And so, It Begins...

Normally, I'm not a fan of our cultural tenancies to use screens (as in television) as babysitters. However, when it comes to passing nearly twenty-four hours of in-flight time, an interactive screen embedded in the seat in front of you that offers a relatively enticing array of movies, international TV shows, games, and flight information...well, it really is a stroke of genius, isn't it? Free baby-bottles of wine (no, not BABY bottles, silly) are pretty nifty, too.

Susie and I drove away from our beloved Santa Barbara in the wee hours of a Friday, arriving in Cape Town, South Africa -- bodies and luggage fully in tact, ready to begin our adventures with gusto -- just as the sun was setting on Saturday evening. Even factoring in the nine hour time difference, in Africa's favor, it really is one helluva long journey.

It's one of life's most comforting gifts to be met by an enthusiastically waving friend of a friend upon landing on another continent. Hannah gathered us into her stylish, protective wings, piled us into Foxy (her 1989 VW), and drove us on the wrong side of the roads into Cape Town straight to The Backpack. We threw our bags into the room (named Simba), brushed our grubby teeth and set out to Obs (the Observatory neighborhood) for dinner at Ganesh, a restaurant serving real South African food, says Hannah. Alas, we managed to arrive the night before Easter, which translates into a long vacation weekend for practically the entire country, including the good folks at Ganesh.

No worries, there was an open pizza joint around the corner. Authentic South African pizza.

You know, there's something about South Africa that I found assuringly familiar (no, it wasn't the pizza cause it was different...and better, quite frankly). Usually, when I travel, I'm constantly freezing in my tracks declaring another moment of deja-vu. That didn't happen to me in South Africa, not even once. Still, with every drive we took, with every friend we made, it was all familiar. And good.

It's not particularly safe to be out and about at night in Cape Town. Cars are at risk for being broken into, stolen. There is a system in place -- sometimes more official than others, depending on where you are -- where men wearing identifying florescent-yellow vests mill around the streets making sure nobody bothers the vehicles. In return, drivers are expected to tip the guards, usually something in the range of a dollar or less.

After pizza, we were followed back to Foxy by a man, slightly wobbling, who clearly had fashioned his own guard vest out of some sort of foam-like material and string. He was friendly enough, chatted us up and kept a non-threatening distance. Hannah gave him a few coins, honoring his presence graciously, and informed us with a giggle that he must have been the most unofficial car watcher she'd ever encountered.

We parted ways with Hannah with plans to meet up in the morning for a drive; we wanted to be big ol' tourists and see the penguins on the beach. Susie and I drifted easily into sleep, thankful The Backpack didn't include a television screen in our room.