Photo and “Slideshow” to come! Just gotta get the writing done!
After several days of early departures and tightly scheduled adventures — Table Mountain, penguins, Cape storms, and our rather thoughtful “difficult discussion” about poaching — the final full day in Cape Town began with a gift:
We didn’t have to meet until 9:30 a.m.
Huzzah.
A small gang of us — Barbara, Ari, Ilana, Mary, Fran, Mike, and I — walked down toward the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront. I had a mission before anything else: the UV filter on one of my camera lenses had cracked when we were in Kruger. Abe had promised to help me find a replacement in Stellenbosch and then again in Cape Town, but that never materialized; suddenly, it was the weekend, and everything was closed.
After a bit of frantic Googling, I discovered that a small camera shop on the waterfront was actually open on Sunday.
Success.
Not only did they have the correct filter — they had exactly one left in the size I needed. I bought it immediately, along with a spare for the other lens “for good luck,” and donated the cracked one to what the shop owner cheerfully called their “oops wall.”
Camera crisis averted.
Lunch at the Waterfront
Before boarding the bus, we stopped for lunch at TimeOut Market, which has rapidly become one of our group’s default feeding stations.
Mary and I noticed a plate being set down at the Greek stall — Opa! — and immediately asked what it was.
We ordered it on the spot.
Mary declared it better than Greece, which is a bold statement. I haven’t been to Greece so can’t give it that sort of review, but it was certainly excellent — especially for something that technically counts as “fast food.”
The Hop-On Hop-Off Bus
From there we boarded Cape Town’s famous hop-on hop-off “Blue Bus.” The full loop takes about 2½ hours and winds through much of the city and surrounding hills.
My companions very kindly informed me that they would be “relying on me for my great photos,” which was both flattering and mildly stressful considering the bus was in constant motion.
Cape Town from above has a striking geography — neighborhoods climbing the slopes, the ocean constantly appearing and disappearing between buildings, and Table Mountain looming behind everything like a massive stone guardian.
One photo I took was of District Six (discussed before, where an entire neighborhood was displaced)… I hadn’t quite realized that after they bulldozed all these family homes and relocated family upon family, NOTHING had happened. It’s just fields. Scandalous.
A bit later, our Blue Bus ride glided along one of the most dramatic stretches along the Atlantic Seaboard, where the road threads past some of the most absurdly expensive real estate on the continent — beachfront homes that seem to climb directly up the mountain.
Towering above them are the Twelve Apostles, a series of jagged sandstone buttresses forming part of the Table Mountain range.
I took a lot of photos of them — partly because they’re beautiful, and partly because the name is mildly misleading.
There are not twelve.
Depending on how you count, there are somewhere between fifteen and eighteen distinct peaks. No one seems to agree on the exact number.
But “The Seventeen Apostles” probably didn’t have quite the same ring to it.
Abe had also told us the local legend explaining the “tablecloth” of fog that often spills over Table Mountain. According to the story, a Dutch pirate named Jan van Hunks once got into a smoking contest with the Devil himself on the slopes of nearby Devil’s Peak. They smoked their pipes so furiously that clouds of smoke poured over the mountain — which, according to legend, is what we now see whenever the fog rolls in.
It’s a very Cape Town explanation for meteorology.
Constantia Valley: The Oldest Wines in South Africa
When the bus loop ended, most of the group headed back toward the hotel. But Mike and I had unfinished business.
The previous day we had driven through Constantia Valley, the oldest wine-producing region in South Africa and one of the oldest in the Southern Hemisphere. Vineyards were first planted here in the late 1600s, and by the 18th century Constantia wines were famous throughout Europe.
Napoleon Bonaparte famously requested them during his exile on St. Helena.
So naturally Mike and I felt it was our duty to investigate.
We grabbed an Uber and headed up the valley.
The first winery was lovely — calm, historic, and exactly the kind of setting where you can imagine colonial governors pretending the Empire was running smoothly while sipping sweet wine (luckily, now they have lovely whites and reds in their tasting menu).
After finishing there we discovered that a small internal shuttle bus runs between several estates.
Unfortunately, by the time we boarded it had begun to rain, and the bus was absolutely packed with people heading to the next winery. When the bus got there, the driver stopped, to “wait out” the downpour.
I turned to Mike and said, “We have to beat these people.”
So we jumped off early and ran through the rain down the steep driveway to the next estate.
We arrived soaked — but secured the very last available table.
Victory.
A Sommelier Surprise
Even better: the sommelier who greeted us (“Walter”) turned out to have taken the Court of Master Sommeliers introductory course around the same time I had done mine during COVID (the period when they shipped tasting kits to your house and you learned the wines of the world over Zoom, from tiny bottles at your kitchen table).
Instant wine nerd bonding.
We talked about South African wine regions, the evolution of Constantia beyond its historic sweet wines, and how the whites here are becoming increasingly respected.
At one point he simply left the bottles on the table, trusting us to pour at will.
Note: I drink about half of whatever is poured for me. When I go wine tasting, generally, if the pour is “healthy,” I drink enough to get the nose, taste, etc., then point out to the person delivering the wine that I “will be pouring out the rest” into the “dump bucket” – making it clear that I really did mean that they should only pour me about ½.
Mike, on the other hand, approached the opportunity with admirable enthusiasm.
By the time we left, I was calling him the ‘Dump Bucket,’ and he was feeling quite cheerful.
The Pegasus “Blue Box” Debacle
Meanwhile, back in the world of logistics, we were dealing with a small saga involving something called Dr. Yezman’s “Blue Boxes.”
Back even before setting foot in Africa, I had received a promise from Abe that he or someone in his family could pick up The Blue Boxes for Dr. Yezman. She had ordered them from the office manager at Pegasus, but I had to pay in Rand. Abe kept being very “no worries” about it. However, as the weekend rolled in, I realized he really hadn’t done anything about it (though I had been stuffing his pockets with Rand all week). After lots of round-about calls, 3 a.m. What’s App texts to Dr. Y, the owner of Pegasus disavowing any knowledge (and even disavowing that he HAD an office manager), things were sorted. Abe’s daughter had gone to fetch them – everyone was a bit put out that it was the weekend but again, I had been assured “no worries” for weeks – and the package arrived for me to pack it to head to the plane.
Oh. My. Word. Big boxes. Small, 44 pound max checked bag. Lynn took some. I took some. I was not the most happy person ever. But we got the bags zipped and so so far, so good.
Farewell Dinner
That evening the group gathered for our farewell dinner at a restaurant along the Cape Town waterfront.
We had driven past this restaurant in the “Blue Bus”…a lovely setting— water, lights reflecting off the harbor, the hum of evening activity.
But the real headline was the steak.
It may genuinely have been one of the best steaks I’ve ever had.
After weeks of traveling together, the dinner had the slightly surreal feeling of a last day of summer camp — everyone exchanging contact information, promising future visits, and reflecting on the strange fact that people who were complete strangers a few weeks ago now feel like familiar characters in your daily life.
Tomorrow we leave South Africa and fly to Namibia.
A completely different landscape awaits.