Cape Town International
The departure lounge at Cape Town International probably has one of the most beautiful airport views in the world. The setting sun is reflected in the Drakensberg mountain range making for a Tolkienesque backdrop for the Boeings and Airbuses lined up waiting for passengers to board.
I’m en route to London. Tomorrow at 7 I’ll be trying to cope with the bustle of the Eastbound Piccadilly Line. I doubt I’ll get views like this one for another two weeks.
Driving here with Cousin who is baby sitting my car for me while I’m away, I thought about how much I have changed since I got here. How much has happened, how much I have rediscovered. New places do that to you. They make you remember things other places made you forget.
Speaking of forgetting, I’d very much like to forget yesterday. Packing up my stuff yesterday morning, I couldn’t find my passport. Not at home, not at work. So I panicked.
The Swedish consulate closed at 1 pm, so I had to give up looking, throw myself in my car and drive there via a shopping centre to pick up eight horrendous passport size photos of myself. They’re a wonderful memento of the day as I look mightily pissed off.
The consulate staff took my application for a temporary passport and processed it while I ran to the closes police station (like the wind, it was already ten to one) to report it lost and drawing out 1000 rand to pay for the bloody thing. I tried not to think about the hassle I’d have to go through to get a new passport, PLUS a new work permit to put in it from Home Affairs who aren’t exactly known for their expediency or customer service.
Mine was not a happy prospect.
Of course, when I got home that evening I found the passport. I’d hidden it in a ‘safe place’ when I went to Grahamstown a few weeks ago in case my flat was broken into. I can un-block it by phoning Swedish police on Monday. Piece of cake, and of mind.
I think the same thing happened when I moved to London eight years ago. I had a pretty in pink temp passport then too. That I never learn…
Now, I’m en route and that is the most important thing. It will be lovely to be home. Or, I’m so confused about that word. This is home. But so is London, and Stockholm (where I’m off to next weekend).
How many homes can one heart hold? The problem with multiple homes is that wherever you are, part of you always wishes it were somewhere else. And already now, with another 22 months to go of my contract down here, I still feel acutely that I’ll miss this. I’ll miss the views. The vistas of South Africa have already claimed my heart.
I’m en route to London. Tomorrow at 7 I’ll be trying to cope with the bustle of the Eastbound Piccadilly Line. I doubt I’ll get views like this one for another two weeks.
Driving here with Cousin who is baby sitting my car for me while I’m away, I thought about how much I have changed since I got here. How much has happened, how much I have rediscovered. New places do that to you. They make you remember things other places made you forget.
Speaking of forgetting, I’d very much like to forget yesterday. Packing up my stuff yesterday morning, I couldn’t find my passport. Not at home, not at work. So I panicked.
The Swedish consulate closed at 1 pm, so I had to give up looking, throw myself in my car and drive there via a shopping centre to pick up eight horrendous passport size photos of myself. They’re a wonderful memento of the day as I look mightily pissed off.
The consulate staff took my application for a temporary passport and processed it while I ran to the closes police station (like the wind, it was already ten to one) to report it lost and drawing out 1000 rand to pay for the bloody thing. I tried not to think about the hassle I’d have to go through to get a new passport, PLUS a new work permit to put in it from Home Affairs who aren’t exactly known for their expediency or customer service.
Mine was not a happy prospect.
Of course, when I got home that evening I found the passport. I’d hidden it in a ‘safe place’ when I went to Grahamstown a few weeks ago in case my flat was broken into. I can un-block it by phoning Swedish police on Monday. Piece of cake, and of mind.
I think the same thing happened when I moved to London eight years ago. I had a pretty in pink temp passport then too. That I never learn…
Now, I’m en route and that is the most important thing. It will be lovely to be home. Or, I’m so confused about that word. This is home. But so is London, and Stockholm (where I’m off to next weekend).
How many homes can one heart hold? The problem with multiple homes is that wherever you are, part of you always wishes it were somewhere else. And already now, with another 22 months to go of my contract down here, I still feel acutely that I’ll miss this. I’ll miss the views. The vistas of South Africa have already claimed my heart.
posted by Linda at 21:47
3 Comments:
Nice post sweetie, so you're here then!
Good, hopefully see you soon.
Kel
x
Here are some links that I believe will be interested
Interesting site. Useful information. Bookmarked.
»
Post a Comment
<< Home