Page 34 - WTP Vol. VIII#2

Cape Wind (continued from preceding page)
“Maybe they still are.” Ian lifted a playful eyebrow over the rim of his glass at me. The owner, also appar- ently the waitress, brought us our meals.
“Have you two come here from America?” She beamed at us.
Ian gestured in my direction. “Well, she has. She’s just arrived from New York, but I was born here, actually.”
“Oh, really? My goodness, you both sound American!” Ian explained that he was living up the hill and only then did she recall that he’d been in the restaurant
a few weeks ago. I dived into the grilled prawns and mango salad, and the owner wished us bon appetit.
“Happens all the time. Every day,” Ian murmured, slic- ing the head off a prawn. “They don’t know where I’m from. They think I’m American, or British, or German, even. I didn’t notice I was getting an American accent —it happened without my realizing it.”
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “You were in New York ten years. It could happen to anyone. You’ll sound like your old self before you know it. You should see me when I go back to the Midwest. I’m talking like a hick in a couple of days.”
“It’s been six months.”
He peered out through the window. The curtains were parted enough to let in the blackness of the night, the void of sky over the bay, the moon now high, its light a rippled carpet on the water. His eyes seemed to be searching for something, like a light- house beam patrolling the horizon.
We spent the next week exploring. For me, everything was new. I didn’t know the names of anything—not the mountains, the birds, or the astonishing array of flowers. Even the stars in the sky were scattered in
a completely different formation. Where Orion had made his appearance in the late November sky at home, I could see the Big Dipper here—only it was upside-down.
“That’s because whatever was inside of it was already drunk up by Europe before it got to us. Africa gets the empty spoon.”
“Is that the local legend?” “No, I made that up just now.”
We laughed and Ian passed a bottle of local cabernet. We were seated on a boulder, looking over a hillside
brushy with native flora, none of it higher than my chin. The lights of Cape Town’s city center twinkled beyond the looming seaside cliffs. The moon hadn’t risen yet, and the breeze was just cool enough for a sweatshirt. I began to understand why so many North- ern European expats were to be found hanging around the surf shops and beachfront cafes. Everything seemed to be whispering, why the hell not live here?
To get into the center of town, there was a train that rattled along the beachfront, dingy and old, its win- dows open to the ocean breeze. You could stick your head out the train window with nothing between you and the waves crashing onto the boulders, the oyster- catchers diving into the water and flying out again with sea creatures in their carrot-colored beaks. The first time we rode the train into the city center, my butt grew sore from the rattling and pitching of the train on the hard, graffiti-carved seat. Other passen- gers eyeballed us the whole time. I wondered if maybe they were trying to decide where we were from.
As we walked along the platform at the train’s final stop, Ian pointed out the first three cars. They were much nicer; their seats were padded and the win- dows all had glass in them.
“That’s the first class section,” he said. “You have to pay more for that.”
“Seriously? Like on an airplane? But this is just a local metro—why?”
He looked at me, waiting for me to figure it out. “Think about it. The train is ancient, right?”
It hit me then. I looked up at him to see if I was right. He smiled in that sly way that had almost made me fall in love with him years ago.
“That’s right. We were riding in one of the ‘black cars.’ Now they call them the ‘second class cars.’ That’s why they were staring at us. White people just don’t ride in them unless they have to. The habits of Apartheid die hard.”
We bought ice cream at a waterfront promenade and watched the boat traffic in and out. A fishing boat pulled up to a dock, waking up a fat seal about the size of a small cow. It grunted in annoyance and rolled into the water with a loud splash. A multitude of teenage kids paraded past, trying to sell us t-shirts, roasted nuts, wood carvings. Ian led to me to the ferry dock where tickets were on sale for the Robben Island tour.
“Should I get two?” I asked.
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