and sailboats large and small and never had a queasy moment. I have never been ill on rides, planes, or car trips. Motion sickness has never been an issue for me. Therefore, it was a bit of a shock to me to have have spent a good solid hour alternately throwing up over the rail, and taking sips of water to steady my self in between.

So, back to the boat stopping... I sensed it coming within minutes of the boat stopping. Apparently, it was not just me. The operators explained that due to some combination of motions from side to side and back and forth with the currents, feeling ill is incredibly common on board, and I was one of about 12 people who were ill, some more than others. Since my nausea resistant (and nausea loathing- seriously, I once talked myself out of throwing up whilst I had the flu, out of sheer mental force) stomach sensed the upset, I decided to be amongst the first divers of the day. Not only would being in the water settle my stomach a bit, I didn't think it would be easy to get into a wet suit and acoutrements while wanting to vomit.

So, by about 8:30am, I was climbing off the side of a boat, into a tiny metal cage, and spent roughly 20 minutes in the company of four Great White Sharks. On several occasions, we were less than 2 feet away as they drew the bait across. Once, one hit the cage.

When it was time to come out, the timing was perfect. My nausea returned almost immediately to epic proportions, and though I tried valiantly to refrain, once I saw another passenger throwing up over the rail, I was in the same position about 6 seconds later. I am a sympathetic vomiter.

The woman apologized profusely once she'd finished. "Omigod! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to start a chain reaction!"

All was well, except for the bit where I was still in a wet-suit in mid-morning in winter, and I was shivering violently, and desperately wanted to get dressed. Unfortunately, getting dressed involved going into the hold... At which point I would no longer see the horizon, which was until the point my main source of NOT throwing up.

Between sips of water provided by a worker, I managed to get myself out of my wetsuit and into my clothes without
A) needing to run and vomit over the side in an ill-fitting livid purple bikini provided by my thoughtful roommate (shout out to Ciara) or
B) throwing up on the floor of the hold (which had been done by another passenger already) due to unwillingness to be seen in aforementioned livid purple bikini. Between the two, I would have taken the embarrassment of A over the disgrace of B, but thankfully I avoided both by some combination of prayer and mental concentration. I managed to get myself into jeans, t-shirt, sweater, and wool overcoat without incident, and made it back to rail for round two in much more comfort than before.
My vomit-buddy (her words, not mine, but appreciated) was still crouched by the rail looking green and had her mouth around a lollipop for dear life, but when she saw me, off she went and we shared another bonding experience via forced expulsion of breakfast.

Over the course of about an hour and a half, I threw up three times total. The last round wasn't much more than gagging with enthusiasm, but it still improved things. Between the incidents, I was on the cage side, watching the sharks from above. You could see for a few feet under the water, so we had some impressive sights of lurking leviathans beneath. They periodically crested as they went for the bait, and at one impressive moment, one of the biggest crested a good three feet out of the water, and we had a moment of National Geographic scale epicness as three feet of teeth and power lunged out of the sea and crashed back down nearly hitting the cage.
I was SO close to getting a picture of that, but my camera went off about half a second too late, and so instead I have a picture of a fin, a bit of head, and an enormous shadowy body underneath churning water. Which is still completely badass.

Towards the last hour of being on water, it was sunny enough to feel quite warm when one was out of the wind, and so I stretched myself flat on my back, wedged between a bit of railing and the wall of the upper deck on a little-used walk ledge immediately in the sun. It was lovely. Once horizontal, the boat motion became soothing rather than upsetting, and I actually had a bit of a nap until they drew up the last of the divers, sorted out the suits and deck equipment, and headed back to shore.

Once we returned, the breakfast buffet had become an enormous tureen of hot vegetable soup and bread, and more tea, coffee, and juice. We ate, cold, damp, and smelling of sea and chummed water and watched the videos that had been taken during the trip. I did not purchase the video, because all images of me were where I was standing looking serious and contemplative, and every time I saw it I would know, deep down, that my look of sombre pondering was actually one of trying to maintain my state of non-vomiting.

The two hour ride back was lovely. I snagged a seat in the back, against the window, and spent a long, hot, sunny drive musing about my time here and feeling content and at peace with the world. I have seen a Great White Shark from two feet away. I have been to a TED conference. I feel awesome! Quintessential South African Experience the first, complete!

TRIUMPH!

TED, Shame, and Self-reflection

So, yesterday I attended my first (hopefully not last) TED conference. It was actually a TEDx conference, which just means it was independently organized, with TED's approval and backing. 

The first talk was an older one, a video used to introduce the subject theme of the Day, which was "What we Play is Life". The talk was by a researcher in the field of Psychology, working specifically with Shame and Vulnerability. The point of the talk was to, in essence, redefine vulnerability, and to bring feelings such as shame out into the open, and that our perceptions of our potential for success can be so out of whack with what we can really achieve, and we ourselves are our own worst critics. Needless to say, it reminded me overwhelmingly of myself. I still get stuck wanting so desperately to appear absolutely perfect before anyone and everyone before I've even turned my hand to something. I am aware how unreasonable and unrealistic that is, and it is based on some pretty solid neuroses that I've been working to the root lately. Something the speaker said resonated a bit. She introduced the message by this quote by Roosevelt:

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."and she said "A lot of people always say 'Sure, I'll go into the Arena when I'm bulletproof and perfect, and then I'll kick some ass!'. Unfortunately, nobody ever will be. And if you were, that's not what people want to see. Opening up to the risk is courage enough."  This was one of many phrases and key ideas that resonated. I have always wanted to be bulletproof and perfect before showing myself to anyone. She went through many ideas about why people become sucked into destructive cycles of thinking, never striking out and entering the arena at all. About the things we tell ourselves when we're mentally talking ourselves down, the things we dwell on. It reminded me of myself both unpleasantly, but reassuringly; because apparently nearly everyone either is or has coped with those same impulses. The idea of empathy as the utmost shame-killer was what she ended on. Shame and vulnerability, she insisted, are incapable of thriving when met with empathy and sharing. The two most reassuring words a human being can hear are "Me, too." 

There was another talk as well, later, on a similar, but very different vein. It was about turning writers block into innovation, by recognizing that it's the cycle of ideas itself, rather than just the idea, that actually creates something. That writers block and frustration and failure are the things that, when handled properly, should bring you around again to creating more and better, and then when that turns into a gigantic lump of fail, still cycling through as you develop. The speaker mentioned both unleashing the giant within, and also releasing one's inner neurotic dwarf, because without both there will be no balance to keep your wheels turning. 

One presentation was by a poet, and her talk/poem came close to making me weep. I could feel my chest and shoulders tensing as she spoke, her intonation rising and falling to match the messages in her words. It was half a story, half a history, and half an explanation. It was description heavy with feeling, and her message was about how important a voice is, and how expression and language can give a spiritual and emotional freedom that so many feel the lack of. That finding strength in words was a breakthrough from helplessness and despair to a life she felt worth living and sharing and glorying in. 

Shame, Vulnerability, Writers Block, Neuroses, Balance, Creation... For the second time this summer, the Universe seems to be giving me relatively consistent messages, as if to clue me in to necessary acknowledgement and change. 

Like any day full of inspired and passionate communication, it left me feeling both elated and utterly empty. I was both inspired and feeling completely inadequate. I wanted to run home and pour out every latent anxiety onto any scrap of paper I could find. I wanted to update my blog, do a Walleye article, tear off a dozen e-mails, and catch up on all my academic chores (Scholarship deadlines, editing) that I've been putting off. 

I was actually incredibly tense for parts of the day, feeling like I was going to twitch through the floor at any moment. That may have been two cups of coffee, and sugary iced tea, but the point still stands. There was also another creeping feeling, especially as one or two speakers who were a little less eloquent, or with less cohesive and entertaining verbal skills did their work.

 I felt like I could fill 18 minutes talking about things I've done, and how I started to make changes for myself, and how things like travel and writing and flying in the face of fear facilitated a sea of small alterations in myself that ended up as stepping stones to what will essentially be an entirely new life when I arrive in September again.

 I felt like maybe one day I could be speaking to people about the possibilities that exist for them and helping them express it in their own way, and then, just as the vulnerability researcher so descriptively predicted, the demons of self doubt set their teeth into my optimism, reminding me viciously that I'm a college student bumming from program to program in the hopes of finding something interesting, with next to no professional experience in anything, and who is prone to laziness, negativity, and who has no applicable experience whatever enabling her to help other people through theirs. 

Once I spotted the demon, I was angry and further ashamed (ironically enough) at the fact that I was susceptible to the shame. I felt like the immediate shut down was absolutely no help to any concrete goals I could set for myself, and if I wasn't starting at a beginning, where else should I start? 

The day stirred me up a few different ways. Seeing so many people, from so many different backgrounds and crossed over backgrounds, and the only one absolute thing they have in common is that they care passionately about what they do and want to see other people care, too. That they'll take the time to distill and express the key things they think are important and universal and achievable. As someone who is currently equal parts ambition, conflict, and crippling fear of failure, it was resounding inspirational; and also gave me yet greater cause to evaluate exactly what it is I think I want to be achieving, why, and if I even think I can, and trying to identify why it is I sometimes feel like I can't, and how I can work on that. I have been as full of self reflection as I have been adventure this summer, and I'm still not entirely sure what will come of it. 

The confidence is coming, though. Not the old, familiar arrogance. The confidence.

The first speaker had another interesting point she ended on, the idea of it being impossible to solve problems with the same thinking that created them. Shaking myself out my initial comfort zone that had cocooned the issues was likely instrumental in the waves of realization that have since followed.

Well, onward and upward! Also, seriously. If you ever get an opportunity to see a TED conference... Go for it.

Overwhelmingly, go for it.

Recovery

So, yesterday I woke up with a sore throat.

There was a tell-tale twinge whenever I swallowed something, but I half-hopefully told myself that it was just a cold catching up from my weakened immune system. I soldiered on to work with Jordan (fellow intern who also lives in Obs), and had a day of popping tylenol, sucking on halls, being sorry for myself, and feeling inadequate next to Jordan's air of practiced marketing shmooze with clients.

We are going to be renting a car for the duration of our two months stay, to make the transiting easier. As things stand now, it takes a solid hour and fifteen minutes, each way, to get to and from Steenburg from Observatory. We leave at 8:30 in the morning, and get back at 7:15. Since we are advised strongly to NOT take the train after dark (which is at 5:45, before we even finish work) we sort of had to. Since I've gotten used to bleeding money lately, I took it in stride, and figure I'm really going to to enjoy being able to wake up a full hour and a half later anyway.

But back to yesterday. Yesterday was a truly awful African winter day. It was completely pouring rain. That is not hyperbole; it was endless torrential deluge that fell in sheets all afternoon and evening, and I did not have an umbrellla, or even a proper coat, due to the whole luggage issue. As well as the immediate world being soaked to the bedrock, it was freezing in the winery. Buildings here are made without insulation, since the winter is so short and the summer and spring so hot that having insulation makes the heat impossible to bear. Floors are typically just cement, walls are thin, and windows are large and always able to open. Between the rain, the cold, and no sun showing through the layers of impossibly thick, slate-grey cloud, the tasting room was icy and horrible, and I was wearing slacks, nylon socks, and a cotton blouse with a thin sweater, since I have no proper clothes yet and was thoroughly unprepared for days like this.
Neither was Jordan, thankfully, so we thought it would be expedient to call a cab. We did, and since we were off an hour earlier that day, we asked it to be at the gates for 5:15.

Long story short, there was a another kerfuffle of repeated directional phone calls, lost patience, too much money, and we arrived back in Obs by about 6:00, which wasn't too bad. Jordan happily practiced the marketing shmooze on Solomon the Cab Driver, and it was, all told, a very entertaining ride. I had never heard the phrase, "My man!" used un-ironically, but it came out with remarkable panache. Kudos to business college.

By the time I arrived at home, dripping wet, feeling more and more ill, and chilled to the marrow, the telltale twinge had become a full-blown stab in my throat whenever I tried to swallow, and I realized that I had someone managed to get strep throat whilst in Africa.

After a scalding shower, tea with honey, and tearful advil-taking, I settled down for the evening, hoping that my three day weekend would be enough to kick it, provided I sleep and drink lots of fluids and gargle regularly with salt water.

I awoke this morning feeling like I was swallowing ground glass, and when I lurched out into the kitchen, a few of my roomates were up eating breakfast. I was asked what my plans were for the day, as they were planning a horse riding expedition, and I explained that I was going to drink tea and stay in bed all day because I had strep.

Immediately, Carolyn (The fellow sushi fanatic) insisted that she was taking me to clinic this very afternoon.

 I protested, saying that you don't necessarily NEED antibiotics for strep, (they just really help) and she said  No, no, and proceeded to tell me a story about when she first got here, she'd been sick for a while, and kept putting it off assuming she'd get better, and when she finally took the admins advice and went to the clinic-

It was less than a 20 minute wait, all you need is your passport because they have free health care here modeled after Canada's, and that she also needed penicillan and it cost her 80R (about 10.00) at the pharmacy once she had the prescription. She said she wished she'd gone the first day she felt shitty, because it turned out she had a chest infection, and that since she had a car she would bring me to the clinic and wait with me and then pick up any medicine with me afterward.

I have truly tremendous roommates, and for all my perceived woes, the universe has a lovely habit of giving me people who take care of me right when I need them. After breakfast, showers, and a round of laundry we went to Groote Schuur Hospital- which, incidentally, is where the worlds first heart transplant was achieved. Random.

It was a busier day then when she'd been there, but all told, it was wonderful to have someone who knew. Once we found the walk-in, which was a mission in itself, it wasn't more than half an hour before I was checked in, had vitals taken (Where Carolyn helpfully filled in my info while the nurse checked me out. "You're like my mom! Thank you!" I croaked), and was able to go into the other waiting room to open a file for myself and then see a doctor.

Carolyn, who at this point had underestimated the time a bit, was looking nervously at the clock every so often.

"Dude, really. I will be fine from here. You have been more than amazing. Seriously, thanks."
"Are you sure? You can get home?"
"I'll be fine."

So, off she went to collect the girls for the horse adventure, and I waited for my turn to open a file.

When I was called up, I explained that I was a Canadian citizen, gave my passport, etc. All I was told to do. Then, the attendant asked me if I knew that, as a registered foreigner, I would be required to pay a deposit of a very large amount of money to be seen.

I looked quite shocked, and explained about Carolyn, the girl who'd brought me here, having been treated here recently and not mentioning a deposit at all.  He looked up her information, and found that her balance was currently being handled by the Canadian Embassy, because she hadn't paid it. He explained that, sometimes, some of the desk workers would check foreigners through without taking the payment there because it would just go through to the respective embassies. Easier for them, but ultimately creating more paperwork for the hospital and embassy.

I must have looked completely despondent, and the universe sent me another caregiver.

He stopped midway through my file.

"Here," he said, starting another sheet on a different form, "I'll register you as South African. Your names? Shannon, King... Both common here. Not overly American sounding, and you have a local address. This form, you don't need to pay. Just don't say you're from Canada in there, ok? You can't hear an accent with your voice like that anyway." (referring to my hoarse croak)

So, I went through to the waiting room with my South African medical file, was seen in less than 10 minutes by a kind, efficient doctor who checked out eyes, chest, and throat and wrote me a script for a week of antibiotics which should have me feeling right as rain in 48 hours. I should also stay in bed and drink plenty of fluids for the next 24-48 hours if possible.

Possible? Wonderful! Tea and chicken soup, here I come! God bless random kind strangers and serendipitous roommates!

I walked down to the pharmacy at the Pick 'n Pay, then walked home through Obs back to Howe St, which is where I live. It was only about 15 minutes together. I was home by 3:45, and had my first pill shortly after 4, with chicken and spinach soup.

I am now sitting, wrapped in my enormous wool coat of destitution (I'll explain next post) and drinking water while I update my life. Hopefully I'll feel worlds better tomorrow, and can begin focusing on work, getting a camera, and finding some better work clothes.

Oh, and my weeks worth of anti-biotics? 42R, which is about $4.25.

SCORE.

Oh, and I also bought some stress tea! Even if it's a placebo, if I feel slightly less high strung, I will sing it's praises.

Tired, but with cake!

First day of work today, and it involved wine and cake!

I was brought there for 10am, which was mine and another intern, Jordan's, first meeting. Both of us will be trained for and working the tasting and sales floor. We received a cellar and terroir tour, and an estate tour involving the golf club, hotel, and restaurant.

I arrived home via public transit, mini-bus and then train, which is how we will be getting there Monday to Friday, 10:00am-6:00pm.  I had barely a second to change out of my slacks and blouse into pjs and a sweater before my hungry roommates began waxing malnourished about sushi, and I changed again into jeans and off I went.

I would write more, and honestly I have time to, but I am completely wiped, and I'm thinking my brain is falling out my ears.

I will do a nice long one on Saturday, I think,  to give an overview of first impressions, my first work weeks, and how being in Africa is. For now....

Possibly goodnight, but more likely mindless relaxation of Netflix followed by early bed. Up at 7:30 tomorrow!

Into Africa!

So, after 4.5 days of hellish air travel, I finally touched down in Cape Town, at dawn, at 7:55am on July 2nd.

After the past weeks crash course in half-conscious airport navigation, I breezed through customs and collections, and walked into arrivals to find a man holding a sign with my name on it, and a package for me including a cell phone, an orientation guide, an address and taxi card, and the keys to my apartment and room.

I'm in a loft!

I didn't have much time to look around initially, as we arrived at my loft(!) at 9:15 in the morning, and I was to be picked up for my first day of orientation (recall the day of rest I was supposed to have until my delay?... Yes, exactly.) and by 10:00 I was showered, met a couple of roommates, and was collected by a coordinator and went on a city-wide hop-on hop-off tour. Seven other new interns who had arrived between last Thursday to Sunday night were present as well. There is another Canadian, five from the United states, and one German. We went to the District 6 Museum, a few outdoor marketplaces, went to a coffee shop and got properly acquainted (Properly meaning caffeine and talking politics), and found an outdoor Eastern Bazaar courtyard restaurant where, since I walked off a 12 hour flight and began a 6 hour orientation, I proceeded to murder an enormous plate of chicken schwarma and naan bread.

After we finished, we were met by another co-ordinator, who took us on the mini-bus "taxis", which are actually vans with far too many seats for the space who pack people in for a cheaper price and drop them off as they drive. We transferred at the station to the local busses, where we learned how to get back to our respective houses in Observatory via public transit.

I was in bed by 9:30, asleep by 10:00, and up at 8:00 today for Orientation round 2, which was
a) acquiring a proper cell phone, b) Going through the program staff, objectives, and activities, and
c) signing contract and paying deposit on room.

My meal plan turned out to be an great idea. The woman who does the cooking (also our Xhosa teacher!) does it all out of her own kitchen and does drop offs in the evening for dinner and the next days packed lunch. Her food is amazing, and so far I've eaten a vegetable pesto pasta, bacon and eggs, and a roasted pepper and real cheese sandwich. I missed real cheese.

Update on luggage: My cell phone isn't working for 1-800 calls, so I brought the number with me to VACorps office and phoned from there. It turns out my luggage was still in Washington, for heaven knows why, and should hopefully be forwarded to Cape Town, to the office.

I have my first meeting at my placement tomorrow, and my roommates have lent me additional clothing until my luggage gets here. I need a better fitting coat, though. A fellow intern has expressed a like-minded enthusiasm for thrift stores, so there may be an adventure happening in days to come.

Oh! There's another intern starting at my winery when I'm starting! He's in the business internship, but apparently we both start out on the tasting floor to get the hang of the wines and the info. So, I'll not be by myself for transit there and back!

Hrm, what else-? Oh, right. We have cockroaches. Apparently, they are manageable, and not as enormous and horrible as they appear in movies. However, I was warned that if I think I feel a bug in my hair in the night, it is not, for once, me being a mental hypochondriac. Lovely. Another adventure to look forward to. Fran the Centipede revisited, this time featuring my head.

So.

How do I feel now, after I've finally arrived and found everything to be incredibly easy and well laid out?

Relief! My fear of being sold into a human trafficking ring has vanished entirely, and my feeling that this will go by far too quickly and remarkably easily is through the roof. I've already found my way home alone once, every single person I've encountered speaks English, and the homes of the other interns and the VAC office are all within a 10 minute walk of each other, and within 10 minutes of a grocery store with ATM, mini-mall, and the train station. I love my bedroom, with it's high ceiling, queen bed, bookshelf, and spacious wooden computer desk. I love my roommates, who have so far lent me their computers, their toiletries, their towels, and their clothing until I settled in and figured out the food, internet, and luggage situations. Also, they are most of them majoring in interesting fields and have interesting reading material which they are happy to let me plunder. We're kind of from all over the place, academically speaking. There is International Law, Human Rights, Social Work, Gender Studies, Business, Psychology, Hospitality, Tourism, and one who's fresh out of high school. Very interesting conversation material so far.

Oh, I'm also taking Xhosa lessons and hopefully Thai Kickboxing classes. Hot Yoga will probably occur as well.

The Gods Heard Me otherwise titled The Grateful Bath

So, recall my "Try me, life" post? Literally 10 second after I clicked publish, an announcement was made to our gate that our flight was now cancelled. There were no available flights that night or early morning, and each of us was confirmed on the same flight tomorrow- 6:55pm, the 30th. We would need to retreive our luggage, and be re-checked in tomorrow.

Immediately, I was surrounded by swearing, sneering, and occasionall crying people.
I, on the other hand, had the most enormous grin on my face that I'd had in day.

This was no curse. This was a blessing. This was the universe saying "Hey! You're doing alright! Have a cookie!" to my defiant spite and determined attitude vis a vis Africa.

Within two hours, I had collected my luggage, a letter of apology and explanation from the Airline...

And a voucher for a limo that would take me the downtown Sheraton, where I had an enormously hot shower, and then snacks and red wine with my parents before a night spent sleeping on a Sheraton "cot" (which was, God Bless Sheraton, a full-on single bed complete with cloud mattress, linen sheets, and down comforter). Today, I will phone to airline to confirm my connecting flight to Capetown, whenever I may get there, which is not important.

What is important is that I will be going out for lunch with my parents shortly on a wonderful Sunny Canada Day Weekend, and that afterward I will be having a long, scalding bath, possibly with a glass of something chilled and delicious and alcoholic, and then my limo (!) will pick me up at approximate 2:30, courtesy of British Airways.

I have never been so utterly thrilled. I feel like this is a nod, perhaps, to my desperate stuggling to maintain positivity and calm, and that perhaps I've done well enough to be allowed my bath after all. Either that, or the capricious, mercurial vein of Gods appreciate a good show of To Hell With You! Either way, I do not fail to fully appreciate this. My dad said last night, "We were worried you would have to sleep on the floor! We didn't know if our room would fit a cot!" And I shrugged, drank my wine, and replied "The floor is horizontal, not in an airport, and near you both. Three blessings, right there."

Ok, more on my feelings about this later. Now- To the Pickle Barrel with my Parents!

Thank you, Universe! If my flight to Capetown takes 4 days and I arrive half-dead and zombie-like, I will be glad I arrived at all!

The Saga continues.

I write to you here in Toronto Pearson Airport, at approx. 5:54 in the evening.


After all the pathos of the last few days, I'd finally made it to the airport, and on a plane. I arrived yesterday afternoon to Sao Paolo... To learn that my flight to Washington was delayed... By nearly 3.5 hours. My connection to Toronto had to be rebooked. Though I arrived in Washington at 9:30 in the morning, the next available flight to Toronto wasn't until 12:55 in the afternoon, putting me into Toronto at 2:15.

No bath, no nap, parents only for a few hours.

The hits were, by now, piling up considerably.

I was a bit tight-chested for a bit, but I Skyped with my sister, watched a touching childhood movie, and  talked myself into positivity. Things could still be worse, I should be glad I wasn't missing my flight to London or Capetown.

At about 12:15am, I was finally on board to Washington, and passed the night half sleeping, and the morning watching Big Bang Theory.

In Toronto, I didn't get my luggage.


Sorry, I'll clarify. I received one of my bags... The small one, mostly packed with souvenirs for my parents to take home for me.

That... was the last of it for me.

I know I was tearing (and trying desperately to hide it) while I filled out the claim and explained to the VERY patient service agent that I needed to catch another international flight this evening, and that I needed my luggage sent on to me there. It's now arranged that almost all my clothes, toiletries, towel, etc. will be on the next available flight to Capetown, which may or may not a few days after I get there. Between the waiting for luggage, the service agent, customs, and needing another person to confirm the sending on of luggage, by the time I walked out into the terminal it was nearly 3:30, another hour gone that I could have spent with my parents, and when I saw my Father waving I completely burst into tears at the utterly overwhelming madness of my last 48 hours.

I ranted, through snot and tears, about whether or not I was going to die in South Africa, or the plane was going to blow up, and maybe I was missing some cosmic sign and why did this keep happening to me?

My parents were gold about it all, of course. A caesar was fetched, encouraging words were spoken, and the extra suitcase to transfer home my detritus from Chile and Brazil were traded for mail, chocolate bars, and a few new non-smelly t-shirts. Life improved enormously. We checked me in, they fed me dinner and another ceasar, and after a too-short meeting I headed through security, played around on my computer, and went through boarding, onto plane, no trouble.

Until we STAYED on plane for over an hour and a half, getting periodic updates about "engine trouble" and were eventually deplaned until the engineers are finished working on it. Apparently, a peice must be replaced, and they were able to get it from Air Canada, and the problem is easy to fix- but the after testing process is "lengthy", so they will "Keep us posted".  It is now an hour and a bit later, and I'm on my computer, exhausted to the point of aching eyeballs, and feeling a bizarre mixture of my new-found nerve trying to fight down my desire to wallow in self pity and comfort myself through depression and familiar angst.

Bugger angst!

My sister did basic training- I can do this! I can handle four days of sleeping poorly under flourescent lights and being jerked around by the capricious, mercurial hand of fortune! I will get to Africa, and if I don't have my luggage, then screw the luggage! I will buy clothes if I have to! I have my toiletries, I have my flats, and at least a handful of underthings!

YOU HEAR THIS, LIFE?

TRY ME! I DON'T CARE IF IT'S IN A WEEK SUFFERING DEHYDRATION AND SLEEP-DEPRIVATION-PSYCHOSIS, I WILL GET THERE, AND I WILL DAMN WELL THRIVE!

Two Thousand Dollar Humility

As it's now shortly after seven thirty in the evening, it seems fitting that the entire saga began approximately 24 hours ago.

I returned from Rio on Monday, riding the high of exoticism and confidence, after three heavenly days of beaches, sunshine, and beautiful, tourist packed scenery. I knew this was my last week in Brazil, and that my flight on June 28th was fast approaching. On Tuesday, I attended my second last class, spoke briefly with the co-ordinator about how my flight left a few days earlier, and afterward and had mall sushi for dinner before heading home, with nought but peace of mind knowing I'd made the most of my time in Brazil.

It was approximately 7:40pm on June 26th that I pulled out my flight information in order to confirm my flight for the 28th...

And realized that my flight had left at 1:55pm earlier in the afternoon. My flight from Florianopolis had left at 1:55pm the 26th. My flight from Sao Paolo was leaving at 6:30pm the 26th, and my flight from Santiago to Toronto was leaving on the 27th. I was supposed to be IN Toronto on the 28th, in order to see my parents for a night, have a solid sleep and a bath at the Sheraton, and catch my flight to Capetown at 6:50pm, June 29th.

I described it in an email to my parents as a combination of thoughtlessness, carelessness, and possibly cosmic hubris.

I'd been discussing for some weeks now how one of the core values I would like to strengthen in myself is humility, but also how I had a great deal of fear, because humility is gained only when something happens hard and fast enough for life to really get to rub your nose in it, and I was afraid how that might occur.
Another aspect of myself I've been trying hard to adjust is my constant attachment to expectation. Things go my way, or they simply don't go. I make up my mind to not enjoy something.

So, as I stared in bewildered, creeping shock at my flight dates, I'm sure a number of thoughts ran through my head, but I actually don't remember any of them. I took my papers, found Corey in the other room, and said,

"I have a problem." I indicated my dates.

"Today?" His eyes widened.

Another inner failing is that I have always had a problem with accepting help from others and, worse still, acknowledging that others have more experience or knowledge of anything.
 However, with the dawning realization of the world of utter ballsed-up I had just entered, and the settling feeling of So THIS is something I'm going to learn this summer..., I was highly aware that I was fortunate enough to be with not only a seasoned world traveler, but someone who had many times planned, fixed, and expedited his own and others travel details. I let the comforting buffer of emotional shock catch up with me and, with an utterly gobsmacked shrug, handed him my crisis book of phone numbers and bookings, and told him:

"I don't know how to fix this."

I don't know how has literally been my shoot-in-the-foot quality that I have grappled with for years. I have always loathed showing anything but instant adeptness at anything I turn my hand to. It perhaps seems at odds, because I know my own intelligence, and my own speed of learning. What is harder to see is the fact that when are you are intelligent and learn quickly, laziness is an easy vice. You don't have to study, you don't have to overly prepare, you can slapdash together what you need and get an A+. When I came across things I was less good at, I didn't work at it. I ignored it, and saw it as a faintly interesting pursuit that other people had. Admitting that not only are there things I don't know and am not prepared for was bad enough, but being forced to admit that there are things I don't know and NEED to know but don't is worse. Especially when there is no other blame but that which lies with me.

Within 15 minutes, Corey was on the phone with TAM airlines, LAN airlines, and Air Canada, explaining to me, in between holds, that he was checking if there were any flights to allow me to catch up in either Sao Paulo, Santiago, or in fact anything that could bring me to Toronto on time.
I followed with a note book and pen, nodding and absorbing and getting into a very zen state about it all.

One thing I always thank crisis mode for is that it's so much easier to stay calm, because it's already happened. The flight was missed. The shit had happened, and all I had to do was keep my head and focus on dealing with it. So, I took deep breaths, drank many glasses of water, and paid attention.

After over an hour and a half of alternate hold periods (at some point, when I asked what I could do, I was told to go pack, just in case) it had been determined that no flight would get me a catch-up to my previously booked tickets, and so the best course of action all airlines could recommend was to book a new ticket from Florianopolis to Capetown.

I was continually more and more aware of how EVERYTHING I had been most afraid of this Summer had happened:

1) Made a stupid cock-up, for no other reason than irresponsibility
2) Proved myself a failure who couldn't take care of herself
3) Lost value amounting to thousands of dollars
4) Failed at striding about the world independently


 And there was no way to hide my shame from anyone.

...And it really wasn't so awful.

I realized I wouldn't see my parents, or have my bath at the Sheraton, or even use 4000.00 worth of plane tickets I had already paid for. But, you know what?

My legs could both have been broken.
I could have been born in Saudi Arabia.
I could be a thalydomide kid with something in my eye. (Tim Minchin)


Really, if I had needed a crash course in anything, life could have been rougher with me. It was a mistake, and an expensive one, but that's all it was. An expensive mistake. And for all the sheer stupidity of it and loss of worth, I had still had an unreal summer, where I had done amazing things, and border hopped, and learned more than I ever thought I could in less than two months. So what- I'll go straight to Capetown, fix things as best I can, and hopefully the experience will teach me not to let it happen again, and if it does, I'll have learned what to do.

It was, cosmically eerie enough, very shortly after this realization that I clued into another possibility as Corey browsed his bookmarked travel sites for the cheapest flight to South Africa.

"Wait- If I need to pay 1500 to get to Capetown from here anyway, I might as well just pay that to get a new ticket to Toronto entirely, and still use the Toronto-Capetown flights. That's the majority of my costs, anyway."

"But if you miss the first portion of your flights-"

"No, it's a seperate ticket!"

Toronto to Capetown was it's own booking. Missing the flights to Sao Paulo and Santiago would have no impact, other than about 1600.00 gone, provided I could get to Toronto by the 29th.

It worked out even better.

I was able to book a new ticket to Toronto, and would arrive the morning of the 28th. I could still have a bath, go to Red Lobster with my parents, and sleep like a two-days-of-transit exhausted baby before leaving for Capetown.

And for only 1300.00? Considering I had missed a premiere flight by five and a half hours, that was like a slap on the wrist. I packed neatly, prepared my documents and new information for the next day, reconfirmed my arrangements, and felt like I'd handled things well, all things considered, and that perhaps I'd learned something.

That was the lesson.

Little did I know how soon the Test would follow.

The next day, I arrived at the airport. Accompanying me were my Brazilian family and, by sheer providence, seeing as he had his own bookings to attend to, Corey.

It turns out, my booking did not exist.

My Brazilian family, who speak no English, heard the translation but were at a loss as to how to help. Again, while I grappled with a crippling case of this can't possibly be happening, Corey found a Tourist information desk, an internet connection, a phone card, and got calling. While I again took notes and paid attention, he spoke with the agency, and found out that my booking had been cancelled- due to some "third party error" in the system, and that they had supposedly sent me an email that morning which I hadn't received.

Over the course of a 40 minute phone card, he sorted, I answered booking questions, and my Brazilian parents guarded my luggage, and appeared occasionally to hug me and murmur comforting Portuguese assurances.

There were many small annoyances, such as:

The company was able to fix the booking, but it was too late to catch the flight, since I was at the airport only one hour ahead of time.
The phone card ran our immediately following Corey's saying "Yes, that will work, can we please book-" at the cheapest, most direct flight.
No airport desk save one had an internet connection which allowed them to use google, making it almost a full 35 minutes before we were able to connect with the agency at all, because I had all the booking and ticket info, but no phone number for them.

We ended up booking yet another ticket, this one leaving tomorrow at 1:55pm, getting me to Toronto at 9:46am... on the 29th. Enough to catch my flight to South Africa in the evening, and enough to see my parents for a few hours. No Sheraton, no Bath, no Break during four solid days of international flying. It was costing 400.00 more dollars than the first one. The slap on the wrist had a bit more sting.

When we returned to the house, Corey had arranged to reconfirm the booking, just to make sure all was well and that we could rest assured I was actually going to fly out tomorrow afternoon. The booking, regrettably, couldn't be made. My credit card had been declined.

Ok, easy if embarrassing fix. Corey made the booking, in my name, under his credit card and information. We're both with RBC- I could transfer the money directly to him afterward.

Further regrettably, it was explained that that was not possible. Since Corey was not flying as well, he could not make the booking for me, since it was not my credit card. It was to protect the cardholder.

"But, I AM the cardholder!" Was, to his credit, the most annoyed I had so far heard him be with a service agent. In the end, the real end, this time, he had to send not only every piece of information on his credit card, but, I think, re-confirm with corresponding ID.

So, things as they stand now:

I have a flight, for tomorrow at 1:55pm. I plan on being there at 11:30am. I fly to Sao Paulo, then to Washington, and arrive in Toronto Friday morning. I will see my parents, and I will have time to purchase a camera with my ever-hemorrhageing funds, and then I will get to Capetown by July first.  I WILL get to Capetown. If I have to damn well swim, I will get to Africa this Summer.

So, how do I feel about my adult, zen, humble coping skills now?

Well, it's mixed.

Last night, I fell asleep feeling pretty good. Things had been sorted, I felt more confindent about being able to handle crises, and I felt like the worst had happened, and that I could handle it and ride it out, monetary losses and all. And, to be honest, there are FAR worse losses than monetary. People have pissed away more money that I lost at a bad casino night, and more truly awful things can happen to a person than being a few grand in the hole, especially when they live at home and have the safety net of two credit cards, a loan, and e-transfers if necessary.

Tonight? Right now... I feel drained, low, and like I've had the mental and emotional shit kicked out of me. I still keep reminding myself that, all told, things can be worse. I'm not hurt, nor is anyone I love. I'm not in danger. This didn't all happen when I was halfway through flights across the globe and I had to deal with it alone in a non-English country with no prior experience. Sometimes, life just happens to get out of control and the only thing I CAN control is how to respond. Which, to my former chagrin, sometimes requires the help of other people.

I want very badly to talk only about how I now feel like I can handle it if it happens again tomorrow, and that I now feel I know how to respond in unanticipated screw-ups... But I can't do that without acknowledging that, until the past 24 hours, I DIDN'T know how, and I'm STILL not entirely confident. I'm sure I could have cobbled something together, and been over-quick and over-nervous and possibly paid twice as much for equal convenience. But, I had help and support.

 So, for the sake of new found humility:

Corey; You completely and utterly managed a crisis yesterday and today, and very patiently explained exactly how you were doing it and walked me through the process in case it happens again, when I will HAVE to deal with it solo. You did not make me feel foolish or incapable at all; you were encouraging and positive and made me truly believe that if, by either some Cosmic Lesson yet to learn or perhaps an as yet Unnamed Airport Trickster God, my flights are cocked up tomorrow when you are gone, I can handle it, and that I will get to where I need to go come hell or high water by myself. I owe you many things, including at least two grand and my firstborn child.

My Brazilian Parents; Their unending patience and gestured encouragement turned what was a ghastly mess into a minor inconvenience, and also saved me upwards of a hundred dollars of cab fare. All this, last minute, after I screwed up my own timing, was the height of the generosity they've shown me. I wish google translate was adequate enough to fully express the tone of this message, but I suppose my pointing and hugging and endless 'Obrigada's will have to do.

Every single one of my friends and family who had utmost faith that I would be confident, capable, and handle myself; Actually, I cocked it all up something fierce- but I hope that's ok, because despite the fact that I pretend otherwise, I'm human, and that shit happens, and I hope you'll be just as proud of me for falling off my horse and getting up as you would be if I'd cleared a full round on the first try. The silver lining is, I met some people who can show me how to saddle the damn thing a bit better, and I'm no longer unwilling to take advice and a leg-up.

I feel a bit better, now I've got that out. I feel I've gained significant amounts of perspective, patience, and  appreciation. I also feel a wary respect that the universe won't hesitate to remind me if I forget about them. I am in the safe, warm home of a wonderful Brazilian family, with my laptop, my bags packed, and my flights booked and hopefully solid. Even if it all goes to hell again tomorrow, I'm somewhere where I have all my information, all the help I need, and hopefully the presence of mind to fix it myself if I should need to.
  In fact, I'm quietly terrified that the Universe/Unnamed Airport Trickster God may test me on it by erasing my bookings tomorrow and watching to see what I'll do.

But, I'll deal with that when it comes, if it comes. And I'll be there early, and I'll be there prepared with a phone card and the number of the agency. I'll either fix it or I won't, but either way I'll make the effort.

I can always swim to Africa.