Democrat-Gazette online

Besides Cairo, my only experience with an African airport was Kenya's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport back in 1998, which had one hole in the floor and one sink with no mirror that served as the entire women's bathroom. So I was not prepared for the modern wonder of Cape Town's airport, much less the prosperous city that contrasted with Nairobi as much as their respective airports. If I had known I would feel as safe and comfortable there as in an American city, I might not have insisted on booking the transfer service my German Airbnb owner Frank recommended, and tried my luck with Uber instead.

But there he was with a sign in his hand that said "Gwen Faulkenberry." A 5'3" man, with skin the color of light brown sugar, impeccably dressed, who introduced himself as Selwyn. He insisted on taking our luggage, and opening all doors for Stella and me, then shutting them behind us. When I tried to open my own car door, he shook his head and frowned. Since my self-consciousness about him opening it was eclipsed by horror at the thought of offending him, I acquiesced. And thus the relationship with our respective roles was established.

The first day we introduced ourselves to the city by walking down to the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, drinking cappuccino and orange juice in the shadow of Table Mountain, and perusing the artisan stalls in Watershed Market. We took........

© Arkansas Online