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I am pleased to say there was one thing on Hayman Island that was affordable (well, relatively, anyway).

Rather shockingly, it was the snorkeling.

Food was heart-stoppingly expensive, and our room was pricey, but the actual cost of a snorkeling trip? Downright reasonable. For $40 each, we’d get a round trip boat ride to a nearby island, and rental of a mask, dry suit, flippers, and a few beach chairs and parasols.

I was a fan of this: it meant that if you could actually find a way to stay at the resort and afford the food, the activities themselves wouldn’t push you over the edge. Everyone on Hayman could afford to explore the nearby islands – even the college kids who were working at the resort over the summer.

The dry suits made everyone look like they were from Team Zissou.

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Rand on one of the boat rides out.

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So we went snorkeling … a lot. On some days, Rand would be tired, but I’d gently poke him in the side and say, “Nope. Sorry. I’m gonna make swim with sea turtles.”

We’d already shelled out way too much to stay on Hayman in the first place, so I was going to make damn sure we snorkeled as much as possible. It’s like going to a buffet restaurant: once you’ve paid the fee to get in, the only sensible thing to do is gorge yourself.

We spent one morning on Langford Island. We were the first people from Hayman to be dropped off there, so they had us put the emergency kit out. It held a satellite phone, a first aid kit, and a bottle of vinegar (to disinfect jellyfish stings).

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Langford’s big draw is that it’s a haven for sea turtles. One couple told us they saw a dozen or so turtles when they were out there. We saw only three, but it seems silly to complain about something like that. I mean, seeing three sea turtles on a given afternoon seems pretty amazing, right?

Sadly, I hadn’t yet rented an underwater camera, so I have no photos of those turtles, but I did get a few shots of us on the beach. Let’s pretend they’re just as interesting, okay?

I know. I’m basically the luckiest gal on the planet.

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It seems only fair to post a photo of me in all my squishy glory.

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On another afternoon, we went to Blue Pearl Bay II (yes, there is a Blue Pearl Bay I, but it’s so shallow, you can only reach it via hiking trails or kayak. We did the latter).

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The water there was less clear than it was on the Outer Reef, but there was still plenty to see.

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Including brain coral, which is a personal favorite of mine for obvious reasons.

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And since there was less reef to explore, it was easier to keep an eye on Rand (we kept losing each other on Langford and in the Outer Reef).

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Which was nice, because he was so excited about the fish.

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They seemed less excited to see us.

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The beach on Blue Pearl Bay II was downright strange, though. It’s made of huge chunks of coral, which make it difficult to walk on, and not particularly comfortable.

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But nevertheless quite lovely:

My apologies for the water droplets on the camera lens.

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And so we spent another day, snorkeling in the sun, and then took a boat back to Hayman …

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And talked about what we’d do the next day, which, inevitably, would include more snorkeling.

I should have warned you there’d be photos of us in bathing suits, huh?

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Our seaplane had just landed in the middle of the Great Barrier Reef. Remembering how often lofty expectations led to disappointment, I did my best to calm my brain, which was racing with thoughts of everything we were going to see.

“THERE WILL THOUSANDS OF FISH,” it screamed. “AND SEA TURTLES! AND ALSO KITTENS.”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. While it was almost certainly guaranteed that we’d see fish, I had no evidence (aside from Finding Nemo) that there would be any sea turtles swimming around. And numerous online searches have confirmed the fact that kittens are not indigenous to the Great Barrier Reef.

“Whatever happens, happens,” I told myself. “Even if the water is murky, and I don’t see too many fish, I won’t mind. This has already been an awesome experience.”

And that was true. The flight out to the reef was wonderful. If the high point of the day – or even the trip – had already passed, I was okay with that.

But the day kept getting better.

The seaplane gently coasted on the water, and pulled up to the glass-bottomed boat. The water and the sky seemed to blend together. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

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Already aboard was a group of tourists who were lounging around in the sun, drinking cocktails and chatting with one another in French.

There were part of an all-day tour, and it was hard not to envy them.

“You are stupidly lucky to be out here in the first place,” I reminded myself. “Also, cocktails and lying in the sun gives you a headache.”

The ship’s captain gave us a rundown of how things would go. We’d have an hour to snorkel the reef. He outlined the areas that were safe – where the water was deep enough that we could safely swim, and asked that we keep a minimum of 1-2 meters from the coral. He noted that this was more for our safety that anything else: odds are the coral would be fine if we bumped into it, but we’d get torn up.

After a few minutes spent putting on our dry suits, our snorkels, and our fins, we were in the water.

I know what you are thinking: her expensive, fancy pants camera isn’t waterproof. And you’d be exactly right. Fortunately, the camera I rented from the resort was:

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Above the water, you only get a hint of what’s underneath. You peer down, and try to make sense of the shapes and colors, but the slightest wind ripples the surface, and it’s all lost. But the second you plunge in, you can see all of it clearly – a bustling world that shimmers and floats and changes direction in a second. It’s soundless and infinite.

And it is ridiculously, absurdly beautiful.

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The coral looms out in front of you like giant mutant cauliflower. It stops just abruptly just below the water.

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The water was warm, but not overly so. It was cool enough to be refreshing, and to ensure that we wouldn’t overheat after an hour of swimming. There were floating pontoons every now and then, so if we got tired, we could rest on one. I stopped on one only once, to readjust my mask. Curiosity and wonder trump exhaustion every time.

I tried to take a video of it all, but, forgive me, it’s jittery as heck. That’s the problem when you are trying to use your hand to swim and hold a camera.

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The fish were wary of us at first, but after a few minutes in the water, they seemed to accept us. We weren’t one of their own, obviously, but we weren’t going to eat them, either.

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My beloved was there, too:

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It was everything I could have asked for and more. But that didn’t stop my brain from being demanding.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE THE SEA TURTLES?!” it screamed.

“Shut up,” I snapped back. “This is incredible, even if you don’t see a – OH MY GOD THERE’S A SEA TURTLE!”

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Wanna see a video of it swimming? Of course you do:

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The hour flew by. It was one of the shortest of my life. We saw the captain waving to us that our time was up, and we reluctantly swam back.

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As we climbed back into the plane, Lee explained that he’d need to make a quick stop on one of the islands. Would Rand and I mind if we were dropped off last? No, no we most certainly would not mind an extended seaplane tour of the islands.

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We stopped for a moment at Whitsunday Airport so that Lee could refuel and drop off the other passengers. He treated us to drinks at the airport cafe while we waited.

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We sat in the shade, sipping fizzy water.

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“This place,” Rand said, and didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. I merely nodded in reply. We sat in silence, trying to process it all. Rand had wanted to see the Great Barrier Reef since he was little. He’d had ridiculously high expectations. I’d had very few. And we both were equally blown away.

Reasonably, what more could I have expected?

A few minutes later, the manager of the cafe walked out, carrying a large box.

“Lunch time!” she said, brightly, though it didn’t seem as though she was talking to us. She placed the box on the floor. Guess what was inside.

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Yup. Kittens.

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The view from our seaplane as we flew over the Great Barrier Reef.

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The other day, I botched a batch of homemade cookies that I had been making for get-together with friends (or maybe my intent was just to sit in front of the TV and eat all of them by myself. Whatever.)

This shook me to my core. A large portion of my life is devoted to the creation and consumption of baked goods. It is, as a friend of mine noted, “one of my core competencies.”

I won’t lie: I’ve had baking mishaps before (if you have a copy of The Geraldine Handbook, please see pie, peach for more examples. Also, smoke alarms and tearful fits). But this failed batch was particularly upsetting because I had such high hopes. These cookies were going to be PERFECT. I’d made the recipe before, and had finally figured out the right tweaks I’d wanted to make. I halved the recipe (because even I have my limits, which are heeded only due to the threat of diabetes), but forgot to halve the quantity of butter I was using.

The result: flat, greasy, somewhat bland cookies.

Rand found me in the kitchen, having a sort of sputtering tantrum over a dozen oily disks of baked failure and what was left of the dough. I’d realized my mistake too late – there was no way of fixing it.

In what was not my proudest moment, I crammed two cookies in my mouth, chewing ruefully.

“What are you doing?” Rand asked.

“Eating my shame. Wanna taste?” I handed him a cookie. He took a tentative bite.

“Babe, I know all the guys probably tell you this, but your shame tastes great.”

I managed to smile and pout all at once, with my mouth full of cookies. In Hollywood, this is known as being a “triple threat.”

“Seriously, honey,” he continued, “if this is failure, I’d say things are looking pretty good for you.”

We ended up bringing the cookies to our friends’ house, imploring them all to “taste my shame.”

In the end, I guess, they weren’t all that bad. But it was a good reminder that high expectations will inevitably lead you to disappointment.

Which is why the day we went snorkeling on the outer reef was so damn perfect – because I had no expectations whatsoever.

Hell, up until a few days prior, I didn’t even know we were going. Rand had booked the tour as a surprise, but had then forgotten what day it was, so he had to ask the tour organizer (honestly, it’s amazing that he’s able to pull off any surprises whatsoever, given his memory). That was when I found out: we were going to take a seaplane to the outer reef. We’d land on the water, dock on a small, glass-bottomed boat, and spend the late morning snorkeling.

I tried to accept all of these things as mere facts. I tried to keep my thoughts rational, my expectations low. I willed my brain not to editorialize. But, like always, my brain fought with me.

Me: We are going to go snorkeling in the outer reef.

My Brain: Are you effing kidding me? HOLY CRAP WE ARE GOING SNORKELING IN THE OUTER REEF. THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST THING EVER.

Me: No. No, no, no. We are not going to go into this with high hopes. Remember what happened with Iron Man 2? I cannot handle that kind of letdown again. Nope. We are going to expect nothing, and if something good happens, we will be pleasantly surprised.

Brain: I AM GOING TO EXPECT EVERYTHING. THE DAY WILL BE AWESOME AND PERFECT AND FULL OF SEA TURTLES AND KITTENS.

Me: Seriously, please be reasonable about this. We are going snorkeling. There will be no kittens.

Brain: YES THERE WILL BE. Now, do the cha-cha dance or I’ll give you a migraine.

Me: (does a half-hearted cha-cha) Is this sufficient?

Brain: You don’t look like you mean it.

And so I tried to reconcile excitement and caution, tried to keep my high hopes within the realm of reasonable. I do this often, and it’s made my life and travels so much easier. If you have no expectation for a day to be perfect, you aren’t nearly so distraught when something inevitably goes wrong.

It’s become for my rule for having a great time on any trip: set your expectations low. Don’t hope for perfection. Just hope for not a disaster.

That way, when perfection (or the nearest thing that you can get to it on this earthly plane) does come along, you will have, as Rand later described it, one of the single greatest experiences of your life.

That’s what happened to me.

We started the day with a lovely breakfast which we managed to eat while simultaneously swatting away cockatoos. We then walked to a large boat ramp at one end of the island, and waited for our seaplane to arrive.

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I suppose it should have been romantic, staring at the water like that, but somebody was jumping around, giddy with excitement. Like a five-year-old on his birthday. Who’d eaten waaay too much cake. And also, the cake was laced with methamphetamines. (It was not me.)

Finally, the plane arrived.

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THE PROPHESY HAS BEEN FULFILLED.

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It was a seven-seater. The pilot and one person sat in front, and there were two rows of seats behind them, with one seat in the very back. The plane was already full of passengers, except for the bench seat directly behind the pilot. Rand and I squeezed in. I’m generally a claustrophobe, and I wondered if the close quarters would bother me. Miraculously, they didn’t.

As for Rand … well …

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Let’s just say he was pretty excited about the whole thing.

Because the small plane was so loud, we had to wear giant headphones. They blocked out the noise, and were connected to the PA system that our pilot spoke into, so we could hear his narration of the landscape below us. The best part of the headphones is that everyone who puts them on is suddenly a total badass, thus finally breaking your lifelong streak of looking like a dorkus.

See? Told ya.

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We drove out onto the water …

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and began to pick up speed.

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It was like being in a incredibly smooth-riding speedboat. And then, suddenly, seamlessly, we were airborne.

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Rand accepted this reality with the same level of restraint that he had had all morning. Which is to say, none at all.

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And though I could not hear him, I knew – I just knew – that he had the theme to Indiana Jones in his head. And sure enough, later, as we landed, I could hear him humming the score quietly to himself.

If there was some way that I wasn’t already head over heels for him, that moment alone would have done it.

The trip to the outer reef was forty minutes or so. I suspect it will forever remain one of the best plane flights of my life. (Even better than the Virgin America flight where I ate two bags of salted caramel popcorn and watched a movie with Martin Sheen in it, and then found out that Martin Sheen was sitting one row ahead of me in first class.)

Our pilot was a rakish blonde Australian named Lee. He, like so many other people working in the Whitsundays, decided to leave his nine-to-five job in the city, and now spent his days flying people around the reef. The view from his office was pretty great.

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As we flew, the ocean beneath us slowly became clearer and bluer. We saw a murky white substance sitting on the top of the water. We initially thought it was pollution, but Lee explained that it was entirely natural: these were coral spores, and were how the reef regenerated.

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I have had the privilege (one which I don’t deserve) to see many wonderful things in my travels and in my life. Some things, understandably, prove so amazing or significant that they stick out in my memory. There’s the first time that I saw Rand, wearing designer jeans and an air of confidence, both which were a bit big on his small frame. There was the first time I saw the Manhattan skyline when I was 14, looming out in front of me as I rode the ferry from Governor’s Island.

And there’s the first time I saw the Great Barrier Reef.

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There was even a heart-shaped reef.

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My husband, who has wanted to see the Reef since he was 10 years old, seemed pretty happy about the whole thing, too:

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Slowly, Lee began to circle the reef, and bring the plane lower and lower for a landing …

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We were all transfixed, watching as the turquoise water below us grew closer and closer.

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Just as seamlessly as we’d taken off, we’d landed. We were in the middle of the reef. In a few minutes, we’d be swimming in it.

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And I hope you’ll forgive me, but that’s where I’m going to stop today. I have loads more to tell you about our time in and on the reef. About the sea turtles and the schools of fish, and how sometimes you can have a marvelous day, even as you struggle with high expectations and a brain that demands to see kittens on a snorkeling trip.

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Years ago, when Rand and I were much younger and less squishy than we are now, we would go hiking. A lot.

Nearly every weekend in the spring and summer, we’d jump into my KIA Spectra (and before that, my Dodge Neon, because I am very discerning about the vehicles I choose. I demand that they be crappy and underpowered, damn it), and drive out of Seattle towards the mountains and hills that lie just north and east of our little city.

We were flat broke, and so hiking was a perfect activity. We’d pack snacks, and the day would usually only cost us what we spent on gas and admission to whatever park we were visiting.

Once we got to wherever it was we were headed, we would just walk. For hours. Sometimes we’d talk, or we’d invite friends to go along with us. But most of the time, it would be just me and Rand, saying little as we followed trails and paused to look at the trees and the plants and the bugs. I never realized it back then, but I think it was our way of finding peace in the crazy, confusing time that follows college.

We didn’t know where the hell we were going with our lives (or our relationship) but out there, we did. We had trails and markers and maps and signs telling us where to go. For a little while, there was nothing to worry about – no rent, no debt, no clients (or lack thereof), no bills. It was just us, roaming around a quiet and calm little chunk of the planet.

It went on like that, almost every Saturday and Sunday, for months. When things got really stressful, Rand would play hooky (his company was struggling so much, and he had so little work coming in, it didn’t really matter if he was in the office or not) and go hiking without me in the middle of the week. Our friends joked that he needed an intervention. Ever the enabler, I bought him an annual National Park pass, instead.

Time passed, and slowly, life began to sort itself out. Our paths became clearer: his company found more stable footing, and I found work that I actually enjoyed. We could pay the rent without having minor panic attacks. Our schedules began to fill, and we started traveling. Somewhere along the line, we stopped going on hikes.

But on Hayman Island, for the first time in years, we wandered out onto a trail.

Behind the resort, a rocky hill crested up; if you followed it to the top, you’d get an excellent vantage point of the resort and the ocean beyond. We figured it would give us a better perspective on the geography of the island, along with some killer views, and we were, I’m pleased to say, right about that.

What I didn’t anticipate was that, like so many years ago, the perspective we got might have extended to existence itself.

Our hike was part of our mission to relax and get a lay of the land on our first day on Hayman. We’d spend the next week snorkeling and canoeing in the neighboring islands, getting better acquainted with sea turtles and schools of rainbow-colored fish, and learning that the jellyfish that usually sting aren’t necessarily the ones you can see. But on that day, we were just going to follow the trails, and see where they led us.

They started out easy – in parts, the path was even paved.

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It was beautiful and shady and distinctly tropical – not something we encountered on our hikes in the Pacific Northwest.

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Slowly we trekked up, until we cleared the treetops below us, and could see the water and the resort peeking out.

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We’d reached the Marina Lookout. We still were unclear of where we were going to end up, but we had options. We could summit the hill and reach the Whitsunday Lookout (which had supposedly even better views), or we could follow the path all the way back down to the other side of the island, to Blue Pearl Bay. The latter option, of course, meant that we’d have to hike all the way back up.

I suggested we head to the Whitsunday lookout (I learned long ago not to let Rand pick hiking trails, because he tends to overestimate our stamina and underestimate how much water we need. A dozen or so dehydrated fights later, I now choose).

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The path began to grow more rocky, the views more lovely. The overhang of trees and the shade they provided had now disappeared. I whined a little, quietly and to myself (but just loud enough for Rand to hear. Because if a gal whines in the woods and no one hears it, then really, what’s the point?). It had been a very long time since I had done anything resembling physical exertion, and the heat was intense. We’d left early in the day, but already the sun was beating down on us.

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Rand didn’t mumble a word of complaint, but quietly walked on. Sometimes his sense of inner peace can be so annoying.

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Eventually, as we neared the Whitsunday lookout, the path became easier. The terrain became smoother, the grade less steep. The hazy marine layer that crept over the island every night and into the morning had by now burned off, revealing an unbelievably blue sky. Suddenly, life looked like it had been photoshopped:

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As promised, the views were pretty damn incredible.

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We stayed up there for a while, passing time in the usual fashion.

Oh, don’t look so surprised.

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High on that hill, I got all introspective and heavy, as I tend to do whenever I’m someplace beautiful (or, you know, just after I’ve finished eating a really, really good pastry). I started thinking about our constantly moving planet: how it was, at that very moment, rotating on its axis, and revolving around the sun, and our entire solar system (and us along with it) was hurtling through the universe as it expanded towards infinity.

All while we were standing up there, looking at the water, and feeling perfectly still.

Doesn’t that sort of blow your mind? It certainly did mine. It made me realize how many of our problems are small and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. And it totally helped me ignore the fact that I forgot to pack snacks. For a little while, at least.

I told Rand that my stomach and I wanted to go back to the resort, with its overpriced smoothies and miniature burgers. He nodded, and we headed back down the hill.

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We arrived back down close to the noon. The resort was barely stirring when we left, but now it was wide awake. Toddlers ran naked around the pool, couples strolled in the surf, and boats and seaplanes left the harbor, taking people to and from the island.

Life was in motion. I guess it always is. Which was why the stillness of just a few moments before was so remarkable to me.

Though I was delighted by the sounds of people having fun, of the beautiful chaos that surrounds families on vacation, I found myself logging for peace and perspective once again. I understood why Rand left the city to go hiking again and again all those years before. He wasn’t running from something. He was running towards something.

I looked up at him, and threw an arm around his waist.

“We should go hiking again,” I said. “Soon.”

I’m such an enabler.

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One of the things I love about any friendship is when you create shared memories together. It pushes you from the realm of merely “people who get along” into the world of “people who have been through some shit together.” It opens up the door to inside jokes and stories that begin with, “Remember that one time …”

I love traveling with other people. I realize it’s a risky venture – that sometimes you can encounter people who are cranky or not particularly adventurous, or who whine because things aren’t like they are back home (note: if you encounter someone like that, it is perfectly acceptable to lure them into a McDonald’s and them abandon them there. That’s the whole point of a McDonald’s: abandoning people).

But sometimes, you find people who you can spend a day with, and it is seamless and lovely and fun. And afterwards, you can say to them, “Remember that one time …” And you all delight in your little bit of collective history, and anyone within earshot will realize that you are tied together by more than just a common love of bearded men and baked goods.

And, to their credit, they don’t murder you every time you stop right in front of them and take a photo (yet, miraculously, manage to not get a single photo WITH them).

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On a rainy weekend in London, we went to the Columbia Road Flower Market with our friends Ruth and Justin. We made a few memories, laid the foundation for a few inside jokes. Nothing particularly eventful happened. Nothing exceptionally memorable or scarring or damaging. But it served, like so many things, to add another layer of depth to our friendship, to make it a little bit grander and richer than it was.

And from now on, I suspect that every time I think of that market, I’ll think of them, too.

The market on Columbia Road is smaller than the one we strolled through in Portobello. As you’d guess from its name, it has more flowers (and fewer antiques). Both markets are filled with vendors who operate rain or shine, and since it’s London, there’s very little shine.

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But who are we to judge? We are from Seattle, after all.

Because of this, the Columbia Road Flower Market felt vaguely familiar. The stalls and the sellers milling about (often with the same woolen hats and gloves with cut-off fingers that are so popular back home) could have been plucked from our own Pike Place Market.

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Before I proceed any further with tales of our adventures, I would like to take a minute to note something about Ruth’s taste in men. Mainly, that it is absolutely stellar. See, she seems to prefer socially-conscious, dark-haired gentlemen with beards.

Obviously, she’s a romantic genius.

The first time I met Justin, I told Ruth that he was an absolute charmer, and she nodded gleefully before warning me to back off or she’d cut me (I might be dramatizing the events slightly, but whatever. It was delightful.)

She and Justin put up with us for a good three hours or so, which is no small feat. We’re exceptionally annoying. I’m constantly distracted by the promise of cake …

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And Rand and I are both continually stopping to take photos of nothing in particular.

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I was seriously taking a photo of nothing. And then Rand took a photo of me, taking a photo of nothing. We should both be abandoned in a Mc Donald’s, I swear.

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Then there’s Rand’s tendency to disappear three or four times without any warning. Ruth and Justin didn’t seem to really mind that, either.

Rand, enjoying his favorite pastime of wandering off.

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My beloved is sort of like a four-year-old in that respect – take your eyes off him for more than a few seconds, and he’ll vanish. I keep thinking that I need to get one of those kiddie leashes for him, but the only ones they have in adult sizes are studded leather, and that communicates something very different, so …

Anyway. About the market.

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The principal items sold there are flowers, which is kind of miraculous, if you think about it. It’s such a superfluous thing, but everywhere people were bustling about, buying bouquets and haggling with vendors, who were shouting out prices with such precise repetition that it sounded pre-recorded.

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We walked past stand after stand, breathing in chilly air perfumed by the many blooms.

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We popped into stores, pressed our noses against window displays, and demolished cupcakes and cookies for a good cause.

And I regretted not getting the pug mug.

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We got overheated between the warm stores and the cool air, and made cracks about my brain tumor.  (I guess you had to be there.)

When we felt tired, we wandered into a pub, where we sat at the bar and ate french fries and talked about upcoming weddings and Halloween costumes that required facial hair and older brothers who live in the U.K. and who are absolutely real and not at all fictional. And then we went headed off in our separate ways.

Like I said, nothing crazy happened, nothing disastrous or hilarious or cringe-worthy. We just had a nice day with Ruth and Justin, that one time we went to the Columbia Road Flower Market.

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The other day I did an excellent job of keeping my mouth shut while a distant in-law explained to me how television was bad for children. The comment had been prompted by my admission that I’d spent the morning watching Yo Gabba Gabba with my nine-month-old nephew.

Now, before all of you start raising pitchforks and torches (where did you even get those, by the way?) and storm my office, let me be clear: I know NOTHING about babies. He was teething and freaking out and the show looked almost educational and the host was a vivacious black man in a skintight orange suit (which was totally captivating for both of us), so I think my actions were pretty damn defensible.

Plus, television did an excellent job raising me, so who I am to deprive a new generation of that?

Still, I smiled as I was scolded for delaying my nephew’s cognitive development and leading him on a path to sloth and criminal activity, or whatever. I AM A PILLAR OF RESTRAINT. There might even be some truth to it, as I’m sure that plopping a kid in front of a television for hours on end isn’t a great idea.

But let’s be honest: children who don’t watch TV are just weird.

Later, they will grow up to be adults who suck at bar trivia and are alienated from their friends because they don’t understand cultural touchstones and just stare blankly when you quote Cheers (don’t tell me that stuff isn’t important, because otherwise I’ll have wasted my life).

I should know: I married someone who grew up without regular access to TV.

There are days when we have discussions during which I’ll prattle on about something and he will just stare blankly at me.

Me: Sorry. Did I just go all Cliff Clavin on you?

Him: I don’t know what that is.

Me: Cliff Clavin?

Him: Yeah. Who is that?

Me: Cliff … from Cheers?

Him: I’ve never seen that show.

Me: I … zuh … WHAT?

Him: Oooh, wait. Is that the show that Frasier came from?

Me: I … leave. Just leave … now.

Him: What? … because I’ve never seen Cheers?

Me: And also because I’m pretty sure you’re an alien posing as a human to learn our weaknesses and I’m not sure I can be married to you.

This is how our lives go. Rand gets roughly 1/10th of the jokes I make, which sucks, because I guarantee you I am delivering some quality humor and it is WASTED ON HIM. I sincerely think he might not be from this earth.  Although, really, any alien impostor worth his salt would have enough good sense to brush up on Cheers.

The other day, he had the pleasure of being on the other side of this discussion. He was thrilled that we were going to be in London on a Saturday (a rare occurrence), which is when Portobello Road Market is open.

Rand: Baby, we can go to Portobello Road.

Me: Wonderful. I will buy all the mushrooms!

Rand: No, like from the movie.

Me: What?

Rand: You know … (begins singing) Portobello Road / Portobello Road / Street where the riches of ages are stowed …

Me: Dude, is my tumor acting up or something? Because I have no idea what you are talking about.

Rand: From Bednobs and Broomsticks? When they visit Portobello Road?

Me: Nope. Never seen it.

Rand: Zerk … gah … No. How? How have you never seen Bednobs and Broomsticks?

Me: Said the man who’s never seen The Wonder Years.*

(*Later, Rand noted: “I did see part of it once. And I was like, ‘Why is he talking over the show?’”)

So Rand forced me to watch this video on YouTube, which was confusing, but did teach me that Angela Lansbury has great gams.

Portobello Road is, as the song suggests, home to the world’s largest antique market. I can only assume that it is always mobbed, because even on the chilly, rainy day that we were there it was packed.

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There were all sorts of delightful things that I didn’t know I needed there. Like a dollhouse. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at my child-free, 30-something life, and thought: damn it, I need a dollhouse. I am fairly certain having one would not at all make me seem creepy and weird.

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And I also need some tiny little musical instruments, too. So the dolls living in the dollhouse have something to do.

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While we walked, Rand would occasionally sing bits from the movie’s song. The lines fit perfectly, and there was something comforting about the fact that this strange and bustling market hadn’t really changed all the much in the last century or so. You can still find the same mix of antiques and cheap reproductions. There are people looking for deals and sellers looking to get rid of their wares, very often under a grey London sky.

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Anything and everything a chap can unload
Is sold off the barrow in Portobello road.

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Tokens and treasures, yesterday’s pleasures
Cheap imitations of heirlooms of old

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Dented and tarnished, scarred and unvarnished
In old Portobello they’re bought and they’re sold

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You’ll find what you want in the Portobello Road.

We probably should have bought this.

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I walked with him in the rain, listening to him sing. He draped an arm around me as we browsed the strange collections, and even saw a thing or two that reminded us both of our childhoods – a rare thing indeed.

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I realize that TV made me who I am, and a lack of it made Rand who he is. Either way, I think it’s safe to say that my dear nephew will probably be okay. He just needs to find the right person to compliment his life.

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Even if it’s someone who doesn’t understand what he’s talking about half the time.

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The Essentials on Portobello Road:

• Verdict: Yes. If you’ve checked out the touristy bits of London and want to see something a little different, head here. The surrounding Notting Hill neighborhood is pretty damn charming, too.
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• How to Get There: We took a cab, but there are tube stations that can drop you off fairly close to here, too.
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• Ideal for: Antique-hunters, window shoppers, people-watchers, and anyone who loves a long walk (usually in the rain).
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• Insider tips: The market gets very crowded, so try to go early (before 10am) or late (after 1pm). Things start to close down in the mid-afternoon. Many of the stalls and sellers are open rain or shine, so you can even go when it’s grey out, but bring an umbrella and wear comfy shoes (the entire market spans about 2 miles).
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• Nearby food: There are a few restaurants along the street, but they get positively mobbed during the market. You’d be better off grabbing a bite and eating while walking, but be warned that I was screamed at by some crazed shop owner for having the gall to stop in front of her shop and take a few bites of cupcake.
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• Good for kids: I’m going to lean towards no. Little ones will probably get very tired and bored. Many of the toys they’d see are antiques, so they can’t touch or play with any of them. Wee ones in strollers should fare just fine, but note that the market gets very crowded and noisy, and maneuvering through all the people could be very difficult.

Taking a discerning sip from a flight of beer in Cape Town.

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My husband is a beer snob.

It’s something I find quite endearing. The guy rarely touches wine, and ignores most liquors (with the exception of scotch because it’s scotch. It’s basically like drinking a campfire, i.e., amazing), but he’s somewhat of a fanatic for beer.

I don’t really understand any of it (except the scotch part, especially when it’s preceded with the word “butter”), but damn if I don’t love this tendency of his. And whenever we travel, he insists on trying something local. It is not unlike my non-stop consumption of treats:

“What’s that, you say? This pastry is a regional delicacy? I’ll take four, please … No, I don’t need a box. I’m going to eat them right here, actually. Just … just hand them over and I’ll eat them while you run my card. Yes, I do see that my hands are shaking and DAMN IT JUST HAND ME THE CAKES.”

I suppose Rand has more willpower than that when it comes to beer, which is a good thing, because it would be sad and alarming if he did not.

And in South Africa, we had the opportunity to try one very interesting style of beer. It was during our township tour.

After we’d spent much of the morning walking around the townships, our guide, Lu, led us into a small shack. It had a single window (a rough square cut into the front facade) and a doorway with no actual door. The walls were a mix of wooden boards and a bit of corrugated metal, and the roof was mainly composed of black garbage bags.

We’d seen a few structures like this throughout the townships …

A hair salon, adjacent to a convenience store.

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One of several dozen places of worship.

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… but this was the first and only one we’d walk into. It was one of the more humble ones we’d seen. Other buildings had corrugated metal roofs, panes on the windows, front doors.

This had none of those things. The inside was dark, save for the light that came in through the window and doorway, and it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. The air smelled of dirt and wood and humanity. It was slightly stuffy and packed with people, many of them sitting on benches that lined the walls of the small structure, and a few sitting on overturned buckets or crates.

“Sit down,” Lu implored, and the group of gathered locals politely scooted aside on the benches to make room for us. It was obvious to most of us where we were, even before Lu announced it.

“You are sitting in our local pub,” he said.

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There were a few nods and murmurs of understanding. Yes. Of course. It was a bar.

The faces on the people there were not unwelcoming, but it was obvious that we had just interrupted a conversation. Lu explained that it was here that people met to discuss the social and economic problems plaguing the townships. This was the town hall, the PTA meeting, the round table, the city council.

A woman stood up from across the room – it seemed like she might have been the owner – and walked over to us, reaching underneath the bench to pull out a large stainless steel canister. She popped off the lid, revealing a foamy substance inside, and placed the canister down in front of us.

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“This,” Lu explained, “is our local beer.”

Here’s where it gets really fun. Before we could even ask about glasses, the answer became obvious. The canister is passed around, and everyone takes a sip. On and on until the beer is gone.

Needless to say, the two sisters from Leeds who were on our tour with us were suitably scandalized, in a delightfully English way.

“Oh, good heavens, that’s not very sanitary, is it?”

Their husbands, though, were perfectly game. As was mine. I mean, really game.

Swallowing the initial sip. He looks a little wary.

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But he soon got over it and went back for more.

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When I said Rand was a beer snob, I wasn’t kidding: he is very particular and discerning. He knows what he likes, and what he doesn’t. But he also realizes that good beer can come from anywhere. And he’s not going to miss out on the opportunity to try something that might be awesome, just because it’s being served out of a communal metal canister on the floor of a shack in a township in South Africa.

He’s a snob without being snobbish.

Man, I love him. And the locals did, too, especially after he declared it “not bad” and went back for another sip.

The folks in the bar got a huge kick out of Rand’s enthusiasm. Take a gander at the smile on the face of the guy at left.

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Rand handed the canister to me. I’m not a drinker – in particular not a beer drinker (sugar, as you probably well know, is my vice) – but not to be outdone by my fellow tourists, I took a small sip. It was mostly foam (the practice is to blow it away, and then sip, but I forgot to do that) and slightly herbaceous in flavor. There was something, too, I couldn’t quite identify – an aftertaste that reminded me of cooked cornmeal.

And like Rand said, it wasn’t bad. Heck, even the sisters from Leeds had a swig. But when we left, it was Rand who got the most handshakes, the most affectionate slaps on the back.

Rand and one of the delightfully cultured and well-traveled Englishmen on our tour.

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Later, we had dinner at a Belgian restaurant in Cape Town. Rand ordered a beer sampler.

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I asked him how it compared to the local brew in the townships.

“These are colder. And they’re served in glasses.”

And, I’m sure he’d agree, far less memorable.

Debris on the side of the road in one of the townships in Cape Flats.

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Rand and I have been talking a lot about entitlement lately. It’s something that comes up a lot for both us. I think we’re both incredibly scared of forgetting just how damn lucky we are.

Every now and then, I take a minute think about how charmed my existence is: how every single day is full of beautiful things and people and good health and the occasional cookie or four.

I think that when life gets cushy and nice, it can be easy to lose perspective. To look at all the wonders of your life, all the lucky breaks and acts of charity from others, and suddenly start thinking that you’ve somehow deserved it. That you’ve earned it, and that if people have less than you, it’s because they’ve managed to muck things up for themselves.

But that is complete and utter bullshit. You can sit on your butt and live a cushy life if the circumstances are right. Or you can work your fingers to the bone day in and day out and have absolutely nothing to show for it if the circumstances are wrong. Life can be stupidly unfair, and if we are lucky enough to have the good things outweigh the bad, then we’d better take a minute, or an hour, or several long years, to acknowledge that.

And, hell, if we actually have those several long years in which to do that? That’s once more thing to add to the “good” list.

Rand and I try to do this. We try to keep each other in check. To remind ourselves that we’ve hit the jackpot time and again. How lucky we are that the kid we fell in love with in our 20s has grown into the person we still love – passionately, dearly, often obnoxiously- now that we are in our 30s. That he managed to crawl out of the copious hole of debt he had, and now is the head of a company that’s doing okay. That even the scariest moments of our life turn out to not be brain cancer.

It’s why I don’t play lotto: because it would just seem greedy in the face of all of this.

While we were at the Kloof, I worried about entitlement a lot. I worried that the wonderful things around me would start to seem commonplace. That I’d become impossible to please, and impossible to be around. When we got back to Cape Town, I told Rand that I needed to get some perspective on things. I needed a reality check.

And so we got one, in the form of a township tour.

The townships are a result of apartheid. As the government moved to segregate different races, and establish “white-only” areas of major cities, people were moved to the outskirts of town, into communities now known as townships.

The townships, in adherence with the Group Areas Act (one of the many heinous laws passed under apartheid), were divided by race. Sometimes families would be split up if it was determined (by a governmental panel) that one family member was of a different race than the rest.

Our tour was recommended to us by a South African colleague of Rand’s - he noted that the money that we’d pay would go directly back to the township. We were picked up at our hotel at about 10am by a gentleman named Thandis, who was from one of the townships we were about to visit. He was in possession of a bright smile and deep dimples that we saw only once, and he spoke with a sort of melodic cadence, as though he was reading a poem and playing just a little too much attention to the meter.

I liked him instantly.

The first place Thandis took us to was the District Six Museum, which I mentioned briefly in my post about the history of apartheid. District Six was bustling community in Cape Town, home to 60,000 people of different racial backgrounds. Under the Group Areas Act, the land was declared a “whites-only-area” and the residents were removed from their homes, and pushed to the outskirts of town and into townships. Their homes in District Six were demolished.

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The museum traces the history of District Six and what it was like for the people who lived there, putting a very personal face on who was impacted by apartheid. The floor of the museum is an enormous map of neighborhood, with handwritten notes dispersed throughout from its former residents.

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Old street signs can be found everywhere in the museum (it might have been my favorite touch).

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It also discuss the future of the area: many former residents of District Six (and their descendants) are planning to move back to the area thanks to the Commission of Restitution of Land Rights.

From there, we drove to several of the townships outside Cape Town: Langa and Guguletu.

I didn’t know what to expect – at the time, I had only a dim understanding of how they came about (note to self: maybe next time, write a historical post about an area BEFORE you visit). My first impression of the townships was this scene, which I snapped through the window of our tour van:

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I had no idea what was going on. They don’t really teach you this stuff in grade school – at least, not in the states.

What I later realized was that in the townships, the atrocities of apartheid became distilled. Poverty was rampant. If you weren’t white, you’d be taxed at a higher rate, received a lower wage, and would be limited in the type of jobs you could hold. There was nothing to aspire to, no promise that life would reward you for intelligence or hard work. Under the Bantu Education Act, funding to schools was limited, and a new generation of children were taught that the best they could hope for would be to work a menial job for a white elite.

Given that it is from this dire situation that the townships arose, I suppose it’s a miracle that anything grew out of them. But they did grow – and rapidly. The population of the townships skyrocketed, and some of the largest cities in South Africa are found in these dusty outskirts. More than a million people live in these areas, just outside of Cape Town.

Thandis pulled the van by the side of the road, and ushered us out, to a spot where a young woman was standing in the shade of a small shack. She had a bored expression of her face, paying half attention to an array of sheep heads on a table near the road, and some meat roasting on a grill nearby.

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Thandis explained that this was a common quick meal in the area – you’d stop at one of the little stands and grab some of the cooked meat (kind of like fast food). The heads were thrown right on the grill, which burned the hair right off, but the brains were discarded after cooking (which surprised me. Italians eat it.)

Later, I’d look down and see the jawbone of a sheep in the dirt at my feet – evidence of a long-ago finished meal.

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We walked on, and Thandis introduced us to a young man named Luvuyo, who, after seeing how we struggled with his name, insisted we call him Lu.

Lu had a deep voice and a bright smile that belied an inherent shyness. His English was impeccable, and Thandis explained that Lu was part of a program that he had founded that trains young people in the townships to become tour guides.

Looking at Lu’s broad cheekbones and flawless skin, I found myself wondering how old he was, and finally, unable to guess, asked him. He was 26, but could have passed for much younger. He was dressed not unlike an American college student: plastic sandals, sweatpants, and a polo shirt.

Lu was remarkably professional. He told us a bit about life in the townships, emphasizing the economic problems: unemployment rates were staggering, housing was massively overcrowded, poverty everywhere.

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As we walked, some children ran up to us, taking our hands and swinging them. One little boy grabbed Rand’s hand and my own and, after testing to see if we would hold his weight, began to flip over. Afterwards, he smiled brightly at us and held out his hand in request of payment.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. I’d heard that this is common in the townships, and giving the kids money – tempting as it is – only encourages begging. The best thing to do is give them school supplies (of which they have a dire need), but we had neglected to bring any with us. So I waved the kids off empty-handed, and felt like an asshole.

Lu walked us and our tour group – two English sisters their husbands (all pensioners) – into a small home. The walls will cinder block, and the floor was concrete. There was a sparse living room area with a few picnic tables and benches. It felt damp and chilly inside, and reminded me of our family’s basement when I was a kid.

There were two bathrooms in the home, and three bedrooms. Lu directed us to one. The English women and I looked at each other. We already felt intrusive (this was someone’s home!) and now we were going to walk into their bedroom with our cameras in tow.

“If you want me to go first, I can,” I told the sisters. “I’ll just be the ugly American.”

They nodded. So I walked in. The room wasn’t that small – about 12 feet wide and 16 feet long – but it was packed to the gills.

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There was a full-sized fridge, a hotplate and toaster oven for cooking, and three twin beds (only two are visible in my photo, but another is just off to my right).

A man was sitting on one of the beds and as we accumulated in the doorway, he waved us inside. There was an older woman in the room as well, who sat folding laundry. We spoke to the gentleman on the bed, who explained that he and his family were on the waiting list for their own government-funded home, and that he was unemployed. He had come to Cape Town from his home village further north.

I asked him how long he had been in the city. 19 years, he replied. All that time, he’d been looking for work. There were no jobs to be had.

We all collectively gasped as his answer. I nodded my head towards the woman folding clothes, and asked if they were related. He shook his head, and explained that there were three families living in this one room. I nodded, thinking that perhaps this was a miscommunication. He must have meant three people from different families, right?

But no, he meant three families. In one bedroom. He slept on a twin bed with his three children. In the adjacent twin bed slept a family of 6, and there was another family of 5 on the bed at the end of the room. 16 people, one bedroom.

We stood there, mouths dangling open, when Rand walked in.

“Hi,” he said brightly, and went to shake the man’s hand. The man looked at Rand, concerned, and asked him why he had let the women walk in front of him into a room.

“Wait, what?”

“Why do you let the women go first? They should walk behind you.”

“Um … no,” was all Rand said.

“He likes the view from behind better,” I joked, because I like to ease cultural tensions by making them worse. The man stared at me blankly. I’m not entirely sure he understood me, but I suspect speaking for my husband wasn’t exactly jiving with this guy’s world view.

The English women and I exited the room soon after, while the man held Rand behind and gently scolded him.

“That one,” I heard him ask, “is your wife?”

“Yup.”

“You can’t let her walk in front of you.”

We headed back to the living room, leaving Rand to gently explain gender equality on his own. I tried to wrap my head around the fact that 16 people lived in that small room, and that an able-bodied and multilingual (if totally antiquated) man could be out of work for two decades.

Lu explained that roughly 60 people lived in this home amongst three bedrooms, and sharing two bathrooms. At night, mats would be laid out in the living room so that people from the different families could sleep out there. He noted that this did not apply to young women and girls, who would stay in the bedrooms near their families.

I did not think anything of this exemption until I considered it later.

Lu noted that this type of housing fell into the middle of the spectrum for the townships. Some residents made their homes in corrugated metal shacks or shipping containers. They had no running water or electricity, and had to use communal toilets and showers.

One of the men on our tour asked if we had ever been to India, and noted that there the situation was far more grave. “People have nothing but a plastic tarp to protect them from the elements. They would LOVE something like this.”

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Some shacks in the Cape Flats. Note the port-o-potties and the nearby herd of goats eating trash.

Better government-funded housing is theoretically available, but the waiting list is decades long. Lu explained that his parents were on it, and he refused to sign up, because he didn’t want to continue the trend of grown children being on the same waiting lists as their parents. The implications of it were too depressing, too hopeless.

Some of the more modern government housing, with bathrooms, running water, and solar power.

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Children play in front of some of the newer housing in the townships, for which the waiting list can be decades long.

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The vast number of people in the area has led to many problems. Families live in tight quarters. Water pressure is a problem, as is sanitation. The sewer and electrical systems are over-taxed, leading to flooding and fires. Houses often burn down.

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Drug use is prevalent, rape is an epidemic, and the murder rate is slightly worse than D.C.’s.

Ending apartheid did not solve these problems – and it would be naive to think that it would. After generations of oppression and subjugation, simply changing a few laws on the books won’t fix a problem that is systemic. You can redact the Bantu Education Act, but that doesn’t mean schools will suddenly appear, fully funded and well-supplied. You can remove the laws preventing someone from having a better job, or those that restrict them from earning a decent wage, but that doesn’t mean jobs will present themselves, or that money will appear in the bank.

This is the legacy of apartheid.

That’s not to say that there is no hope in the townships.

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Lu explained that even when people got jobs, and were able to buy homes (as opposed to waiting for government housing), they didn’t leave the area. They bought houses in the townships. These nicer homes – which were about 400,000 rand (about $40k U.S.) were in a part of the township affectionately referred to as “Beverly Hills.” He noted that there wasn’t any animosity between the people who had homes in Beverly Hills and the rest of the town.

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Just across the street from “Beverly Hills” are a collection of shacks with no running water or electricity.

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There are people who are hell-bent on making this part of South Africa better. Thandis, our tour operator, had founded numerous organizations in the townships in an effort to improve housing and education, and to create jobs. He was training a new generation of young people like Lu, giving them jobs and hope for their future.

Still, seeing what life is the townships was like was grim and eye-opening. I couldn’t look at anything the same way – certainly not the city of Cape Town, which was just a few miles away, but might as well have been another planet.

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I went to the townships looking for perspective, for a greater understanding of what in South Africa was like for so many. It made me acutely aware of how easy my life is, how comfortable, how free of worry. Even the sad days, even the difficult or ho-hum ones, aren’t that bad for me. I always have enough food to eat. I’m not dying from the elements, nor do I live in fear of being raped or murdered. This isn’t because I’m more deserving of my life, or because I’ve work harder at it. It’s purely circumstance. It’s dumb luck.

The people in the townships who are out of work for decades, the kids playing in the charred wreckage of someone’s home, the women being brutalized – we could be any of them.

I had asked for a reality check, and I had gotten one. I just hoped, as we drove back to our waterfront hotel with its beautiful views, and then from there, went back to our lovely and comfortable home, that I wouldn’t lose my new-found perspective.

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When I first starting dating Rand, during my junior year of college (for those of you keeping track at home, it was approximately a lifetime ago), I lived in a windowless apartment.

I may be exaggerating slightly. It wasn’t exactly windowless – it had three, to be precise. But each and every one of them looked out on to an air vent, and beyond that, into my neighbors’ apartments. Never mind having a view; to even see sky, I had to stick my head out the window and crane it upward.

I loved that little studio, but it depressed the hell out of me. I would constantly have nightmares that my ancient apartment building would catch on fire (entirely likely, given the hundred-year-old wiring in that place), and I’d be stuck in there, unable to get out. It felt like a coffin.

But it was $525 a month, and within walking distance to the university, so I lived there for two long years. I eventually moved out and into a small 1-bedroom that had all the trappings of luxury I’d dreamed about: a garbage disposal and dishwasher, a washer/dryer in the unit, and best of all, windows.

Sure, they looked out onto a parking lot, but beyond that, I could see the mountains. I was only a few months into my lease when Rand moved in.

We were broke and in love, and perpetually stressing over how we’d make rent or buy groceries. It was so much damn fun.

I remember a lot about that first home we had together, but mostly, I think of how the afternoon light would come in through the windows, and that one summer (2006, I think) that seemed almost endless. We’d eat fancy snacks that we couldn’t afford (which was a bad idea) and drink wine that we could afford (which was an even worse idea), and think that maybe, just maybe, we’d discovered the meaning of life.

And I’d realize that I was happier than I’d ever been.

The evening nature drives at Bushman’s Kloof reminded me of those times.

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In the late afternoon, after high tea but before dinner (because I track time in relation to when I’ve eaten, and when I’ll eat again, apparently), we’d head out. Our two vehicles would part ways, rendezvousing later.

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We’d drive in search of animals. There are no predators in Bushman’s Kloof – no Big Five to see. Some may regard this as a downside, but it meant that we could explore as we wished, and see herd after herd of grass-feeding animals that were as relaxed as we.

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The Kloof is home to one of the largest private herds of Cape Mountain Zebra. Unlike the more common Burchell’s Zebra (whose stripes go all the way around its midsection) the mountain zebra has a white belly, and its stripes -which seem more defined – extend all the way down the leg. Rand described the mountain zebra as looking more stylized that its plain-dwelling counterparts – like a group of Italian designers had revamped the animal and gone with a bolder look.

Buongiorno!

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There were many more – animals that we hadn’t even heard of before visiting Africa: Bontebok. Springbok. Elans. Orex. Red Hartebeest.

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And a few that we knew, but hadn’t seen in the wild – a pair of gangly, ill-tempered ostriches; a dust-colored coyote munching on the remains of something; a herd of wildebeest that looked as though they’d just stepped off the pages of Where The Wild Things Are. We’d point out the animals, oohing and aahing at one another as we passed binoculars back and forth.

Though here, it appears that Rand and I are TOTALLY bogarting said binoculars.

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Or sometimes we’d just sit and enjoy the view.

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Then we drive on until we arrived at some destination – a lake …

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or the top of a cliffside …

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or a nice little shaded area …

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There, our guides would make us drinks and serve us a pre-dinner snack.

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The boys enjoy a drink with Roman, our guide.

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That is the South African equivalent of a Slim Jim and not, in fact, a cigar.

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During the drive back, we’d watch the sun dip below the horizon, and see all the dusk-loving animals emerge.

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We’d meet back up at the Koro Lodge, where our incredibly talented 5-star chef and her accomplished staff would be preparing dinner for us. (Yes, I know. Life is grand and I am spoiled. I say this so often, it has become my mantra.)

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And we’d talk and look at each other’s photos, our voices loud and excited and reverent, all at once.

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Then dinner would arrive. Course after meticulous course. Grilled lamb, ostrich carpaccio, curried prawns. Delicate grilled vegetables and roasted potatoes and crisp light salads.

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And then dessert …

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It was so wonderful that it almost exceeded my understanding. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the loveliness of it.

But perhaps more miraculous than all of this was that I experienced it with someone I hadn’t seen in a while. Someone who I thought might have vanished.

It was, as you can guess, Rand. At least, I think it was him. While I know him better than almost anything else in the world, and could, from memory, chart the constellation of his freckles with painstaking accuracy, this iteration of my husband was a stranger to me.

It was him, sure. But it was him relaxed.

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Sightings of this elusive creature, once thought extinct, are about as rare as Halley’s comet.

Even on the sunlit couch of our first apartment, I didn’t see him all that often. But in the Kloof, he could be found nearly every hour of every day. As unfamiliar as he was, I instantly took to him.

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And decided I loved him as much as his stressed, overworked alter ego.

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(He seemed okay with me, too.)

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Later, that handsome and carefree stranger who had briefly inhabited my husband’s clothes would vanish. We returned home, and obligations resumed their headlining role in the play of his life, the crease would return to his brow and the worry would seep back into his bones.

He loves what he does. There is no question about that. But there are days when it wears on him, when he can’t sleep, no matter how exhausted he is. He fully admits he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

And I wouldn’t trade him.

But I wondered about that strange creature, that odd variation of my husband, that I had seen. Does he only exist in the Kloof?

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Sometimes, when Rand is particularly stressed, I’ll mention going back, and I’ll see something flicker across his face. An expression that he gets only when sitting on sunlit couches in our first apartment together, or on hot and dusty drives at the edge of the world. A look that says, “There is no place on the entire planet that I would rather be than here.”

I can’t take him back to that first place. But I can take him back to the Kloof. It’s a long way to go …

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But it might be worth it, just to see that look again.

Cave paintings at the Kloof.

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In high school, I had to be at school by 7:25. IN THE MORNING.

I know, I know. It sounds positively inhuman, doesn’t it? I’m fairly sure that in most parts of Europe, it would constitute child abuse (like Spain. Seriously, next time you have to get up early, think WWTS -What Would The Spanish Do? I’m pretty sure that after eating dinner at midnight and going to bed at 2am, they would NOT be getting up at 6).

At the time, though, I didn’t think too much of it. I got up at 6:00am and by 7:10 at the latest, I was out the door (and though this process never seemed that difficult, to this very day I have nightmares about it.)

I did this every single weekday for four years, as well as most Saturdays. I was on the debate team, and weekend tournaments meant that we had to meet at the school at ungodly hours, like 5:00am. I don’t know why I couldn’t just take up binge drinking like all the other kids.

In the years since, whenever circumstances have allowed, I have slept in. Sometimes until an unreasonable hour when most decent folk are contemplating lunch.

So you’d imagine that, while vacationing in Bushman’s Kloof, I could have very easily whiled away several days in bed, getting up only for high tea. Instead, we often found ourselves out and about by 7am.

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I know. I know. It sounds positively barbaric. But the thing about the Kloof was this: it was easy to get out of bed so early. There was so much to see.

Plus, we were wickedly jetlagged, so while the clock might have said 6:30am, our brains thought it was 2pm the following Tuesday (or something. I’ve never been good at time zones).

The sun was up and blazing by the time we got out of our rooms, but the earth wasn’t quite scorching yet. There was still a faint crispness in the air, a tiny bit of dew still clinging to the grass as a result of the overnight watering.

We had a few hours of perfect hiking and exploring weather ahead of us.

Not only did I get up early, but here I am smiling and wearing a skirt. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

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By now, several you are probably declaring that I have lost it. Not only did I get up freakishly early OF MY OWN FREE WILL, but I went hiking, to boot. Before you give up on me entirely, screaming “YOU’VE CHANGED”, let me explain:

There were cave paintings. And snacks.

Served out of the back of a Jeep, no less.

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Seriously – a little archaeology, plus biscuits and a warm cup of rooibos every single morning? I could do that, you guys. Throw in Indiana Jones, and I will promptly start drooling and forget what I was talking about.

“Maybe I should tell Rand to get a leather jacket … and a whip.”

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Wait. What was I talking about?

Right. The cave paintings.

There are more than 100 of them at the Kloof, some are estimated to be 10,000 years old (since there is no organic matter on the drawings, it is impossible to do carbon dating and determine an exact date). They had an expert spend several years at the Kloof, exploring and cataloging the paintings. He noted that there are likely many more in the area that he missed.

I positively LOVE that notion: that while visiting the Kloof, you might discover a new cave painting.

Though I imagine that would be a difficult task. The paintings are, to the untrained eye, hard to see. Over the years, much of the color has washed away, often leaving only faint red marking which are hard to distinguish from the natural pigment of the rocks or the stains of hyrax urine.

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Which, by the way, was everywhere. We’d excitedly point to something and our ever-patient guides, Simone and Roman, would quietly shake their heads and inform us that no, that wasn’t a relic of an ancient culture. It was merely the runoff from a communal rodent bathroom.

A hyrax pooptastrophy.

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In the interest of being honest, I’ll tell you this, too: I might refer to them as morning hikes, but they were really more like “morning gentle walks.” Some “hikes” required us to trek over 100 feet of relatively smooth terrain. But they happened before 9am, so they ARE HIKES.

I should make it clear that none of this was foisted upon us. At the Kloof, it’s entirely up to you how you spend your time: if you tell your guides that you don’t want to do anything before noon, so be it. And if you tell them that you wish to totally rock your quads while traipsing over uneven rocks, they will make that happen.

Be warned, though: they are younger and more attractive and in better shape than you are. They made it look easy. On one morning, Roman cut across rocky terrain in a few quick steps, and we all stared blankly, as he bid us to follow.

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“How did you do that?” we asked.

“Just think with your feet!” he said, as though it were the simplest task in the world.

We attempt to follow in Roman’s footsteps.

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For those of you for whom foot thinking is an impossibility, fear not: the most amazing paintings at the Kloof aren’t necessarily the least accessible ones. On one occasion, we barely walked more than 20 feet or so, and saw one of my favorites. It was a small buffalo drawing, and it was incredibly well-preserved.

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An image like this one, so clear and dark, is very rare. It likely wasn’t black to begin with; the dark hue is probably the result of a lichen that grew directly where the paint was. Kind of like a fossilized cave painting.

Naturally, I regarded it with the reverence it deserved:

“You are why we can’t have nice things.” – everyone I’ve ever met, ever.

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This was another one that I absolutely adored. See the natural striations in the rock? This painting follows those same lines …

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And at the end is perched a little bird.

Take that, Portland!

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Our guides explained that the paintings were once quite detailed, using a variety of colors. They were painted with ocher and other minerals that had been mixed with animal fat or blood. Today, only traces of the original creations remain – light stains of the minerals left on the rock.

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These figures once had heads, clothing, and jewelry, but centuries of rain and erosion have left them naked and decapitated.

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This was a group of female figures. You can tell by their butts which, as you see here, would not quit.

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The images painted on the rocks are often not documentary. There are numerous depictions of hunting scenes, but wild game only accounted for about 30% of the Bushmen diet (much of it was seeds and plants). Others show animals being hunted that (according to fossil evidence) never lived in this part of the world.

Look carefully, and you can still see traces of the yellow elephants to the left of, and  in the background of, the small red hunters.

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And then there’s the occasional drawing of an entirely fictionalized creature being hunted. Something that’s a cross between a rhino and an elk. A reminder to not believe everything you see painted on the side of rocks, or you’ll start thinking that unicorn hunting was big in South Africa several thousand years ago.

See this creature? IT IS NOT A THING.

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Every morning, we’d listen intently to stories about the indigenous tribes that lived here, and scrutinize their ancient creations.

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And then we’d return back to the lodge, where breakfast was waiting for us:

Every morning we’d have this, along with eggs, veggies, and bacon, cooked to order.

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Between mouthfuls, we’d talk about what we’d seen, flip through one another’s photos on our cameras, and try to make sense of it all. It was humbling; these paintings had that has existed long before us, and will survive long after. And yet, despite this seeming permanence, they too, will eventually fade into nothing.

Seeing those paintings firsthand, wondering about who had created them, and about all the eyes that had gazed on the images over the centuries. was a profound and powerful experience. It was enough to get us out of bed at 7 in the morning.

Well, that and biscuits.

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And a nice cup of rooibos tea.