Travails of International Travel

Leaving home last week was quite a challenge: so much packing and clearing up the house and sorting out what I'd need for the next six months and getting that into two suitcases and a backpack. I managed to get airborne and had a great flight to London, upgraded to business class - thank you United.

At Heathrow I met my son, Gareth, and his family, Naz and nearly three year old Cameron. After a marvelous chat and catch-up I left them to check in for my flight to Johannesburg on SwissAir, via Zurich. And that's when things fell apart. Heathrow had been fogged in all day and many domestic flights were cancelled from Europe and my flight to Zurich was not going to happen. I stood in the longest line to get an alternate routing to Johannesburg. The only options were BA or Virgin and I chose the latter because I already have some miles accrued on that airline. But when it came to checking in, the only seat available was in the middle of the centre section, way at the back of the plane. The thought of spending twelve hours in a middle seat almost reduced me to tears but I had to laugh at my one night in the lap of luxury and the next squashed into the smallest space imaginable. I was very lucky to be sitting between two of the nicest young 20-something-guys who kept me entertained with their fascinating life stories. Both from Johannesburg, one with a University of Cape Town Business Science degree who was teaching English in Korea because he couldn't bear to practice his major, Marketing, persuading people to buy things they really didn't need. The other young man left school after grade 10 and started his own business when he was seventeen. He now lives in London and is a techie whizz-kid earning a very respectable salary.

Another surprise awaited me on landing - only one of my two suitcases made it. I suppose I should  have felt relieved, but I wasn't because I had very carefully packed winter clothes in one suitcase and summer in another and here I was in 30C South African summer with only a winter wardrobe. The reason I left home so early this year was to attend my sister's 70th birthday party the theme of which was Alice in Wonderland's Mad Hatter's Tea Party. As the last guests were leaving my suitcase arrived, regrettably too late for me to make an entrance in my carefully chosen hat and outfit!

A rocky start to an otherwise super family week. My daughter, Nan, her husband, Daniel, and two children Ayanda and Nathaniel were here for the party too and we've all been together staying in my sister's home with her family.

On Friday I will set off on another flight to join Gareth, Naz and Cameron for a winter Christmas holiday in the French Alps at Meribel.

Gillian McCabe, Queen of Hearts, photo by Daniel Raubenheimer

Eccentric Travel Partner

On a flight from San Francisco to Houston recently I boarded early and sat curled up in the window seat reading my book, in peace. Until a loud mouthed woman wearing a pink peak cap, swinging a huge patchwork teddy bear sat down beside me saying "and I have the pleasure of sitting next to you, do I?" Which forced a polite smile out of me. And a forced admiration of the teddy, a gift for her great-granddaughter whose baptism ceremony was the purpose of this flight.

"You can carry on reading, don't worry about me" she said, settling into her seat, putting teddy between us, balanced on the armrest. Oh Lordie, how will I manage the next three hours? I had been lucky to get an upgrade and was looking forward to some solitude.

Before we took off we were offered a drink. I asked for water. She had a glass of red wine. Soon after takeoff the drinks service began which meant I was drawn out of my book to make eye contact with the flight attendant and in so doing became an unwilling listener to my seat companion. She reminded me of an old acquaintance, Lyona Carne, who I had met in my Jack Russell breeding days. Tall and imposing, Lyona was the President of the Jack Russell club. She could be kind and generous but she was outspoken and told folks exactly what she thought of their dogs. Over the years we grew to like and respect one another, probably because she was also a bridge player and invited me into her weekly bridge circle if one of her regular four couldn’t play. What with doggie adventures and bridge end-plays we had lots to talk about.

Lyona had died very unexpectedly a few years ago and I didn’t want to replace her. But here was her alter ego, funny, brash, downing her red wine with great gusto. She pressed the conversation forward and drew me in. Eighty-two years old, born to a family of twelve children with only five still alive, she’d had a strong Catholic upbringing in Missouri and shocked her family when she divorced her husband after bringing five children into the world. “He was a no- good” she said. “I paid off all his debts, brought up the children on my own working three jobs. I never gave up on him though and even went to his funeral. I wanted to show his family that I respected the father of my children. I worked mainly as a pattern maker, and yes I did make the teddy bear. I was up until 3am last night. I sewed the bag too.” She beamed, reaching forward for the large bag she had made for teddy. It was better than any I’d seen in a store, or had been sent as a gift for making a donation to a charity or NGO, not to mention the bags my husband keeps bringing home from his latest conference. This was a work of art as was the dear teddy. She was growing on me.

Over another glass of wine she told me her name was Veronica and she lived in Oregon near one of her children. On Christmas Eve thirty four years earlier, she was introduced to Alan, owner of a small local store. They clicked immediately and have been together since, but Alan wouldn’t marry her. So, although they have lived together all these years, they sleep in separate rooms and have separate interests. “No sex” she told him. “Not if you won’t marry me.” They own their home together, and share all the costs. But definitely no sex.

“Alan sleeps a lot. I’m a bit worried about him. He is up for about six hours a day and even when he’s up he’s half asleep in front of the TV. I went to the doctor with him recently but the doctor didn’t think there was anything wrong with sleeping eighteen hours a day.”

“Do you think he’s depressed?” I asked. “Well yes, that’s exactly what I thought and I expected the doctor to confirm that, but he didn’t. We don’t really share much these days, Alan and I” she said wistfully. An overpowering image of Alan drowning in her abundant energy swept over me. I began asking the sort of questions psychologists ask. “What drew you to Alan when you first met?” “What did you do together that enlivened your relationship?” “Are you good friends?”

With such personal questions floating in the space between us, I now felt the need for some propping up myself. Veronica had been raving about the red wine, topping up her glass at every opportunity, so I asked the flight attendant for a taste. He brought me a full glass. It was awful. Two sips and I knew I had to give it back. But Veronica was in the throes of telling me about life with Alan and his alcoholism. In the early days, before he gave up drinking, they would have fun together over whiskey and wine but they had no alcohol in the house these days. He loved gardening and it seemed she left him to his garden and TV and he left her to her sewing machine.

The flight attendant was passing so I held out the glass. “Sorry, it was just too much for me.” “Oh, don’t give it back, give it to me” piped up Veronica. I obliged, filling her glass yet again.

She was now in fifth gear, telling me “I shop at Thrift stores. Get all my clothes for next to nothing. Even these,” she swiftly pulled down her t-shirt to reveal her bra with a great flourish and giggle, snapping back her shirt so quickly I wondered “did that actually happen?” She then admired my bracelet and asked if it worked. It was a copper bracelet I had bought in Zambia a long time ago. When I told her I didn’t wear it for arthritis she said she needed one so without really thinking I pulled off my bangle and put it on her wrist. She burst into tears and leant over to hug me.

She confessed all the wine on this flight was a real trip for her. I couldn’t really imagine how someone who could put away so much could do without any at home and I wondered if she was a secret tippler in her sewing room, but I didn’t ask. By now I’d had enough secrets. I made sure she wasn’t going to be stranded in Houston. She was meeting one of her children and hopefully she would nap on the car trip to her grandson’s home where she would meet her first great-grandchild.

We landed shortly afterwards. Veronica stood up straight and tall, gathered teddy and his bag and walked off the plane as if never a sip of wine had passed her lips. She was not going to be my role model. We didn’t exchange contact details. But I left that airport with a spring in my step, energized by her vitality and joie de vivre.

Jury Duty and the Call of Ancestors

I found myself back in a Marin County Courthouse recently three years after serving my first ever term on a jury. The day begins with preliminary talks and a form to complete and to my embarrassment I noticed I'd written the date 20 Jul 1913. Now I could forgive myself for July, when it should have been August, but 1913?

Before explaining my bad date, let me finish off the day in court.

Choosing a jury is a painfully slow process but as the details unfolded I found myself drawn into the case. It was a non-disclosure lawsuit involving a house bought by a couple, the plaintiffs, against the previous owner and his realtor over mould in the house. Before calling anyone up for the jury selection process, the attorneys said the case would last 14 days. This resulted in a stampede of people begging the judge to have their jury duty day rescheduled. I did not want to sit in the courthouse for two weeks listening to expert witnesses talk about mould but neither did I want to reschedule my day - I wanted to be excused as an unsuitable juror because that way I wouldn't have another call up for two years. When asked by the judge if I had any experience with mould I was honestly able to say that our home in West Marin is full of it and that I thought it was the norm in our neighbourhood, something to expect and deal with as well as one could. When it came time for the plaintiff's attorney to dismiss potential jurors, I was thanked and respectfully excused. Phew!

We have just watched the BBC series Mr Selfridge about Harry Gordon Selfridge and the department store he founded in London in 1909.  Watching Mr Selfridge make an entrance through the front doors of his store or sweep down the stairs from his office to the ground floor, I pictured my great grandfather, John Garlick, in his department store, Garlick's.

For the past eight months I have been deeply immersed in John Garlick's old business records, reading letters over one hundred years old, making notes of important findings, photographing special documents, transcribing, editing, writing, thinking. With the help of the wonderful set in Mr Selfridge and the tantalising stories of the people working in that store, together with a growing collection of my great grandfather's achievements, I wake up each morning having dreamt about living in the early twentieth century. Hence 1913.

John Garlick arrived in Cape Town in 1872 when he was twenty. With an indefatigable energy and a sharp mind he blazed a trail across South Africa opening up a Garlick's in all major cities.

John Garlick with his wife, two daughters and a son about 1900

Fun at the Pink Elephant

Photo from last night, Thursday 01 August, at the Pink Elephant, Boca Grande with Jim & Lucy Stanton.

Last weekend we were in New York for the Stanton Family reunion on Long Island, hosted by Bill & Debbie Demchak and Sarah & Craig Lee. Seventy people gathered because they were descendants/married to descendants/partners of descendants of Henry Thompson Stanton 1886-1954. Photos to follow.

Kensington Gardens

Yesterday was a glorious summer day in London and I'm sure most everyone was out enjoying the open spaces. That was certainly true for Kensington Gardens where I took a walk early in the morning, another one at lunch time and a last one in the evening. Picnic groups in abundance, people chatting, strolling, jogging, cycling, playing ball, walking dogs, it was all happiness, and happening in the park.

This morning the sides of the trails, the lovely green meadows, and even the mowed lawns were littered with debris despite there being an abundance of bins. It  makes me wonder what the park would be like with a "No Bins" policy as they have at Kirstenbosch National Botanical Gardens in Cape Town. Visitors are expected to leave with their refuse. No dogs are allowed in Kirstenbosch whereas Kensington Gardens is a very popular dog park, but perhaps dog poo bins should be the only ones provided.

At least it supplies plenty of men with work, picking up debris, replacing bin liners. And if they didn't look too happy with their job this morning, the ravens and crows were delighted to help them!

The past three months have been full. We spent a week away from Cape Town at the end of April, Tim visiting the Stanford Centre in Santiago, Chile, on either side of a weekend spent in Zapallar, a tiny coastal village where we walked a lot, ate local dishes and drank plenty of pisco sours

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 May is the month for the Stanford field trip and this year we went to Durban again. Instead of two nights there we spent the second night at a resort in the magnificent Drakensberg mountains.

Morning Light on the Drakensberg from Dragon's Peak Inn

Tim went to Hong Kong in the first week of June, I had another weekend in Joburg when he returned. And in between travels, I continued with my research up at the University of Cape Town's library, taking notes from the John Garlick papers stored there, leaving plenty more for me to do next year. I discovered all sorts of fascinating letters and documents that I hope to put into bigger context at home over the following months.

Excursions to Pringle Bay and the Winelands

Instead of burrowing down at weekends, too tired to think of doing anything other than reading, relaxing, walking in Newlands Forest, watching an addictive TV series, entertaining the grandchildren, cooking up a storm to enjoy with friends around our big dining room table, instead of all that laziness, we've been getting away, to the country, the wide open spaces so close to Cape Town.

First splurge was to Pringle Bay.

The bay, the mountains and the beach - that's the famous Hangklip (Hanging Rock) mountain on the left and Mervyn & Sue Gray on either side of me on the right. Fantastic day/night/morning of food, wine, walks and talks.

On the way home from Pringle Bay we visited Vergelegen Estate, built in 1700 for Willem Adriaan van der Stel, Simon van der Stel's son. He might have been a lousy Governor, forced to return to Holland in 1706, but he built a beautiful homestead and garden and planted magnificent trees - on the right Tim is dwarfed by ancient camphor trees.

Yesterday we ventured all of 54 kilometers for lunch at the restaurant at Glen Carlou Vineyards for a delicious meal followed by a walk in Babylonstoren gardens with friends Breda & Billy McCrea. Photos: The view from the restaurant at Glen Carlou on the left and in the garden at Babylonstoren. The Simonsberg mountain in the background on the right, named after Simon van der Stel

Back at home we 'bumped into' Bishop Tutu in St George's Street near the Cathedral on our walk about Cape Town last Friday with the new group of Stanford students. Here they surround him - no time wasted for a photo op!

Catching up

It’s been awhile since I last posted a blog so, thanks to the reminder from good friend Nigel Renton who first alerted me to blogspot and even came up with the name Sherry’s Trifles, and also a scolding from a 2008 student, Aaron Kofman,  for giving up photography, I have rallied - here goes: a few photos and some news.

Breaking news first - taken at the Waterfront two weekends ago with grandchildren Ayanda and Nathaniel. We were all smiles at ground level, but once we began our ride and stopped to load passengers and felt our little car wobbling wildly in the wind, I was not smiling ....

In February, Tim went home, to Stanford, to a meeting in New Orleans and a visit with his parents in Florida. I went to Johannesburg to find my paternal 2nd great grandmother's grave - Elizabeth Charlotte Garlick. Buried with her daughter and son-in-law in the Braamfontein Cemetery.

In March, a day in Hermanus with two cousins, Sue Lucas & Gill Dodington, walking in Fernkloof Nature Reserve

The first quarter is over and Tim will welcome the second group of students to the Stanford Cape Town centre at Orientation this week. I have not been to the centre myself this year which feels very different to previous years when I would be there taking photos, uploading albums, being involved as much as possible. I do get to meet the students at official functions and also at the dinners we have with four of them each week.

Bob Siegel is this quarter's Stanford faculty in residence. We took him to Kirstenbosch last Saturday on a cold and gloomy day. We both found lots of camera material despite the weather which only got worse over the four day Easter holiday.

I still pursue the life of my great grandfather, going through the archival material in the University of Cape Town’s Special Collections library. I thought I would be done in a few weeks. Alas, I have not quite finished  the letters and papers in the second box and there are 80 boxes in the collection.

I have written up the background and the first twenty years in the lives of both my great grandfather and his wife through my travels to England, Scotland and Canada these past eight years. Now it’s time to write the second part; his arrival in Cape Town at the age of twenty after six years in England as a draper’s assistant, opening his own shop in Cape Town after three years opposite the site of his future father-in-law’s store, and his phenomenally successful career.

John Garlick, Immigrant, Entrepreneur, Builder, Politician, Philanthropist, father of eight children, grandfather of Gill Dodington in the photo above, great grandfather to Sue Lucas, above, and to me and many more!

Cape Music and Newlands Forest Hikes

We've been in Cape Town two weeks now yet it feels much longer and I guess that means we have settled into the rhythm of summer in the southern hemisphere. I try to walk on the slopes of Table Mountain, in Newlands forest, early each morning while Tim often bikes to work after breakfast. 

The students arrived ten days ago and the Stanford program is in full swing. We had a very interesting musical "Welcome Dinner" last Saturday at Solms-Delta wine estate, at the Fyndraai restaurant, enjoying the first of their summer concerts. Solms-Delta's farm band played a set followed by a group called Tribal Echo and the students danced up a storm winning four of the five prizes of Cape Jazz Shiraz, a low alcohol bubbly.

Another musical highlight came this week at the Baxter Theatre, the Kalahari Karoo Blues. The incredible David Kramer brought 5 musicians together, two from the Cape, three from Botswana, for a remarkable evening of cross-cultural music. He interspersed each act with video footage of past performers from his Karoo Kitaar Blues show that Tim & I saw a few years ago. Some well known youtubers were on stage; spoon slide guitarist Hannes Coetzee and upside-down guitarist Ronnie Moipolai. One act I was particularly drawn to was the song written by David Kramer, sung by one of the Sonskyn Susters in his band - Calvinia.

On my walk this morning I was reminded of an exceptional encounter I had with my three Jack Russell terriers on the exact trail I still follow today. I wrote about it then, in 1997, and here is what I had to say:

 On a balmy summer day I was taking a carefree walk along the woodcutter's trail when suddenly all three dogs tore uphill, barking furiously. I, not quite as nimble, hurried breathlessly after them and as I drew near noticed their upturned heads, barking at the trees. “Oh no, not all this fuss for squirrels. How annoying” I thought and started sorting through their leashes, planning to attach lines of discipline to their collars. Something made me look up and there in the fork of a tree, a little bit higher than my head and about 15 metres away, a caracal (commonly called lynx) stared right back at me. Panic-stricken, I looked down to grab the dogs. If they were in my arms I would surely be safe. But no, delighted that I now stood guard over their prey, they were hunting other members of this fearsome family. I don’t think I have ever experienced such a mixture of terror, awe and incredulity. I was so close to the path where people walk daily and there I was, face to face (almost) with this secretive and rarely seen wild cat. Miraculously the dogs returned to me, allowed me to quietly attach their leads and walk in docile silence down the hill, back to the car to return to the clatter of civilization.

Returning abruptly to 2013, I no longer walk with dogs but their feisty little terrier spirits are with me as I wander the same trails.

Plastic, Plastic Everywhere

We've been in Cape Town a week now; initially shocked to be jolted right into mid-summer, especially trying to adjust to a 10 hour time change. But, after not too many nights I can hardly remember the cold and rain of the past few months in California.

Our week in Boca Grande with Tim's parents pushed our clocks ahead three hours which helped. As did the weather. Florida is definitely milder than the San Francisco Bay Area, so we had a good transition to summer. During our layover in London we spent the day with Gareth, Naz and Cameron at the Black Horse Inn near Heathrow for a long lazy lunch - four adults, three dogs and a very busy 20 month old baby.

When we picked up our housekeys from a friend we learned that while we were in the air, on our way to Cape Town, a home three roads away from us was burgled. The couple living there were tied up but once the burglars had made off with their loot, the wife managed to untie herself only to discover her husband was dead. He had no injuries so could have had a heart attack or been suffocated. Chilling news so close to the house we rent.

Cape Town always gets me thinking of the environment. When I first arrived in California thirteen years ago I signed up for an Environmental Education class where I learned about waste, water, soil, agriculture, energy, population, advocacy, and more. One day a week for eighteen weeks I'd return home exhausted at the end of each intense learning day. Some of the classes were field trips to farms and nature reserves. Others were in a classroom listening to speakers who were all experts in their field. I was struck in so many ways by how badly we humans treat the planet.

I have never thought of myself as an activist but ever since that course I have been particularly aware of our addiction to plastic and I'm reminded of that every time I enter a South African supermarket where if something isn't already packaged it will get bagged by a determined staffer before you leave the store. Yes, it is possible to recycle but how many people are conscientious and do this? And isn't this placing the onus on the shopper? Shouldn't supermarkets take responsibility for bad packaging practice? Plastic never disappears. It will break down into smaller pieces but will be on our planet forever.

I always feel I am some sort of freak when I say "No plastic bag" in the store. One of the big supermarkets here doesn't weigh produce at the checkout. Instead an employee stands at a scale in the vegetable section weighing and bagging items, whether is is just one item or many. She then ties a firm knot in the bag and sticks a gluey price tag onto the outside. Do you think that bag gets re-cycled, let alone re-used?

One place where plastic ends up is the Great Pacific Garbage patch. In an area of ocean two times the size of Texas, debris circles endlessly, trapped in the North Pacific Gyre, some of it washed ashore onto remote islands in the Pacfic Ocean.

Some interesting watching & reading:
Two Ted Talks on YouTube - Beth Terry - Living Plastic Free & Charles Moore:Sailing the Great Pacific Garbage Patch
Wikipedia definition - The Great Pacific Garbage Patch
Los Angeles Times - Great Pacific Garbage patch a bigger worry than tsunami

If you are reading this take a look next time you're shopping. Be aware of all the plastic and think about where it will go. I know that the small bit I do will not make a significant difference, but it's my personal choice and I hope it sets an example and encourages others to do be more aware. Especially after examining the photo below, the insides of a juvenile albatross.

Plastic in the stomach of a dead albatross