2 Game Drive (2 page)

Familiarization is key. It is important for the travel agent to experience the product
firsthand in order to better advise the customer, or better still, so he or she can recruit or escort a tour group to the destination. Photographs can lie. There really is no substitute—no brochure, no computer, no video—that does the job of the fam trip. But they are nowhere near as common as they used to be. And a really luxurious, amazing, all-expense paid fam to an exotic destination is rare indeed.

That bad feeling from outside the subway was wrong. Not bad news, good news! I had just been picked for a fam trip.

A terrific fam trip …

With Jay!

To South Africa.

How lucky was that?

N
ine days and a bruising twenty-two-hour plane ride later, Jay and I landed at Cape Town International Airport.

We got fifty dollars worth of South African rand out of an ATM and headed through the crowded airport, looking for our host and the van that would take us to the Commodore Hotel at the Victoria and Albert Waterfront in beautiful, beautiful Cape Town.

Jay thought he was way cool in his white pants, pink linen Armani shirt, and matching white linen Armani blazer, clearly his idea of tropical cosmopolitan chic. I had no idea if the pants were Armani, too. I suspected they were but wasn’t about to ask.

Jay had actually changed clothes in the restroom on the plane just before we landed. I imagined his large frame cramped into that tiny bathroom stall,
tugging on those tight pants. Unbelievable! Needless to say, Jay loves to dress up.

“Jealous,” he sniffed, when he caught me smiling at his splendor, “just jealous, aren’t you, Little Miss Polyester Princess?”

I ignored that. I’m used to Jay’s digs about my wardrobe. It’s not all polyester, but it doesn’t cost my whole paycheck, either. That’s for sure.

Jay is not just a travel agent and a co-worker, he is also my best friend, so I know him about as well as anyone can. There are some things he keeps private, of course, like his age. I’m twenty-seven, and I think he’s ten or eleven years older, but I’ll never be sure because he’ll never tell.
He prefers to be called Jay—he says because it rhymes with ‘gay’—but his full name is Jeremiah Parker Wilson II. He was named for his stern and, fortunately, long-dead grandfather.

Grandfather Wilson was a devout Quaker and he
must be constantly rolling in his grave over Jay’s antics. Grandpa wanted Jay to stay home in Pennsylvania, marry a sweet little wife, raise a bunch of kids, and run the family dry-cleaning business. That wasn’t happening. The minute they closed the lid on Grandpa, Jay was out of there, headed for New York.

Jay has been in this
crazy travel business far longer than I have. His wardrobe is much nicer, and his apartment makes mine look like a room at the Y. He’s physically powerful from his dedication to his gym. He’s sharp, too; not much escapes either him or his wit. His physical fitness is a plus in escorting tour groups to odd places around the world. At 6’2” and over 200 pounds, Jay has gotten us out of some bad situations by his sheer bulk.

Jay
has warm brown eyes, wild red hair, and a Van Dyke beard. The old ladies on our escorted tours adore him, and I do, too, although I’d swim the Hudson before admitting it. We work great together, and are paired on most trips.

“Halloooo! I say, Miss Marsh,
Mr. Wilson. Hallooo!”

Near the exit, a tall, mustached man from our host tour company was energetically waving a sign bearing our names.

“Right-o,” he said after we introduced ourselves, “my name is David. Follow me, please, our car is waiting.”

David led us through the crowd toward the exit. His brown hair was cut short and beginning to thin on top. Perhaps that’s why he compensated with the big mustache. He wore an ascot inside his linen shirt and a blue blazer with brass buttons and gray striped pants. At the curb, he chattered away in a pronounced British accent as the driver loaded our luggage into the hotel van and opened the doors so we could climb in. Jay and I were apparently the only agents from the fam tour arriving on our particular flight.

“The hotel is about twenty-five kilometers from the airport,” David said, as we pulled away from the terminal, twisting around in the front seat to peer at us over his half-glasses. “Some members of our group arrived ahead of you and are already at the hotel.” He glanced at his clipboard. “The rest are scheduled to arrive later today and at different times on various airlines throughout the evening, what?”

He gave us information packets, name badges and some truly awful safari hats.

Jay immediately put his on and winked at me. “What do you think, Sidney? African Queen?”

David looked offended by the interruption. He spoke directly to me, ignoring Jay.

“We’ll just pop by the registration desk, my dear Miss Marsh, if you don’t mind. After a welcoming cocktail party on The Terrace at six o’clock, your evening is free. You’re on your own for dinner. The entire group will assemble bright and early in the morning for a breakfast seminar in the Blue Ribbon Room. Eight o’clock sharp.”

“Thank you,” I said
. “That sounds lovely.”

David nodded, then faced forward and, in his distinctive clipped speech, began a nonstop narrative about the buildings we were passing on the road into the city center.

The warm sunlight beaming through the windows welcomed us to Cape Town. Cape Town is second to Johannesburg in population, but first by far in beauty. Her history and location make her a melting pot for different cultures. Dominated by the stunning backdrop of Table Mountain and the sea, Cape Town has a wealth of architectural styles—Cape Dutch, elegant Victorian, Malay and Italian Renaissance—that blend beautifully with soaring modern design. Add to that the abundant tropical foliage, flowers, and trees, and Cape Town gets my vote for one of this planet’s most beautiful cities.

David’s narrative stopped as we neared the hotel. He gathered his papers
and looked again at his clipboard.

“Except for tonight’s dinner,” he said, “all your meals and beverages will be complimentary.
There’s our hotel, just ahead. Welcome to Cape Town!”

J
ay high-fived me, but David didn’t see him.

* * *

Two agents from California had arrived just ahead of us and were sipping pink welcome drinks near the front desk as we entered the lobby. Jay popped his collar and headed straight for them and the free drinks while I signed us in at the desk and collected our key cards.

A stick-thin travel agent with pinched features, round wire-rims and straight red hair was holding up the line at the registration desk. Forty to forty-five, I guessed. She was insisting on speaking with the hotel manager, leaning over the desk
, and waving her skinny arms. She was displeased with her room assignment and demanding an upgrade in a strident, shrill voice. Her printed name tag identified her as Mabel, and she was one of our group.

Finishing the paperwork, I turned away from the desk and rolled my carry-on toward the welcome table. There were goody bags and brochures
laid out for us, and lots of pink drinks. After shaking hands with Jay’s new friends, Chase and Rich, I gave Jay his key card and a duplicate of mine. I kept the extra one to his room. We always do that on trips. It comes in handy. I left him preening in the lobby while I headed for the elevator and a bath.

I’m not antisocial, but having slept in my clothes, I just wasn’t set on sparkle.

* * *

One long and blissful shower later, and I was ready for Cape Town.

My hotel room was filled with light provided by high ceilings, tall windows, and French doors that opened onto a little balcony. The view of Table Mountain to my right and the harbor on my left was amazing.

Big commercial ships chugged past tour boats, fishing vessels
, and elegant private yachts on the water below. Ships’ horns sounded, piercing the cacophony of the market bustle. The breeze carried shouts of laughter, calls in multiple languages, and the tantalizing aromas of spices from the kitchens of restaurants lining the quay. African, French, Belgian, Indian, Thai, Chinese, Italian—Cape Town had it all.

My hotel was among several
located at the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, which is a multibillion-rand commercial, shopping, and entertainment complex that faces a working harbor and dry dock. From my balcony I had a great view of the lively scene.

In addition to hotels, restaurants and shops, the V&A Waterfront features a large indoor craft market, Two Oceans Aquarium, and a maritime museum. I wanted to do it all, and thought how lucky a small-town Mississippi girl
like me was to be here, on the very tip of Africa.

I was standing on the balcony in the fluffy hotel robe taking photos of the
Waterfront when Jay entered the room with my spare key card, bearing two glasses and a bottle of Pinotage—South Africa’s signature wine.

“To Cape Town, Sidney,” he said as he filled my glass, “and to Sol Silverstein and all the poor shmucks back at Itchy who are slogging through a cold rain to work right about now. Doesn’t that warm breeze feel terrific?”

“It sure does,” I said, appreciating the wine’s aroma. “That’s the great thing about coming to the Southern Hemisphere in the fall. While it’s getting colder at home, it’s warming up here.”

Jay clinked his glass with mine and leaned against the railing, watching the last rays of the sun cast an orange glow over the
vibrant scene as it transitioned from late afternoon into evening. The market stalls were beginning to shut down for the night and boats were tying up. Candles were being lit on the tables of the sidewalk cafés.

“I love this place, Jay. I feel so lucky to be here. Isn’t this room lovely? It couldn’t be nicer.”

“Yes, it could. George—that short guy with the red glasses in the check-in line ahead of us—took the room you were given on the room assignment list. He grabbed your corner room. It’s bigger than this one.”

“What? Some guy took my room? Why?”

“I don’t know. He always wants the best, I think. I expect he heard that Mabel woman yelling about needing an upgrade and decided he would demand one, too. So he got the upgraded one and you got the standard. At least, that’s what those two California guys told me. They said they heard it all when they were standing by the desk, just before we walked in. They pay attention to that sort of stuff. The desk clerk switched the rooms at this George guy’s request.”

“Well, that’s fine with me. I don’t care. I like this one. I don’t think the other room could be much nicer. I feel so relaxed and pampered.”

“You should be ready to roll tonight, Sidney, after all the sleep you got on the flight. How did you do that? I only slept in snatches.”

“I took this magic little sleeping pill I got from my doctor along with my malaria pills, Jay. I wasn’t sure if it would work, but it really did.”

“No kidding. I thought about checking your pulse. You looked like you were dead. You were out for all the meals and movies and everything.”

“True, and now I am starving. The welcoming cocktail party is at seven, but we’re on our own after that. What do you think about grabbing a cab to the Mount Nelson Hotel for dinner? You know how I love grand old hotels, and even though I might never get to stay there, I would really love to see it.”

“Sounds good to me, sweetie. I’ll shower and shave and meet you downstairs. Try not to wear anything too tacky. You never know. The Mount Nelson is a pretty special place. We might meet someone famous.”

When he was gone, I finished my wine and tore my attention away from the glorious view to the depressing sight of my closet.

Travel agents’ salaries barely cover the rent in New York, leaving little extra for smashing little evening frocks. I was unprepared for the sophistication of Cape Town, having focused more on the safari portion of the trip, so my stuff was pretty utilitarian. Two dresses hung in my closet—one very casual and the other only slightly dressier.

It’s
always a good idea to read up thoroughly on a destination before you go, and review your itinerary before you pack. I usually do, but this trip had been unusually rushed. I thought Cape Town would be more like Nairobi. I was wrong. This is one reason why fam trips are so useful. Because of this trip, there would be no surprises for the High Steppers when we eventually brought them here. My old biddies aren’t fond of surprises.

I pulled out my one slinky dress and a pair of black high-heeled sandals. I’m taller than average—5’8”—and
slender; I wear a size six dress. In high heels I tower over most guys, so I brought flats, too, despite my love for stilettos. I decided against my cute red sundress, thinking that it was nowhere near elegant enough for an evening at the Mount Nelson.

The standard evening outfit I had brought was pretty simple, but it was my only choice. There would be no time in our crowded schedule for major shopping, either. That was unfortunate, because I clearly could have used another dress. Plus, I love to shop—a trait inherited from my Southern mother.

If our evenings ended up being as cosmopolitan as I suspected after our quick ride through this beautiful city, I knew I would be wearing that little black dress a lot before heading back to New York. Pack light, I preach to my clients. Pack light! Pack light! This time I thought I might have packed a little
too
light.

At least it
’
s black, I thought, maybe I can buy some beads and stuff at the Greenmarket tomorrow to kick it up.

I brushed out my long black hair,
pulled it up into a twist and added super-long silver earrings. Makeup for me is not a big deal. I have big, stormy gray eyes with long lashes, and if I do too much to them, I end up looking like the Bride of Dracula. I blotted my lipstick, locked the balcony and room doors, and headed downstairs.