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.

Don Juan's Reckless Daughter

After complying to the weary life of a stagnant Canadian for long enough, the bite by which the proverbial bug of travel doth inflict had become more of a relentless gnawing, a rabid erosion of the flesh, unappeasable by anything less than the wayfarer’s topical suppressant: a boarding pass. In other words, it was time to exchange my familiar confines of Kelowna, BC for the warm and lustrous unknown of South Africa. Two glorious weeks would be spent exploring beatific Cape Town in the hopes of befriending all the tropical penguins... or at least getting drunk enough on South African wine to believe they had befriended me, and perhaps even offered to accompany me home. But I digress. First, I would have to get there. Fifty three hours of getting there to be exact.

Have you ever sat on an airplane, looked around at your fellow passengers and wondered what this eclectic bunch of strangers would be like in the event of a sudden disaster? An emergency landing on icy pacific waters, a tragic crash on a deserted island… Who would survive? Who would see their maker? Whose rippling forearms would sweep my unconscious body protectively against his (or hers for that matter, I am prone to waver) chiseled chest, whisking me fearlessly away to safety…
I find this pre-take off routine quite settling, and practice it as often as I can. On the first of what felt like three hundred fights to come, traveling Kelowna to Vancouver, I scanned the fuselage in search of my selfless hero and the secondary characters that may or may not die off, depending on the severity of our impending doom. The plane was on the smaller scale and barely half full. The chair beside me, like most others, was empty, which boded easy access for my potential saviour, thus boding quite well for my general survival. Sitting across the aisle from me was 16D, a middle aged asian gentleman with a neck pillow closely the same size as his entire torso and a fanny pack, which he had stowed abidingly under the seat in front of him. He had delicate wrists and a look of permanent confusion. His chances of survival were slim. Directly in front of me, 15A and 15B, were father and son, matching in classic black and white Adidas trackers, and for the amount they spoke of Arsenal and Tottenham statistics, I had briefly convinced myself that this was actually a British Airways flight and I was in fact headed home to my beloved Londontown. But then the stewardess started speaking in french reminding me of the emergency exits and my current task at hand…
The pimple faced, ripely pubescent son, I also deemed condemned. If he couldn’t even place his carry-on safely in the overhead bin without help from his daddy, how, I thought, was he going to start a fire amid a snowy mountainside, or find his safety floatation device before the plane plummeted to the ocean’s fatal depths, inevitably taking him and his ridiculous tracksuit with it.
His father, on the other hand, held the promise of leadership. He wore his outdated nineties suit with pride and confidence, which made me believe he could proudly and confidently boost our morale in the darkest of times; see us through the bouts of starvation, the doubts of mortality, the tribulations of my newly blossoming love affair with the chiseled superhero (let’s call him Jack for the sake of whatever small amount of loyalty I still hold to Lost.) Relationships are hard enough on their own without adding the weight of whether you’ll live to see the end of each day. The guidance of a wise, yet kind hearted father figure would be of utmost necessity.
It was 15C, however, who really grabbed my attention. For the first time in all of my hypothetical aircraft catastrophes, I found myself three seats away from an off the clock stewardess. This was a game changer. Our chances of orderly survival had just skyrocketed. 15C would surely guide us calmly through a proper brace for impact, be fumble free when opening the emergency doors, enable the bouncy slide while coolly reminding everyone to remove their footwear; all things we should be able to do ourselves if we’d bother to read the safety manuals or listen to the rants of obnoxious flight attendants in varying languages. However, the longer I stared at said stewardess, her acrylic nails sifting through strands of bleached hair, pulling at split ends with the same intensity one might contract when resolving world hunger or calculating the square root of nine-hundred (it’s thirty, but math is hard), the more I began to doubt her capacity for our mortal success.
I was about to give up hope and succumb to my imminent demise when through my peripherals I saw a stirring several seats down. A ruff of brown, wavy locks wound softly at the crown of a seemingly large head-- referred to by some as a man bun-- paraded itself like feathers from a testosterone charged peacock from the top of what looked to be 9B. The man bun ascended, revealing a strong neck and wide, tenacious shoulders. I watched as the body attached shuffled with only mild awkwardness out from the seats and into the aisle where it stood, sturdy and tall. Very tall. So very tall. As arms the size of rippling tree trunks effortlessly grasped a burgundy rolley case from the overhead bin, I knew I had found my salvation, my conquistador, defender of consciousness, provider of life ever after.
Now that I had ascertained my survival, and had allotted a select few worthy enough to survive alongside, I briefly pondered our foreseeable existence on one of British Columbia’s many deserted islands… The inevitable next step was to wean out who would be the first to be eaten when what minuscule resources we conjure become quickly diminished. More times than not, if I’m being honest, it’s usually me. I give myself no special privileges just because I’m the creator of these fantasies. I am at risk just like any other. And because I have an almost perfect fatty meat to muscle ratio my candidacy can’t exactly be denied. I thought about the twelve in-case-of-emergency granola bars I’d stuffed in my bag and wondered if I’d be the kind of person to reveal their existence to my fellow survivors, divvying up the rations, perhaps even sacrificing my own for the one token pregnant woman and her at risk fetus. Or would I guiltlessly slink far off into the forest and devour them all before anyone was the wiser? OR, would I use them as leverage for greater things; a black market exchange for a toothbrush (I’d say it got lost in the crash but I really just forgot to pack mine), or condoms (always a necessity on a deserted island-- pheromones be ablaze in critical situations and I wasn’t about to sacrifice my vagina for whatever enormous offspring my eight foot superhero might produce. I’d like to say it was a challenging call to make, but we all know I’d probably just eat them.

My second flight, headed to Istanbul-- after a seven hour layover in Montreal where I spent the majority of my time silently reviling the French Canadians and their intolerably obnoxious dialect (I'm allowed to judge, I once had a passionate love affair with one)-- was nine hours. These nine hours were spent in the middle seat of the middle row in between a three hundred year old Indian woman who smelled like three hundred years worth of Indian spice, and a slightly younger Pakistani woman who didn’t smell like marinated masala, but who had no teeth. Being an international flight, meaning unlimited complimentary alcohol, my plan was to get rip roaring drunk, pass out, and wake up not remotely fresh faced, but with zero recollection of the painful flight. This did not happen. Two midget bottles of wine and three whiskeys later I was entirely conscious and balling my eyes out over a David Bowie documentary. This did not please the three hundred year old Indian woman. But the Pakistani lady showed empathy by rubbing my arm and flashing her gummy smile. We had briefly bonded when earlier, her minimal understanding of the English language had caused her great stress when it came to ordering the chicken over the rigatoni. Again, we bonded when I showed her that she could hang her purse on the tiny coat hook on the back of the seat. And finally, our relationship was solidified when she stretched her legs across the empty seat between us, motioning me to do the same and before falling asleep, mildly intertwined, she patted my leg, and smiling she said, My daughter...



The rest of my flight, rightfully, was but a blur. Next thing I knew I was standing at Turkish customs being handed my stamped passport, listening to a relatively good looking agent speak at me in Turkish, then respond with but a giggle when I inquired as to what exactly he had said. Ten minutes later I was boarding a HavasBus bound to make the most out of a ten hour layover in the city centre. As I gazed eagerly out my window at the swiftly passing city outskirts, I couldn't help but feel a set of dark eyes lingering on me from my left. These eyes continued to linger for the forty minute journey to Taksim Square-- a tourist hub (ie: the safest place for a wee white girl to explore alone at night) and my intended destination. I stood to exit, and these eyes, now attached to the body of a dark haired, dark skinned 30 something man whom I'd soon learn was Iranian and called Yassir, smiled in acknowledgment and in the most gentlemanly manner, allowed me to exit before him. The minute we made eye contact I cursed myself, for I knew that this would not be the last of Yassir. Not ten feet from the bus, I hear the dark man asking,

"Are you Russian?"

This is not the first, nor the second, or even third time for that matter, that I've been mistaken for this eastern nationality and I can only assume it's because I may very well be the reincarnation of Anastasia.

"Canadian." I respond, knowingly but unable to not enable his conversation.

"Canada! I love Canada!" Yassir says with what sounds like sincere enthusiasm.

"Have you been?"

Pause.

"No."

"Right."

Yassir has now closed the ten foot gap between us and asks me what I'm doing in Istanbul. Without my prompting he tells me he is here to shop. To get new clothes. Specifically shoes and sweaters. When I tell him I am only here for the evening on a layover, he immediately demands we go for dinner. He knows a delicious Iranian restaurant he will (not could, or can, but will) take me to. Instead of telling him off I hear myself respond,

"To be fair, if I'm only in Turkey for an evening I think it'd only make sense to--"

"Eat Turkish food!"

We're already finishing each other's sentences.

"No problem, no problem. I know just the spot." By now we had reached the heart of Taksim Square. It was pouring rain and I had just stepped my seasonally inappropriate sandalled foot into one of several puddles yet to be unwelcomingly penetrated. I had two options: a) blow off this self titled 'non-practicing muslim' and continue, solo, with the list of places I had responsibly mapped out days prior or 2) give my mother yet another brush with cardiac arrest by doing what I do best… push the grace of God to the ultimate limit and once again risk getting my kidneys sold on a foreign black market for the sake of attaining a decent local meal with a complete and not remotely trustworthy stranger.

I justified my choice by stating the following, with much conviction…

"Fine. But we have to stay in this area. It's the only area I've mapped out."

"No problem, no problem."

And just like that, my faith was assured and off we went; Yassir, myself, and my relentless death wish strutting our way through the soaking streets of Istanbul. (Sorry, Ma.)

Between ducking under passing umbrellas, running through death defying traffic, and doing everything not to drown in the Turkish rain, Yassir managed to introduce me to some kind of mindblowingly delicious roasted Turkish street nut (which I would later learn was literally just a chestnut), purchase me a much needed umbrella and a not so needed flower crown, and convince me to get in a cab after I was adamant that I would not leave the immediate area.

"No problem, don't worry. Five minutes." As the cab bordered on ten minutes, and then twelve, I began to scroll through the selection of heading options for my forthcoming tombstone…

1) Herein lies the world's most naive traveler, and the last of its blind trust. May she rest in piece (spelling intended because I will be found in pieces)

2) From the depths of this dirt lies the ultimate demise of the delusional (I've always been a fan of alliteration)

3) Fucking idiot 1989-2017

BUT, as my ever tested luck would have it, we do finally arrive at what is actually the most splendid area of the city. Right off the water, next to a harbour of ferry boats, sat this multi story building, its entrance nestled in a dimly lit cobblestone alleyway, littered with tiny cloaked tables and fairy lights from neighbouring cafes, and for the first time, I felt like I was back in Europe.

"Come, come." Yassir takes my hand and guides me through the doors of a restaurant which plainly looks to be in the middle of heavy refurbishing. Sawdust covered the marble floor, chainsaws were scattered at random, tables were turned on themselves, half broken chairs stacked atop, plywood piled high in every corner. "This way…" He continued to lead me up a set of dark stairs that showed no sign of allowable entry, but because somewhere in life I'd managed to gain this innate ability to give little to no regard for any type of rationality or reason, I followed, resolutely.

The top floor was constructed of an entire wall front of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the harbour with not a single patron inhabiting the lining tables. An endearingly enthusiastic and enthusiastically chubby Turk greeted us from across the room as if he'd known us for years (he had not).

"VIP seats for VIP customers!" He pronounced, as he unlatched the windows aligning our table, letting the sea breeze burst through the empty floor. "Two Turkish Chai! On the house! For my very special friends!"

With two traditional Turkish chai, he brought two unnecessary menus, for when we tried to order, we were immediately told what we wanted was no good and that we'd much prefer to have this instead. Thankfully, what he had pointed to along with his confident declaration was lamb kebab. I love lamb kebab.
And so we sat, Yassir and myself, eating traditional Turkish kebab, drinking traditional Turkish tea, looking out onto traditional Turkish landscape; had he been attractive I might have found this to be the utmost romantic. But he was sweet, and kind, and for the rest of our dinner we spoke about his family, and my family. He showed me photos of his nine siblings. He told me about his two nephews, Muhammad and Ali. I laughed at the reference, and he looked at me blankly, which made me think these were just typical names for boys in Iran and neither were chosen in the hopes of them floating like a butterfly or stinging like a bee. And just as I had nearly convinced myself of the evening's complete innocence, my spontaneous Iranian, the uncle to Muhammad Ali, asked, most sincerely, for my hand in marriage.
Now I won't lie, I did allow the idea to sit with me for a fair moment or two. He did own a very reputable cell phone repair shop, offered to share our time between Canada and Iran and Dakar (where he was currently residing, and where, for the life of me I could not locate on a map), plus he had exquisite taste in restaurants…
Alas, I could not deny that I simply wasn't ready to be tied down, and so I had to part with Yassir (despite the noble fight he put up, bless him) and off I went, well fed, unscathed, and back to navigate the unknown streets of Istanbul, not Constantinople.


By the time I had cut ties with my Istan-boyfriend, there was little time to complete the list of things I had wanted to accomplish. First, was Istanbul's "one and only traditional irish bar".. also known as U2, which only further proved its legitimacy…
But Bono had deceived me, and it was closed. As was the Church of Saint Anthony of Padua (because obviously my main priorities in a city such as this would be ordering a questionable guinness in a poor excuse for an Irish bar and experiencing the only catholic church in a muslim country). And of course the most prioritized destination on the list… A turkish Jazz bar.
However, refusing to succumb to the world of cell phone data, I swiftly found myself at a random Turkish cafe no bigger than a closet where, in return for use of its wifi I agreed to try Turkish raki: a relatively strong Turkish version of Greek ouzo that, because of my limited time frame, I downed in one gulp.

I was now traditionally Turkey drunk, swaying obliviously down the windy cobblestone streets of Istanbul in search of not so traditional Turkish Gypsy Jazz. Eventually, to my plastered surprise, I found it. But not before stumbling upon a hole in the wall art gallery that defined itself by turning old Van Gogh's into abstract backgrounds for Turkish landscape. In a raki haze I bought half their supply.

When I finally arrived at Nardis Jazz Cafe, the gypsy jazz had already begun. The door was vaguely labelled, and a cast iron gate lay intimidatingly across it. A very large Turkish man led me through a narrow hallway of exposed brick and into a small room with few tables surrounding an even smaller stage. The place was full, save for two empty stools at the bar.

"One is taken, one is not." Was all he said before disappearing behind another brick wall. I sat in the stool which didn't encompass the remnants of an occupier: a bowl of half eaten peanuts, what looked to be a barely touched vodka soda, and a handful of bloody tissues… Naturally.

The band consisted of three players: a very pretty guitarist, a bassist, and a saxophonist. I had found three beautiful Turkish musicians channelling Django Reinhardt in a bar that served the best whiskey sours I had ever encountered, with only the mild risk of contracting hepatitis from the stool next to me. I had found the closest thing to heaven this side of the Atlantic… Atlantic? Sure.
Just before the band took an odd, but welcomed shift to one of my favourite Coltrane tunes, a man finally reinhabited the adjacent stool, his right index finger cautiously erect, his left hand holding a plaster which I watched him awkwardly struggle to adhere with his nine remaining working fingers.

“May I?” He looked at me, half startled, then smiled helplessly.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” He had short, black, tightly curled hair and a narrow baby like face. He wore a burgundy sweater vest, and under, a creaseless dress shirt finished with a crisp bowtie. I was still drenched in rain remains and three day old airplane clothes.

“Dare I ask…?”

“Bar fight. You should see the other guy.” The injured man did not hide the pride in this witty response, internally congratulating himself with an externally overt smile.

“Glassing someone in a jazz bar, how very classy.” His face tightened and he shook his head vigorously.

“I am only joking. I didn’t do anything. The glass, it just broke. I sat it down on this…” he brushed the bar top with his free hand, “ever so gently and it shattered. Just like that.” The man’s voice was soft but tentative.

“Sure, that’s what they all say.” I winked, and he exhaled a nervous laugh as if he’d been holding his breath since our fingers had met. “You a fan of jazz?”

“Not really. I’m from Saudi Arabia.”

“Do Saudi Arabians not like jazz…?”

“Oh! Haha, no. Hahaha. I mean, I’m just here visiting. Saw this place on accident.” The band had stopped playing and were now speaking to the intimate crowd. “Do you speak Turkish? Can you understand what they’re saying?”

“Nope. But it’s kinda nice though. Not knowing.”

“I don’t know either. I’m from--”

“Saudi Arabia.”

“Yes. Haha.” The band began to play again and we both ordered another round; me: whiskey sour number three, him: water with ice. Not vodka soda. We spoke about the things we’d done and seen, my short layover, his fourth visit to the city.
“May I ask you for your facebook?”

“Only if you promise not to propose.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“There are restaurants here I think you would like. I would like to make you a list. For when you return.”

“That’d be lovely.” His name was Eyad and he was lovely. With an array of potential eateries and a new cyber friend, it was time to leave Nardis, leave the odd mix of european cobbled streets and middle eastern vibes and continue southbound. Still without wifi, I asked the whiskey sour genius behind the bar if he would call me a cab. He wouldn’t. But told me there was a place down the road where cabs lined the streets. I told him I was directionally challenged and that he needed to be more specific. He looked at me as if he suddenly didn’t understand english and walked away. And so I walked-- stumbled-- “down the road” in search of “where cabs line the streets” and saw none. I did, however, see three men standing outside a hotel, and because I am nothing short of resourceful I politely inquired,

“Sorry good sirs, would you happen to know where I could get a taxi?” One of the men, the one randomly cradling a full bottle of Jagermeister replied that he would call me one, while immediately whipping his flip phone from his pocket, as if he were unholstering a pistol. How incredibly kind, this Jager man, I thought.
“Do you often stand on street corners with a full bottle of Jager?” I nodded at the bottle resting against his chest and he laughed.

“Only on weekends.”

“It’s Monday.”

“Would you like some?” I’d like to say I hesitated briefly, but that would be a lie.

“Yeah, go on then.” He poured the lid to the brim then cheers’d me with the bottle and chugged while I lid-shot. Not two seconds later my taxi arrived and I was gone.

The last eleven hours of my fifty three hour, three time zone, multi city escapade consisted of passing out in front of the national geographic channel and periodically waking up to the most pertinent information necessary to survive in South Africa: Animal Fight Club.

Fact. Crocodiles can snap their jaws eight times faster than a human can blink.
Fact. Male teenage elephants left to wander alone without a positive adult influence become punks (narrator’s word, not mine) and deliberately seek out rhinoceroses to bully. Rhinoceroses are generally known to be harmless creatures and want no trouble. The elephants know this; they’re just being dicks. These punk ass teenage elephants will literally pretend to be on an innocent stroll then BAM! Runs right into the unsuspecting rhino-- weighing the same as a school bus (my dad drives a school bus so I figure I have a fairly decent understanding of this immense impact.)
Fact. Rhino horns are not attached or grown from bone, but are formed from fused hairs that grow continuously from their skin.
Fact. I could sit on a tortoise and not crush it. So could an elephant. Not that I’m comparing myself to an elephant, by any means, but apparently I only weigh sixty pounds less than a baby one…

These useful facts helped guide my final flight to a seamless conclusion and when I finally landed on South African soil, I felt nothing short of prepared for what lay ahead, wild or otherwise…