Cape Town, on a sunny day after a sunny day and before another.

Rainy Vancouver and chilly New York are now mere memories and South Africa is once again spinning around us her fine web of sunshine, wind, mountains and sea. Life has slowed down to an almost lazy rhythm punctuated by langourous coffees, hearty lunches and candlelight dinners, with the ocean ever-present even if out of sight, in all directions and behind every landmass, in our minds and hearts and ears.

The inbound flights on South African Airways were uneventful; 7:30 hours from New York JFK across the Atlantic to Dakar where we waited aboard the aircraft on the tarmac for almost an hour, a ritual culminating in the fumigation of the cabin, a comical attempt to kill some hypothetical evil spirit that would have boarded under the appearance of a mosquito. It might have missed the mosquito but it sure got us.

Then on to Johannesburg, another 8 hours or so of flight time. Upon arrival, we cleared customs after spending an eternity in line, Africa making a point to brief its visitors thoroughly on the local time and pace changes. We got our luggage back even though it had been tagged all the way to our destination, and checked it back in, double measure meant to ensure double guaranties of success. Everything seemed peachy. The flight to Cape Town took another hour and a half. We landed almost on time, headed for the now familiar Domestic Arrivals hall and waited for our luggage to arrive.

It didn’t.

Almost everybody else’s did, but not ours. After a long and decreasingly patient wait, we had to accept that our three suitcases had gone missing. Our hand luggage contained laptops, cameras and the like. But no clothes, no clothes, no clothes. Sigh. Paperwork was hastily filled and then duly stamped by a representative with doubtful English language skills. And we left at midnight with Marie’s dad who had kindly come to pick us up. We figured we might have a lot of curative shopping to do.

But the next morning, around 11:00 am for the first two and again maybe by 1:00 pm for the last, our lost suitcases arrived, dropped off at home by an airline representative. Mine had been opened and shuffled through. A jacket was missing, either chosen by a stranger for its sheer black beauty and unsurpassed warmth, or left by myself in NYC. I’ll find out in 2 months. Who cares. Clothing is once again a delight we can contemplate with confidence.

Many delicious lunches and dinners have now already happened, the green belt playground has been reopened and beaches are being revisited. Hikes will soon follow. A trip to the Namib is brewing. And this morning I went flying with Marie’s brother François in his microlight (the local name for an ultralight or ULM for the Frenchies), a wonderful flight over the northwest coastline - post and pictures coming soon.

Tot later.

She’s putting up a last fight. Right before I am scheduled to leave her behind, the city of glass is attempting to steal my heart again. After a seemingly endless - but normal - stretch of rain and grey weather, this morning shines like a single jewel on a forgotten crown.

It started as I was leaving home. About to turn right towards the bus stop, I spotted a flock of birds on the beach and a closer look revealed crows harassing a beautiful bald eagle. The bird of prey eventually landed just by the water and the crows having given up, it just sat there, prince of the sand and king of the moment.

I forgot about my bus and hurried to the beach for a closer look. The eagle was the size of four seagulls, perfect white head on an ink-black body. Just as I stared, a harbour seal popped up a mere 15 feet away from the bird, stared at it calmly for a while and then went on with his bouncing morning swim. Up, down, up, down.

A fog bank was receding offshore, revealing the freighters at anchor one after another but still hiding the opposite landmass in a dark menacing shroud. And behind me, to the east, the sun was beginning to sip through the clouds. The mountains were standing out in all their glory and I took a deep breath.

« Nice try, » I said to the city, « but no luck. I love you very much, but no matter what you do to impress me, next week at the same time I will be be visiting your long lost sister Cape Town, a half a world away and a hemisphere across. It will be summer, the table cloth will be clinging to its mountain, the wind might howl and time will take on a new dimension. I will have left beauty behind only to find it again ahead. And more important, I will be whole. »

Mine.

If this were any other time in history, I’d probably be laughing out loud. I can hear the world’s patronizing snort: « Them Canadians are throwing a fit again, eh? Who cares, they never pass 0.5 on the Richter scale anyway. It’s refreshing to be able to watch a political struggle with no consequence to us. It’s like watching a soap opera. »

But. This is now and we are in the midst of an extreme - and global - economic crisis. My sense of humor is running low. Canadian bankruptcies have increased by 20% compared to last year. Meanwhile, a touch south of the border - where all the financial trouble began, spreading across the globe like an unstoppable virus - giants steps are being taken, drastic measures considered and a new leadership has been installed.

This is a wave we, as a neighboring country, cannot afford to miss. We must ride it like crazy or sink. Later will be too late. There might be a false sense of calm while we wobble in the trough but soon the next wave will come and then we’ll drown.

But while the water level drops and the crest approaches fast, gathering momentum and building itself a white dress of foam, our own ridiculous politicians fight amongst themselves, making our country look like a beheaded chicken that manages a few steps before hitting a wall.

The complete lack of character of our leaders reminds me of puppets in the wind. And they fight like girls!^* No direct hits here, no closed fists, no kicks to the head nor karate stance, no balance nor confidence. They thrash at each other feebly with open hands, achieving the mere power of weak slaps, hoping for their nails to bite a lip or destroy the opponent’s make-up, pulling hair as their rings get stuck in it, hissing and spitting, out of control and out of place.

A little back, Dion lost a very humiliating election (it was deserved as he clearly doesn’t have what it takes to run a country.) His party decided to get rid of him fast. But now he is campaigning wildly with the coalition to try and fuck us up some more. We don’t need a country divided, where losers can turn around and claim revenge just like that. When you lose, you lose. Then you stick to fair play. Not that the current puppet is any better. That’s our problem. We need new blood. Fast. Harper just seems like the lesser of two weevils.

In the meantime, our Governor General temporarily halted the frenzy. Kudos to her. The pressure must have been tremendous. Let’s hope Canadians - puppets and puppeteers - will enjoy the holidays, relax and come to their senses.

Yeah, I know, I’m the the world’s worse political analyst. And proud of it, too!

^* No offense to you girls, I’m just referring to the cliché.