Sometimes, you try to kill two birds with one stone. Sometimes, you only get one. Sometimes, you miss both. That was our Cape Town trip.
The timing of our trip was to coincide with the end of shark season on Seal Island and the beginning of spring in the Western Cape. Flying in, it was pretty clear the latter was not going to happen.
When he discovered the passage around the tip of Africa to India in 1486, the Portuguese explorer Diaz christened it the Cape of Storms. His successor, Da Gama, renamed it th
e Cape of Good Hope. More cheerful, perhaps, but certainly less accurate.
Mountains don’t seem to care for Marnie and me. As in Tanzania with Kilimanjaro, Table Mountain was entirely enshrouded in what the locals refer to as the “tablecloth”. I wish I’d taken a picture of the clouds from the plane, as they were among the more surreal I’ve ever seen: completely smooth on top, like fondant icing on a wedding cake. Or something less girly, perhaps.
Catching a cab from the airport, we engaged in a conversation that was to repeat itself numerous times on our trip. Upon hearing that we lived in Joburg, our driver winced, giving us that, “you poor bastards” grimace. Capetonians are more terrified of Joburg than foreign tourists, and aren’t shy about telling anyone who’ll listen about how great their city is.
They do have a point. The lack of razor wire and electric fencing is immediately evident, revealing beautiful Cape Dutch architecture. Overall, it’s much cleaner and safer than Jozi, as the numerous Yankie and Aussie tourists we heard must agree. It was nice not being the only white person walking on the street. Add to that the pleasures of the water and wine country, and you’ve got a nice little package.
The problem being, the first two days, we didn’t do anything but hang out at the mall and shop. The Victoria and Alfred Waterfront certainly has everything a shopaholic could desire, but we tend to get shopped out easily. High winds and choppy seas cancelled our trips to Robben Island and up the cable cars to Table Mountain.
The timing of our trip was to coincide with the end of shark season on Seal Island and the beginning of spring in the Western Cape. Flying in, it was pretty clear the latter was not going to happen.
When he discovered the passage around the tip of Africa to India in 1486, the Portuguese explorer Diaz christened it the Cape of Storms. His successor, Da Gama, renamed it th
e Cape of Good Hope. More cheerful, perhaps, but certainly less accurate.Mountains don’t seem to care for Marnie and me. As in Tanzania with Kilimanjaro, Table Mountain was entirely enshrouded in what the locals refer to as the “tablecloth”. I wish I’d taken a picture of the clouds from the plane, as they were among the more surreal I’ve ever seen: completely smooth on top, like fondant icing on a wedding cake. Or something less girly, perhaps.
Catching a cab from the airport, we engaged in a conversation that was to repeat itself numerous times on our trip. Upon hearing that we lived in Joburg, our driver winced, giving us that, “you poor bastards” grimace. Capetonians are more terrified of Joburg than foreign tourists, and aren’t shy about telling anyone who’ll listen about how great their city is.
They do have a point. The lack of razor wire and electric fencing is immediately evident, revealing beautiful Cape Dutch architecture. Overall, it’s much cleaner and safer than Jozi, as the numerous Yankie and Aussie tourists we heard must agree. It was nice not being the only white person walking on the street. Add to that the pleasures of the water and wine country, and you’ve got a nice little package.
The problem being, the first two days, we didn’t do anything but hang out at the mall and shop. The Victoria and Alfred Waterfront certainly has everything a shopaholic could desire, but we tend to get shopped out easily. High winds and choppy seas cancelled our trips to Robben Island and up the cable cars to Table Mountain.
We had heard nothing but wonderful things about the food in the Cape, but my exhaustive reconnaissance of the area's best revealed nothing but duds. Trip Advisor, it turns out, is fallible after all. Many thanks to the barkeeps at the Paulaner Bier Garden, the Bascule Whisky Bar and Mitchell’s Brewery, for easing the pain of our soggy blues.
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