I am not a complete blog-slacker, I'll have you know. I didn't mean to be one of those people that gets their blog URL and just sits on it. Maybe writes something on October 7th, 1995 and doesn't wake up again, blog-wise, until June 24th, 2009, after the world has reinvented itself a billion times over, and Seinfeld's been taken off the air, and the Knickerbocker Arena has become the Pepsi Arena has become the Times Union Center. (Can I just insert a "WTF?!" here? On one hand I've got a sincere and irrational loyalty to certain brands: Coca-cola, Dial soap, Era laundry detergent, Neutrogena face cream. (In South Africa, I love Salticrax, Just Juice, and Windhoek Lager.) On the other, I completely distrust and oppose the corporate ambition that would recast the whole universe eponymously, if given any fraction of a chance. Why do it? So that you can shackle your brand to every true and delicious human memory that happens along? It's bad enough that you hold a monopoly over whatever products are sold inside the venue; you don't have to then erect a 50 foot tall, blazing sign on the outside of the building that constantly reminds everyone within a seven mile radius with at least one serviceable eye that we no longer live in the era of steam trains and letter openers. Those days are gone - the Dodgers aren't in Brooklyn anymore. Now, we're living in a condo made of Happy Meal boxes in Las Vegas with Mayor McCheese and Grimace and they're on a 60 year winning streak and things are creepier than ever. In "Infinite Jest", David Foster Wallace imagines an age when even the years are branded. There's the Year of Glad, the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment, etc. An amusing idea, though terrifying.) Anyway - I didn't mean to be another Rip VW in the blogosphere. It's just that I've been busy.
Turns out, I'll be spending the winter (or is it the summer? Well... both, if you consider the hemisphere issue...) in the Caribbean with the Minister of Foreign Affairs. There's a silly amount of admin involved in getting one average- and one tiny-sized human overseas. Admin that is really too boring to get into. However, I will say that on our second visit to the US Consulate out in Tokai (Tokai is a suburb of Cape Town - a beautiful 20 minute drive out the M3), the dude at the security desk asked me to taste the contents of Rutam's bottle to make sure I wasn't bringing in some horrible explosive cunningly disguised in a Nuk bottle, with real-live baby in tow to make the whole murderous charade more believable. I was a bit amused by the request, remembering, of course, the tale of one modern traveling mother who was made to imbibe her own breast milk at a security checkpoint at JFK. Apparently, the lady found the incident both "embarrassing and disgusting" and hired a couple of lawyers to do something tedious and expensive about it. Anyway, I was happy for a pull off Rutam's rooibos, as it was probably the single most healthy substance I'd had in my system in days. If it'd been breastmilk, I'd've been equally willing, and interested to see what it tasted like. Is this disgusting? A tad disquieting? Well, who hasn't been curious about the flavor of their own earwax or sniffed with genuine interest at the contents of their own belly button? Breast milk is oddly controversial stuff. Some people are precious about it, others are clinical. Some don't bother with it at all. Some store it up in their freezers because they're busy. Whatever. Most of us have one form of it sitting in our fridges, next to the OJ and the ketchup and last night's moo goo gai pan. Except that ours is in a plastic bottle and it's cold and it's sterile and it comes from an entirely other mammal.
I certainly did not embark on this blogging adventure to get all weird and preachy about things. So, I'm going to make a sincere effort to get off this irritating high horse because I'm pissing my own self off at the moment. I'll talk you through my day, instead.
Woke up very late last night (this morning) to the angry cries of Rutambuka, who was standing up in her crib and ranting like a Black Panther at a race rally, circa 1968. Brought her into my room and held her close while I swayed deliriously to and fro, mumbling incoherently (though not unmusically). Eventually, we laid down and she found her way back to the land of Nod, with me very close on her heels. Woke again when the sunlight was on the west wall of the room. Meaning, about eightish.
Got up, sorted laundry, fried a couple of eggs. Chu played on the floor while I eagerly awaited the arrival of Dora, who comes on Fridays and hurriedly turns mountains into molehills. Eventually, she showed and my day began to take shape: I would finish feeding Rutam (which takes, on average, an hour and a half per meal - something must be done about this), jump in the shower, get dressed, and drive downtown to the Delta Airline offices in order to book the babe for the flights to Shangri-La. (Delta has this weird and wonderful clause in their booking policy whereby you have to physically GO into the local office and chat to someone in person for them to list your own child (who you'll be holding in your lap) as a passenger. For some terrifically inconvenient reason they cannot do this over the phone.) The Delta Airline offices are on the seventeenth floor of the Southern Life Building on Riebeeck Street. A bit obscure of an address for little old me, whose main connection to downtown sort of begins and ends at Long Street. But still, Cape Town isn't exactly Cairo or Boston. I found my way there. But only after driving a few extra blocks, unnecessarily negotiating a treacherous roundabout, and vehemently cursing out all the city officials who thought it'd be too indulgent to mark any street north of Strand with a simple old fashioned SIGN. Hello! It would've helped.
Anyway, the fates weren't frowning. I found the street, found a parking space. Found, by way of the naturally gracious South African spirit, the BUILDING. (Asked a tooth-deficient parking matron who gladly and confidently directed me.) Found, finally, the office. At some point during this journey, I realized something about myself: Skyscrapers scare the crap out of me. They make me extremely nervous. I can't stand the revolving ground-floor doors - they're like hungry things trained to be friendly. The trip up in the elevator makes me feel like I'm going through some kind of terrible spiritual/mental/physical examination, as though every floor's a metaphor. The fact that I'm so high up in a structure - a structure that's designed to bend with and cleave to the will of the wind, the press of the elements - freaks me out. It all just scares the shit out of me.
But, anyway, I found the Delta official I was meant to speak with. She was in an afterthought of an office, a dingy little beige enclave with a real live plant (it was straining toward the window) and a kickass view. She had the majestic Sphinx of Lion's Head over one shoulder; beyond the other, I could see the dark trail of Platteklip, like a deep crease in the fabric of Table Mountain's face. Through the windows, the sky was a weird mix of blue and brown, like a photograph of the sea with coffee spilled on it. Like something extremely beautiful and more than a little bit dirty. The Delta woman, Vanessa, was a tad inefficient, but also reassuringly careful and exact about the data she was entering into her ancient computer. She made no mistakes about our names. I am Cynthia Trainer. Rutam is Cynthia Eliott. Thank goodness I haven't changed my name on my passport yet. Two Cynthia Eliotts? Good god. As it was, I was there for about an hour and half.
Eventually, she sorted everything out and I went home. On the way, I noticed a couple of things: the dense white cloud that cloaked the top of Table Mountain and how I wished I could be up there just for a few minutes in the midst of all that mist and vapor, choking on the freshness, white-blind on a cliff's edge; two people lazily smoking cigarettes (driver and front passenger) in a white van marked "South Africa Coast Guard Training"; how much I love the feeling of cities in winter. Something about the cool air and the concrete. Something about the grey nearness of those terrifying buildings; that low, bleak, unknowable sky.
Came home, ate runch. Began writing this post. Took Rutam for a stroller-walk to the video store, but they were closed, with a sign on the door. Something like: "Minor emergency. Be back around 5:30. Sorry." Was hoping to rent Entourage season three, disc one. Have been watching Entourage like it's my job. Have been missing Stumpy like crazy. Cooked, ate, fed Rutam dinner. Chicken, potatoes, squash, zucchini, banana. Am tired of this separation. Feel hostile stirrings in the universe. Can't wait to be with Stumpo again.
