As the ducks in Central Park (they must be moving somewhere when the little lake turns to ice) we are migrating southwards. Shifting from the three degrees below zero in Amsterdam to the thirty-three above zero in Cape Town. The contorted route (reaching the cape of Africa with a stop in Holland) is due to the impossibility of finding a safe and direct flight. The Klm jumbo is full up and as we find ourselves flying over San Pietro twelve hours after leaving home. We get a lump in our throat at the thought that it will take twelve more hours to end up… in prison. The Breakwater lodge actually used to keep prisoners condemned to forced labour. They built the pier down the harbour in the early ‘900. Some of the warders’ ancient evil seems to have passed down to the receptionists when they tell us: “The room is not ready, yet. Maybe in a couple of hours”, as we are standing there with our seven bags (we’ve called ourselves “Famiglia Settecolli”, Seven bags Family in English) and after a 24-hour journey. A refreshing nap and then out, into the Waterfront, Bengody, thousands of shops and windows, restaurants, dancers and music players. We step into some friends of ours from the safari who soon invite us to dinner. They have a reservation at Hout Bay: 21 kilometres away by coach but the restaurant is great: excellent lobsters and giant crayfish. Back to the hotel with a night drive around, the town is a dream-like vision. It almost seems to be worth it all.
