The only downside to Cape Town is that the weather is as confused as a chameleon on a smarties box (I shamelessly stole that second part from Madame G). We were in a tour bus on Monday, and out of nowhere a freezing fog rolled in, and we couldn’t see anything at all.
Speaking of traveling through clouds, we flew here on Kulula, which is a comedic, no frills airline. As we were landing, the air hostess made this announcement:
“Please do not forget anything you brought on board; any belongings left on the plane will be divided among the crew. If you must leave anything, please make sure it is something we will like. But please, no spouses on children; we are desperately trying to get some of our own.”
Unfortunately, they weren’t as logical as they were funny. My hand luggage weighed too much, but it was one bag inside of the other, so I took the inside one out. The lady then told me that since the two bags were each under the limit, I was welcome to take both on board.
I know what I’m doing next time:
Our first day in town was filled with Maxwells. We were served not by one, but two of them. The first was Maxwell 1, our taxi driver. He was incredibly friendly, scolded us for not conversing in his cab, and gave us an excellent rate. He was a perfect human. The second was our waiter at Nandos, Maxwell 2. He was forgetful, undedicated to the task of bringing us rolls, and charged me for an extra spicy rice. He was as amnesiac as Maxwell 1 was talkative.
On the upside, I did learn that chicken livers are not as good as chicken meat.
Thankfully, we found other people to serve us food, most notably Gaciru’s future husband, Bruno Mars. He’s not actually Bruno Mars, but there is some resemblance, so that’s his name for now. He’s so adorable he could live in FAO Schwartz, and he has a winning smile that almost covers his braces, which he manages to make cute. He also makes ordering food very fun.
Bruno Mars works at our new watering hole, Food Inn, which is an affordable authentic Indian restaurant. Intrepidly, I’ve only ordered things that I haven’t heard of before. On Monday, I had a bright pink milkshake called Bombay Falooda. It had gelatinous rice noodles in it, and tasted like nothing I’d ever had before. Wikipedia tells me it had rose syrup in it. Hectic, no?
I only use hectic ironically, by the way.
Actually, Food Inn isn’t our watering hole at all, because as all US citizens should know, our national watering hole is Subway. We can't go to Subway in Jo'burg, so that first Cape Town footlong felt like sipping nectar from the chalice of Bachus, receiving a hug from Mr. Peter, and taking off ice skates, all in one. It felt that good.
I'm saving what we’ve actually done for the next post, but I will end with my favorite part of Cape Town.
For my entire life, I’ve been confused about what to call myself. Am I Taiwanese? Am I American? What about my British love for sarcasm, cardigans, and cold sausages? My grandfather is Irish, the other was from Mainland Chinese, and my middle name is Scandinavian. Perhaps I should call myself Sven McHong... The debate goes on. My individuality could have been pieced together by Matisse on LSD.
But now I’m in Cape Town, a place where Tuesday and Wednesday can’t agree on a season, and where God wasn’t sure whether to create a mountain range, a seaside resort, or a developing metropolis, so he put all three. Most importantly, it’s a city where nobody is certain what they are; Cape Town is the world’s melting pot. Cape Tonians even have a name for mixed people (apart from "other", or "beige"): Coloured. Here, I fit right in.
Wellll no. Because I walk down the street with Gaciru, and South African society is stratified, even in Cape Town. You can be whomever you want and do whatever you want, but not necessarily around whomever you want. Many Cape Tonians are bewildered when they see Half Asians walking down the street with Kenyans. Their heads explode.
Just wait until they hear our accents!
