Tomorrow I will be flying – if British Airways cooperates – to the other side of the world, to the very tip of Africa, crossing two continents and an ocean, to settle my butt on sofagirl’s sofa in her Cape Town house.
I frequently go for hikes in the mountains and canyons that surround Los Angeles, or in the desert a couple of hours from the city. I marvel at the views, at the wildlife large and small and at the flora but, especially with the flora, I have no idea what I am looking at. I could no sooner identify a brush or a plant than I could a mathematical equation. And it’s my loss, stemming from living in a culture that doesn’t place much value in such knowledge.
We said goodbye as if it were the end of school: email addresses exchanged, and the vague promise, most likely not kept, to see each other again.
J, who exudes altruism from every pore, brought gift bags for each and one of us. P, who professes not to cook, tried to keep us healthy with a kale salad, a mission I destroyed with my sinful cake. Both joy and sadness filled our pockets.