A Bird That Whistles

Cape Town, the Mother City as it’s endearingly referred, is wonderful. If I could fill a blog with one sentence, such would suffice. I arrived at the dawning of its glorious summer, thus immediately dawning a layer of sweat. I remained sweaty for two weeks, where I then departed sweaty, and mildly dehydrated. Which, to be fair, is not entirely anything out of the ordinary for me. But between feeling the wheels of thousands of pounds of flying tin descend and depart from dry South African soil, I would experience what would inevitably go down in history as one of the most paramount experiences of my increasingly elusive 20’s.

Now if not to entertain, I would hope these words of mine that are read by the masses (it’s definitely masses -- no one ever won a Pulitzer for modesty) bring light to those who perhaps dream of one day following in my less than sober footsteps, stumbling from country to country with a head full of essential knowledge cast down from my scholarly experiences.

And so, with pleasure, and as much recollection as my remaining brain cells can muster, I bestow upon you an in depth, step by step guide to making the most of your potentially life altering run in with the reputably effervescent southwestern city alternatively known as Kaapstad.

1. Get lost in the airport. After thirty-five increasingly flustered minutes, sit yourself down amidst the bustling human traffic and remind yourself that you managed to find your way, belligerently, through a strange city in a foreign land not fifteen hours ago and therefore you can and will find the loading zone by which your ride patiently awaits. Though tempted, do not agree to the many taxi rides offered to you by questionable men as they watch you pace, with blatant confusion, back and forth across the length of airport property.
2. Upon arriving at your Airbnb, feign complete ignorance to the mass amount of precautionary signage covering every door and wall you’ve since passed indicating the worst drought in South African history and indulge in the longest possible shower of your entire existence. You’ve literally been fermenting in the same clothes for more than three days. You practically took a layer of your own flesh off when you derobed. The ever shriveling ecosystem of the Western Cape will understand, and possibly even sympathize. When the doorbell suddenly rings, being that you’re hardly expecting anyone, answer it in nothing but a towel, naturally. As the landlord of your Airbnb quickly turns away in abashed horror, neglect to acknowledge your near nudity by offering your hand in greeting. When his bewildered face turns an even darker shade of red and both hands remain buried deep inside his pockets, allow for a moment of awkward recognition of the current circumstance before commanding loudly that perhaps you should put some clothes on. After throwing on the first thing you find in your overpacked suitcase, which turns out to be not much better than your near-naked alternative, return to the lingering awkwardness with an unrequited giggle, then continue to call him Paul for the remainder of your humiliating interaction. His name is Carl.
3. Deny the existence of jetlag. But do so in the most counterproductive manner: simultaneously force yourself to endure consciousness while persistently sipping red wine for the entirety of the day only to end it nestled in a warm, dark and cozy cinema to watch a film you only semi care to see. Fall asleep during the opening credits, preferably with your mouth wide open and your giant noggin resting heedlessly on the unexpecting shoulder of the fine gentleman fortunate enough to be sitting next to you. Wake up in a mild panic with but ten minutes of the film remaining, then swiftly evacuate the endearingly vintage theatre so to prevent spoiling the ending of a film that would be better suited sold at a drugstore next to ambien or lunesta. Sit back in the cinema’s garden and under the moonlit skies, count the luminous African stars and for a moment reflect on how this view far exceeds anything projected on a silver screen while Don Mclean gently serenades the back of your mind. And finally, having already done so numerous times to yourself and to others, giggle emphatically as you read aloud the neon glow of the ever alluring name of the cinema: The Labia.
4. Wake up each morning and welcome the day with a large spoon of South African peanut butter while taking in the vivacious city settled perfectly between the sea and its surrounding mountains, all from the comfort of your balcony. Clothing optional. Take note of the increasing and albeit alarming wind force your new environment doth bear (Chicago ain’t got nothing on Cape Town) and wonder if perhaps you should have packed underwear to prevent your girly bits the inevitable exposure when your entire wardrobe of flowy skirts and dresses come head to head with these tornado like winds and find themselves at a loss, swept around your shoulders.
5. Attend an evening of dance and culture (using both terms loosely) at an art gallery on Bree Street-- a main road in the city centre lined with endless bars, restaurants, and galleries that house what will come to be the worst dance show to have ever crossed your contemptuous gaze. Be sure to show up thinking you have plenty of time to spare, only to find that all the seats have been taken and you must sit on the floor. The floor that also doubles as a stage. Immediately buy booze. Drink that booze then buy more booze before attempting to find a modest way by which to sit comfortably in the tiny black dress you had classily chosen to wear. Discover there is in fact none and wonder, momentarily, if underwear would have again been beneficial in this predicament. After enduring what feels like several hours of narrowly averting getting kicked in the face by amateur ballroom dancers parading around the floor to the now tainted soundtrack of Moulin Rouge, and soloists invoking the abstract terror that is rape (or in this case, for you, getting creamed in the face by a desperately thrashing pointe shoe), leave immediately in search of the nearest facility that will serve you enough booze to forget everything your poor eyes have just experienced. Conveniently stumble upon a lovely outdoor garden bar that will also serve you a mezze platter from their open plan outdoor kitchen along with an immensely affordable local bottle of wine. Then watch an actual local rise from her table, nonchalantly strut behind said open kitchen and proceed to light the cigarette dangling from her lips on one of the unused hobs. Begin to feel the butterflies that precede your inevitable admittance to falling in love with this city....
6. Become familiar with the Rand to Canadian Dollar exchange and initiate, forthwith, complete baller status. Uber everywhere, throw money around like it ain’t no thang, order that top shelf and don’t hesitate to make it a double. Wake up after repeatedly ordering said top shelf, and hardly worry that you’ve somehow managed to misplace five-hundred Rand. Because what’s five-hundred Rand when you’re a baller? It’s fifty dollars. You’re still an idiot.
7. Change locale. After four days in the posher side of residential Cape town, also known as Devil’s Peak, spend the weekend solo, dwelling in the more seedier, yet “up and coming” (ie: the latest victim of hipster gentrification) end of town, also known as Woodstock. Arrive at your new Airbnb, which happens to be the penthouse suite of a artist’s building with multiple french doors opening on to your private 360 degree rooftop terrace overlooking all of Woodstock as well as the well renowned Table Mountain. Reaffirm baller status.
8. After being warned by multiple people (some acquaintances, some complete strangers) that Woodstock is no place for a girl to walk alone at night, pout over your lack of available independence and resign yourself to preventatively staying in on your first Friday night in the city. Shortly thereafter, realize you’ve drank all the wine and immediately call an Uber to the closest bar. Arrive at Jamaica Me Crazy; a restaurant that serves banana on their pizza and moonlights as a bar that seems to never close. Park yourself at a barside stool and remain there until they forcibly remove you, but not before insisting on a whisky to go, which they surprisingly serve you in a takeaway coffee cup (none of this, however, will you remember on your own accord.) This bar will come to be your local for the remainder of your stay. You will become well acquainted with the staff, some, in particular, more so than others, and you will enjoy the “Cheers” like quality of your name being endearingly called out upon each arrival. You will also learn to love banana on your pizza.
9. Closely following your induction into the Jamaica scene, temporarily fall for one of their bartenders. Specifically one that holds all the major and utterly cliched characteristics of a stereotypical surfer boy. These cliches are including but not limited to the following:
1. Long, blonde, and seemingly occasionally washed hair, which he will mention multiple times in your presence that he would like to become dreads.
2. Bracelets. He will be adorned in copious amounts of bracelets; be it threaded, leather, beaded or otherwise. Some of which will look as though they’ve been attached since the millenium.
3. Anklets. He will have at least one, and you will struggle to remember if it adhered to the same leg that pridefully adorns a calf long palm tree tattoo that reminds one, with only mild banality, to “live simply”.
4. Along with being a bartender at a Jamaican restaurant in South Africa, he will double as a surfing instructor and as much as you will try not to compare him to Paul Rudd’s infamous character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, it won’t be helped.
5. Moonlighting as a drummer. But not a drummer as in cymbals and snares, but a box drum and foot tambourine. And like the loyal groupie you’ll briefly become, you will attend his gigs, and be pleasantly surprised.
6. Hands that find themselves all too often in the prayer position causing an internal struggle to want to stab him in his third eye while externally smiling pleasantly and returning his namaste disposition.
7. An overt disregard for footwear, be it in public or otherwise.
8. And if you can hack it, if you really want to exceed the boilerplate mold, find one that only has nine and a half fingers. The appeal is in the mystery.
10. Proceed to spend any and all possible time in your newly acquired, yet fleeting love affair, basking in the recognition of those blissful and unparalleled first days of complete indulgence in another stranger; watching them become less and less strange, but all the more intriguing. Then go gay clubbing. And watch, with even more intrigue, as you both tear up the dance floor to the immortal genius of The Spice Girls.
11. Two words. Wine tours. Now, if you’re like me, and coming from the Okanagan, the wine capital of Canada, you may have a preconceived idea as to what you are about to embark on. You’re wrong. The two are incomparable. On average, amidst immaculate settings, you will be given at least five tastings of varied wines per winery. Tastings are not tastings. They are full blown glasses of wine. Some may serve you pairings with local game biltong (this is where you will begin your obsession with kudu… though having never actually seen what a kudu looks like). These biltong pairings of ostridge, kudu, and springbok will change anyone’s vegetarian tendencies. But they are salty, and will make you drink more. Thus, you will get drunk. You will stop at a winery tucked away at the back of a vineyard, where an adjoining restaurant leading onto a quaint pond will serve you some of the best food you will ever experience in the hopes of sobering you up. But because it’s still a winery, you will order more wine. And because you’re a baller, you will conclude the meal with a digestif or several. And you will inevitably leave just as, if not more intoxicated as when you arrived.
12. Co-host a relatively traditional Braai (South African barbeque) with your brother’s temporary Cape Town Boyfriend (apparently it’s the Beamish way). Remain safely in the kitchen, chopping and dicing all the things that don’t remotely adhere to the concept of traditional South African fare, while he braves the treacherous balcony winds, grilling as many animals as one could possibly ingest. This evening, along with many others, will confirm the fact that you have fallen in love with your brother’s Cape boyfriend. Days later, while sharing a Long Island Iced Tea easily the size of a small torpedo before any respectable drinking hour, you will begin to envisage their wedding, the vital role you will play in it, and the open bar you will both demand be a staple.
13. Be sure to momentarily become selfless enough to think of the poor sods back home buried deep in the blizzarding Canadian winter, and peruse the tacky waterside souvenir stands. Strike up a conversation with one of the vendors after he offers, quite temptingly, to escort you to his van to smoke some hash. Remind yourself that you are in the midst of being selfless and kindly decline. Swallowing his rejection like a champ, he tells you you’ll never know if you want to buy if you don’t touch the product. Wondering if he is, in fact, referring to his souvenirs, you look hesitantly at the delicate wooden figures organized neatly across the table and inform the man who somewhat resembles Jimmy Hendrix, had Jimmy Hendrix lived to be forty and managed to grow a pot belly, that you are the epitome of accident prone and would prefer to just look. He insists. You already feel bad for turning down his hash proposition so you reach for the sturdiest looking item on the table, the elephant. As you bring the elephant toward you, your elbow grazes a zebra which hits a penguin which sends a lion cascading over the edge of the table. You watch in slow motion, but with not the least bit of surprise, as the cement decapitates the lion. The man stares at you blankly and an overwhelming sweep of guilt leaves you purchasing half the table in restitution. You leave the table with an entire wooden zoo believing nothing good comes from selflessness.
14. Climb a mother fucking mountain. Entirely against your will, and at the hand of your less than empathetic sibling, swallow your mortal fear of heights, and ascend one of the most notorious mountains in Cape town, intimidatingly referred to as Lion’s Head and fittingly resembling Lion King’s Pride Rock. When you reach the top, unscathed, after having openly cursed each passing participant, lackadaisical in their effortless descent, vow never to leave the safety of sea level while at the same time gaining a juxtaposed immortal complex as a bad ass mother fucker leading you, seamlessly, to number 15…
15. Jump off a (in your standards) gigantic ass rock into the cool depths of the Atlantic. Following your close encounter with high altitude death, you have since become invincible. So the idea of turning your relaxed Camps Bay beach day into an adrenaline chasing free fall act hardly warrants a second thought. You climb, you jump, and once again, you survive another day to brag about the tale. Upon returning to the sanctity of the beach, however, you are greeted not with the expected astonishment of your great feat, but concern for the mass amount of blood squirting unknowingly from your right foot. Your well versed surfer boy concludes that you must have cut your foot on the many mussels growing fruitfully on the rock face before cascading into, then wading casually for a rather prolonged time in open, and abundantly shark infested waters. The same sharks that are drawn to the smell of fresh blood. When you retell this story in the future, it will be told, in all honesty, as a scarcely averted shark attack.
16. Attend the Cape Town Opera’s modernized version of The Magic Flute for which your brother was the choreographer. Drink more wine and sexually objectify all the hotties in the chorus. After the fact, enjoy some of the best greek food on Earth with the very director of said Opera because in Cape Town, you’re not only a baller, you’re a baller who knows people in high places.  
17. Visit the tropical penguins, convincing yourself prior to arrival, that you will somehow find a way to bring at least one home with you. Do not handle your inevitable failure with any remote sense of dignity. But nonetheless, whisper your unfaltering love to them and your promise to return.
18. As you say farewell to your nine and a half fingered fling, you will not feel sad, or at least not nearly as sad as your departure from your flightless friends. You will leave with a new found sense of hope. You will discover that as much as you enjoyed his company, you enjoyed your own just that much more and you will feel, at once, a wave of calm and the bubbling of anticipation for the future you have yet to unfold, all on your own. You will look forward to the people, the friends, the lovers, that roll in and out of your life, but you will cling to none of them. Because you are enough, and you will do just fine. And so you return to your motherland, refreshed and liberated. You immediately head to a tattoo parlour and permanently fix a cryptic Charlie Brown character on your right foot, deliberately between the two mussel made scars of your death defying leap. And beside your symbolic tribute you place the letters L.S.