She is in tears. They’re not accepting a copy of her police clearance, despite a letter from the South African Consulate in Los Angeles explicitly stating that they have seen the original and they can verify its contents. The guy who is going through her documentation is not being helpful. He is impatient and downright rude to her.

I try to think of a solution. Will they start the paperwork and we can give them the original police clearance later on? I hear muffled objections in the background as my wife asks him.

“No,” she manages to say through deep, frustrated breaths. I want to reach through the phone and punch the guy in the face. I am ashamed to send my wife into this bottomless pit of stale bureaucracy. I tell her to come home – we’ll figure it out. We’ll get the original copy from the FBI in Washington, even though that will take at least 3 months.

At 8:30 I open the gate for our domestic worker. Her name is Aretha, and she is a real-life angel. She lives in Gugulethu and she has four kids. She works full time, she volunteers at her church, and she helps out at an orphanage nearby. Then, in her spare time, she chaperones every one of her daughter’s school events, and she runs a business selling Tupperware. Every week she walks into our house with a smile, asks us how we’re doing, and then she hangs up her coat in the pantry and gets to work. She never complains. About anything. I don’t understand it.

At 8:40 I try to get our almost 2-year old daughter in the car to go to the Waterfront Aquarium. It’s not easy. She has now realised that Mama isn’t here, and she is not happy. With all the spirit she can muster she “explains” to me how unhappy she is with the situation. I plead and promise. Somewhere between multiple references to “Nemo” and “Puppet show” I get the car started and we’re on our way. She calms down as we drive out of the neighbourhood. She likes looking outside. The pensive look I see in the rear-view mirror is one of the few things she inherited from me. I’m glad she looks like her mother.

I drive down the R27 on a crisp autumn day. Table Mountain sits right in front of me in the middle of a giant cloud, like it’s being protected from something. It’s beautiful. I stare at it as I try to get our Hyundai Atos above the 80 km/h mark. I miss the Rav4 we had when we lived in America. And I think about this blog post.

Homecoming Revolution asked me to write a follow-up to my Homecoming Thoughts post from a year ago, and I am at a loss. That post generated a lot of comments, and I’m worried because I know if I write down how I really feel many of those commenters will come back and say, “I told you so.” And the question that’s been on my mind for weeks hits me again: Why did we move back?

Meanwhile my wife is at the Milnerton Police Department getting her fingerprints done. She walks in and asks someone where to go; she explains that she is applying for permanent residency in South Africa. “Why would you want to do that?”, the woman asks, perplexed. “I’m married to a South African and we live here now,” she says. The woman shrugs and points my wife in the right direction.

I miss America. I miss the openness of the people, the need to debate everything and anything just because you can. I miss ubiquitous, fast, cheap Internet. I miss Target and customer service that actually provides service. I miss cheap everything, actually (well, with the exception of wine). I miss the vastness of it all, I miss the way the talent in Silicon Valley almost makes you smarter by osmoses. I miss live music. I miss not having an electric fence that malfunctions and wakes us up in the middle of the night. I’m like a poster child for whitewhine.com.

My daughter and I spend all morning at the Aquarium. I’m silently glad we never took her to the Monterey Bay Aquarium – it’s just not a fair comparison. When I get home my wife and I hold a mini strategy session. We lay out our plans for getting around the inefficiencies that stare us in the face every day. We take a break because our daughter is obsessed with the moon right now, and she needs us to “check that way” if maybe it came out during her nap.

Melissa's Food Shop, Bloubergstrand, Cape Town

At 2:07pm my wife takes our daughter to the park, and I head off to Melissa’s Food Shop for a Flat White and some reading time. On the way I’m reminded that tomorrow is trash day. Countless people are outside going through trash cans, eating what hasn’t gone bad yet, storing anything of value for later use. I sit in the sun at Melissa’s, I listen to the Afrikaans conversations around me, and catch glimpses of the Blouberg beach. I’m confused.

At 4:37pm I drive Aretha to the taxi stop at Bayside Mall. She is smiling. She is always smiling. She asks about my time with Aralyn this morning, she asks about my parents. She remembers that my dad turned 70 recently and she asks me how he’s doing. I try to answer through the lump in my throat. For the second time today, I am ashamed. Ashamed for my privileged whining. Ashamed that I can be so discontent in the midst of the enormous blessings I live in every day. I watch Aretha head off into the crowd to find a taxi for her long commute home. And I am ashamed.

All the reasons we gave for moving back to South Africa are still true. The potential of this place is staggering. It’s beautiful beyond measure. But sometimes it is So. Damn. Frustrating. But maybe that’s ok. Because it’s not about an easy life, it’s about a meaningful life.

I mentioned before that we moved here to write a new story for our lives. A story with conflict, because that’s what all great stories are made of. Now that we’re getting what we asked for it might not be fun all the time, but it doesn’t make it a wrong decision. It just makes it the life we chose, and the life we’re determined to live well. We’re here to stay, and all we can do is whine a little less and use our enormous privilege to give back to our community with every possible opportunity we have.

Because that’s what it means to love a country as much as I love mine.

I just scanned through some of the posts I’ve written over the past 18 months or so since we found out Jess was pregnant. It feels like a lifetime ago. I stopped writing for a while when things got really rough (that’s a story for another post), and then I started again, and then I started writing about other things. But today I want to write about 5 things I’ve learned about parenting during this first year. Which, based on #1, you might want to ignore completely. But let’s do it anyway.

1. There is no right answer

I’ve learned that the Internet is the worst possible place to go for parenting advice. And within that vast expanse of bad advice, Facebook stands apart in its ability to make you feel like a complete failure as a parent.

Every parent has an opinion on sleep training, what to do with runny noses, how important vaccinations are, whether TV makes your child smart or dumb, how safe humidifiers are, what food you should give your baby… the list is endless. And the problem with Facebook is, you know these people. They are your friends. So you’re supposed to trust them, right? And if you hear advice that is different from someone else’s advice, as you inevitably will, you feel like someone’s going to judge you for what you do, because these people are your friends.

The reality is this. Every child is different. Every parent is different. But it goes beyond that — every child/parent combination is different. This means that there are endless permutations of child/parent relationships, and each combination requires something completely unique: your instinct. No one knows what is best — least of all you as the parent. But you know what feels right. And that is what you have to trust.

Sure, there are some questions that are innocent enough, like what the best nappy is for sleeping in. But for the most part, if I ever give you parenting advice, please ignore it and just follow your instincts.

2. Your life does not belong to you any more

Speaking of advice, the worst piece of advice I ever heard goes something like this:

Don’t let the baby set the agenda for your household. They are joining your family, not the other way around. They can fit into your schedule.

Simply. Not. True. The needs of the baby come first, and that means that your needs are a very distant second. I’m not saying this is a bad thing, just that if you expect to go on as if nothing happened, you’re in for a big surprise.

Say what you will about the movie Marley & Me, but I think it is one of the most realistic movies about parenting ever made. This quote sums up my point perfectly:

I just got overwhelmed. No one tells you how hard this is all gonna be.

Which part?

All of it: Marriage, being a parent. It’s the hardest job in the world and nobody prepares you for that. Nobody tells you how much you have to give up. I feel like they do tell you, but you don’t listen… or you think, ‘Ah, they’re just miserable.’ I’ve given up so much of what made me who I am. But I can’t say that because… I’m a very bad person if I say that. But I feel it. I really do. I feel it sometimes. I just want you to know that.

I do know that. And you can say it. I say it.

But I did make a choice. I made a choice, and even if it’s harder than I thought… I don’t regret it. ‘Cause it kinda has like a… ‘there’s no place like home’ feeling to it. I just think these things are gonna happen and we’re gonna get through them. And we’ll just do it together.

Realistic expectations are extremely important. You are giving up your life for something amazing and magical, but don’t be under the illusion that things won’t change — they will.

3. I don’t know anything

When I started writing about parenting, I had this grandiose dream of becoming the male version of Heather Armstrong, blogging my way through things and inspiring people along the way. I don’t have this dream any more, because nothing has humbled me so much about my own abilities like parenting has.

I can now change a nappy, get my daughter dressed in the morning, get her from point A to B using various forms of transport, including but not limited to our car and a hot pink tricycle. I can read her stories and encourage her enthusiastically when she takes a few steps. I can teach her about Jimi Hendrix and Miles Davis, and hopefully one day about Coldplay and Bon Iver and The Album Leaf. I can play guitar for her, give her kisses, and tell her I love her. I can now even put her to bed without much of a hassle.

But I still feel like I don’t know anything. And I have a suspicion that I will always feel like that. It is not necessarily a bad thing though, because it keeps me on my toes. It makes me think about how I interact with her, how my actions will influence hers, how everything I do can teach her in some small way to be honest, honorable, and passionate about everything she does. I don’t know anything, but I’m ok with that. Because I think like most of us, I can use a daily dose of humility.

4. We’re all in it together

As bad as Facebook is for parenting advice, it is a fantastic place for community. If we’re friends on Facebook and you have kids, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. From the “Hello again, 3am” status updates to the “Hooray, the diarrhea stopped” ones, as soon as you say a word about parenting, we know what you mean. And nothing encourages you like knowing you are not alone.

The parenting tribe has sustained us through many difficult nights and days, so to you I say: thank you. And keep posting.

5. Ask for help

I have long since given up my shyness about asking people for help. Even if their offers seem insincere at the time – it’s their fault, right?

“Hey, let me know if you ever need a babysitter to come and…”

“Can you come Friday night?”

This parenting thing is not meant to be done alone, so don’t even try. Ask for people to help with lifts, food, babysitting, cleaning, laundry, old toys, old clothes, new nappies, whatever. People want to help, and we need to give them the opportunity to do so.

The toughest job…

Over the course of the past year or so, three things that people said to me about parenting has stuck with me:

• Having a baby is not a hostile takeover, it’s a friendly takeover.
• Being a parent is the toughest job you will ever love.
• Being a parent is wonderful, but parenting isn’t always that.

There is a little bit of truth in all those statements. But when my daughter runs into my arms, and I think about the past year and all the ups and downs, the one I keep coming back to is this. It’s a tough job. But I love it.

Actually, I take that back.  It’s a short, less-than-savory street in the middle of what is a really nice part of Cape Town with plenty of coffee shops and boutique clothing stores, etc.  It’s one of the many reasons Cape Town reminds me of San Francisco so much — it’s a great place until you turn the wrong corner.

Anyway, it’s broad daylight, so I soldier on.  As I walk up to the door, I see that it’s closed with one of those hand-written “Back in 5 minutes” signs on the door.  Typical.  And I love it.  By the way, those signs have always bothered me.  How do I know how much of the 5 minutes is left?  Those signs should be electronic and just count down how much time you have left to wait.  I should patent that idea.

Luckily, I must have arrived towards the tail-end of the 5 minutes.  Because within 3 minutes, a young guy appears, dressed as if he’s just been to a Jimmy Eat World concert.  I didn’t need to ask if he works at Mabu, it’s already written on his “I love sad music and that’s why I work at an indie music store” face.  I immediately like him, too.  I can tell this is going to be great.

Inside, Mabu Vinyl looks and smells like an authentic second-hand store should.  It’s stacked to the ceiling with used VHS tapes, random posters, loose CD’s, second hand books, and of course, vinyl records.  It’s all about the vinyl.  As it should be.  It’s dark, it’s moody… it’s perfect.

The selection at Mabu Vinyl is about what I’d expect based on what I know people listened to here in the 80s and 90s.  There is lots to explore, but it’s unfortunately mostly not my taste.  The thing is that it is virtually impossible to find new vinyl in South Africa.  It’s just too expensive to import, and it appears that the bug hasn’t bitten enough people to have enough demand for it.  So finding any vinyl post early 90s is a bit of a mission.

I will keep looking, though.  For now, I will have to adjust my demand to the supply, until stores like Mabu make enough money out of vinyl to start importing all the great new stuff that’s coming out on the format.

In the end I walked out with 2 albums — just to kick things off.  One is embarrassing so I’ll keep that to myself.  But the other is a mint copy of We Can’t Dance by Genesis.  It’s an album I’ve never been able to find in the US, and it sounds amazing — it’s like hearing it for the first time.

One big issue, and this might also be why vinyl hasn’t really taken off here, is the high cost.  I paid R50 for that album (~$7), and it’s the type of record you’d find in the $1 bin at a thrift store in the US, like I did with other brilliant finds like Tracy Chapman‘s debut.  Again, I guess it comes down to supply and demand – we just need more people to get into vinyl so that stores can become competitive.

It also doesn’t help that equipment is so expensive in South Africa.  We have exactly 1 Rega representative here, and it’s just so expensive that proper vinyl systems are reserved for people with a whole lot of disposable income.  I certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford it if I hadn’t bought my system in the US and brought it with me to South Africa.  How do we change this?

Anyway, back to Mabu.  I will be back  many times as it’s close to where I work, and they seem to really care about vinyl — they’re not just doing it on the side to see what happens.  But I also want to go explore the two other vinyl stores I know about in Cape Town, and see if I can convince anyone to start importing the likes of Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes and The Album Leaf.  You know, just keeping the dream alive (yes, there was a lot of REO Speedwagon albums on display at Mabu).

The Wikipedia definition of the high five is pretty dry, but it’s a good place to start:

The high five is a celebratory hand gesture that occurs when two people simultaneously raise one hand, about head high, and push, slide or slap the flat of their palm and hand against the palm and flat hand of their partner

You wouldn’t think that such a thing would be open to controversy, but apparently the origin of the high five is a bit of hotly contested history.  The most credible story is that it started in US baseball in the 70s, but of course there’s some basketball player who says he executed the first high five in the 60s.

But I guess the origin or meaning is not that important.  What is important is, why was this couple high five-ing?  What did he say to her to elicit that response?  As a new dad myself, I feel like it had to be something about the baby.  Probably something like “Look, she just fell asleep!” or “Did you see her poop isn’t yellow any more?”

What’s also important is why this struck me as so odd.  It shouldn’t. Walking through a mall should expose us to one giant high five circus.

Maybe I find it odd because when we’re knee deep in parenting, we tend to not have the time or the inclination to look up long enough to see the high five-able moments.  Maybe it’s because, as I wrote earlier, we forget that life is staggering.  Or  maybe it’s because we lower the bar too much to save us from disappointment — or as Frank Chimero put it (much more eloquently than I ever could):

When does the magic of a situation fade? When do we get acclimated to the exceptional? Is this how we get by? Would anything get done if we were constantly gobsmacked? Is this how we survive, how we stay sane? We define a pattern, no matter how exceptional, and acclimate ourselves to it?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, we need to high five each other more.  Couples, especially, need to find those moments of celebration.  Because things can get pretty bleak if you don’t raise your hands every once in a while.  So, here you go, a gift from me to you:

^5.

You’re welcome.

When we first started planning the move, we agreed on one thing: it’s going to be difficult as hell, but it is a story we have to live. What I kept saying to Jess was this: The next year is not going to be easy. It’s too much change, and too much uncertainty, too quickly. But we needed to remember that a year down the road it was going to be September in Cape Town. It would be Spring, and we’d wake up to a sunrise over Table Mountain, and we’d suddenly be ok.

Last night our almost-1-year-old slept through the night, something she’s done maybe 10 nights since she was born. This morning I went for a run on the Sea Point Promenade and witnessed that sunrise over Table Mountain. I had a perfect cappuccino at Origin.  And then I got an SMS from my wife to say that our daughter cut her 7th tooth. Also, someone I respect unfollowed me on Twitter, but you know, in the bigger scheme of things that’s probably ok.  So yes, I’d say that we’re home now, and that everything is going to be all right.

I have written before about how instrumental Donald Miller was to us during our moving process, and today I was reminded again of this quote from A Thousand Miles to a Thousand Years:

We get robbed of the glory of life because we aren’t capable of remembering how we got here. When you are born, you wake slowly to everything. Your brain doesn’t stop growing until you turn twenty-six, so from birth to twenty-six, God is slowly turning the lights on, and you’re groggy and pointing at things saying circle! and blue! and car! and then sex! and job! and health care!

The experience is so slow you could easily come to believe life isn’t that big of a deal, that life isn’t staggering. What I’m saying is I think life is staggering and we’re just used to it. We all are like spoiled children no longer impressed with the gifts we’re given — it’s just another sunset, just another rainstorm moving in over the mountain, just another child being born, just another funeral.

So, hey. Let’s allow ourselves to be awed every once in a while, ok?

First, consider the lead-up to this tournament.  Think about the endless mockery of FIFA’s choice, the stream of articles on how South Africa does not have the ability or infrastructure to host an event of this scale.  And most recently, the ridiculous reports in the British press of machete wars and who knows what else.  We just sucked it up, and quietly went about our preparations.

And now, here we are, in some of the most beautiful stadiums the world has ever seen, at a tournament that is running smoothly.  Reporters on the ground are talking about the “sustained display of pure joy” by South Africans in hosting and enjoying this event.  There are the constant great reviews of our hospitality and friendliness.  So instead of fighting about inefficiency or bad logistics at matches, we’re fighting about vuvuzelas?

Ok, we’re fighting about vuvuzelas.  So come, let us reason together.

This whole debate eventually boils down to one simple question: What responsibility does a host nation of an event have towards foreign visitors to the event? That really is it.  If you look at the arguments on both sides, that is what it comes down to.

• Vuvuzela supporters defend its usage by saying that it’s part of an African World Cup experience, that you can’t make us change our ways just because you’re bothered by it.
• Vuvuzela haters say it is annoying, distracting, and when it comes down to it, rude to impose it on them.  They’re basically saying:  “Do this at your own matches, but don’t bring it to the World Cup.”

So what is our responsibility to visitors?  Three things:

• Keep them safe
• Show them a great time
• Give them an African experience

It’s that last one that’s the crux of the matter.  Why travel all the way to South Africa just to have a soccer tournament that looks like it could be in America or Europe?  Why would you want to be in the country for the soccer, but lose out on all the other authentic, local experiences we have to offer?  And why would we want you to miss out on everything that makes us who we are?  Isn’t an important part of hospitality making you one of us, instead of viewing you as an outsider and walking on egg shells around you?  And by the way, FIFA president Joe Blatter agrees:

I understand that the sound is annoying to some.  For us, we can’t imagine it any other way.  Yes, we need to make you feel welcome here.  And we really want you to have a fantastic time.  But we also want you to experience what it means to live in Africa.  So instead of complaining about the vuvuzela, pick one up at your friendly street corner vendor, and blow it.  All the time.  Go sit in a coffee shop and read the local paper.  Get out of Sandton and go have a beer in Soweto.  Rent a car and get out of town into the unimaginable beauty that awaits you.  You’ll see why we love our country so much.

And to those who are watching the games on mute on their TVs and complaining from afar — you really are missing out.  That constant droning symbolizes the exhilaration, stress, and release that is at the heart of what makes soccer such a great game.  Come on, give it another shot, and try to live it with us, not just watch it.

So, listen.  We’re not being rude.  We’re inviting you to come in and make yourself at home.  Please don’t be rude by refusing the invitation.

:============<()   Save the vuvuzela!

I told this story to a friend at work today, and he sent me this quote in response (my emphasis added):

Another important element of addiction is ritual. Something as simple as eliminating the rituals that accompany the addiction can be enough to cause the addiction to lose appeal. Powerful aspects of the addiction are obtained from the ritual itself, such that without it, the behavior or substance no longer is accompanied by euphoria. Heroin is a good example. The ritual of injecting heroin and the lifestyle involved in the pursuit and use of the drug is a part of the addiction. Taking away these components, as is done in methadone clinics, often reforms addicts on these bases alone.

If I arrived too late to be there for the preparation of the coffee, would it have tasted differently?  Would vinyl LP’s sound as good as they do if there wasn’t so much work involved in maintaining and playing them?  Are we really this predictable, this easy to manipulate, that the lead-up to an event can have such a big impact on the enjoyment of it?

Yes, yes we are.

It has now been two weeks since we arrived back in Cape Town after an 8 year stint living abroad, and I am still hesitant to write this post.  I keep thinking that I need to give it more time, that my unconditional euphoria about being back has to be some kind of temporary adrenalin rush.  That the other shoe will drop and suddenly I’ll be faced with a strange reality, left only with thoughts of “What have we done!?”  And maybe that will still happen.  But right now, as I sit on our balcony in Sea Point overlooking the Promenade and the vast blue ocean, I’m tempted to give up the fight and embrace what my wife told me over lunch today… What took us so long to move back?

It’s hard to explain, but my spirit lifted the minute we landed in Cape Town (after a grueling 2-day journey with our 6-month old, but that’s a story for a different blog post).  After recuperating at my parents’ house in Stellenbosch for a few days, we moved into our flat in Sea Point a week ago, and we just can’t believe how lucky we are to live here in this amazing place.

The beauty in this area of the world is simply stunning.  This weekend I got up and went for a run along the ocean as the foghorns were working overtime, and 100s of runners were enjoying the early morning ocean-quiet with me.  We spent the day at Camps Bay and Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, and we were left only with thoughts of how blessed we are to have all of this right at our doorstep.

There is chaos here, but it doesn’t feel like chaos, it just feels like life.  When we walk around in downtown Sea Point I sense an energy and a vibrancy that is almost tangible.  As I watch and talk to people, as we experience the diversity of cultures and emotions all around us, I can’t help but fall in love with Africa all over again.  And my wife, who is American, feels exactly the same way.

There are those who tell me we’re crazy for moving back, but the love-hate relationship South Africans have with their country is also part of what draws me to this place — we don’t shy away from the bad stuff, and we don’t shut up about our opinions.

Yes, there are many problems in South Africa.  Serious, serious problems.  And I am not oblivious to it — I remain vigilant and always mindful of the safety of my family, and I’d be lying if I said this weekend’s killing of Eugene Terre’blanche doesn’t make me nervous.  But I see in this country a potential that is so different and unique to anything I’ve experienced living in Australia and America.

Let me put it this way.  When I was in high school, rugby was everything.  The problem is that our school really sucked at it.  We weren’t even allowed to play in the same league as our main rivals in town (Paul Roos Gymnasium), because the embarrassment would just be too devastating and there were fears we would grow up weak and bruised for life.  But the words our coach spoke to us one afternoon after practice have stuck with me ever since:

He told us, yes, we could attend Paul Roos and be part of a great rugby school, a school that has accomplished everything there is to accomplish, a school at the top of the rankings.  Or we could stay here, at Stellenbosch High, and help build something from the ground up.  Now, sure, he was just trying to make us feel better.  But the words rang true.

Living in America was wonderful — I love the country and its people, and I am amazed at how smoothly everything works, and how easy it is to live there.  But here’s the thing: America doesn’t need me.  I can’t really contribute much there.  There are 1,000′s of people there who have the exact same skillset I do.

But here, in Cape Town, in my country, I can become part of something.  The Silicon Cape initiative is getting off the ground.  The user experience community is starting to thrive.  I can be a part of that — and here’s the bonus: I can do it in a place that is brimming with hope and immeasurable beauty.  How can I pass that chance up?

During our last week in America, I reminded my wife at some point that we are taking a big risk by moving here.  The job pool is smaller, there are countless political challenges.  You know what she told me?  ”A safe life is a boring life.”  And she was right (as usual).

So we take this risk and we embrace it with both arms.  So far we are loving every minute of it.  Hard times will come, but we are here, now, and this is our home.  Here, in Africa, we plant ourselves.

Trust and start walking. We are not alone in the dark, our path will unfold as we move. R.L.Stevenson once said: “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” If you can’t move in the physical world, move in your imagination, but MOVE.

A lovely sentiment, but as someone who is preparing to move countries in less than two weeks, the reality is quite different.  A recent New York Times article entitled The Psychology of Moving summed it up pretty well:

Whether one moves frequently or almost never, moving is an intensely emotional experience. The underlying psychological issues involved in real estate decisions are of great interest to therapists and psychologists, because housing and moving are filled with symbolism, the hope for new beginnings, crushing disappointments, loss, anxiety and fear.

“Panic can really set in around your home and your apartment,” said Ronnie Greenberg, a Manhattan psychoanalyst. “It’s a matrix of safety, so moving is incredibly stressful and people don’t realize it — they mainly talk about the packing and the external part of moving.”

That’s certainly not as sexy as the first statement, but it is most certainly closer to the truth (except for the part about not realizing how stressful it is.  I have pretty good grasp of how stressed I am right now!).

To go a little further (and definitely more eloquently) into the realities of moving, I want to go back to a great book everyone should read, The Art of Travel.  Alain De Botton says the following:

If our lives are dominated by a search for happiness, then perhaps few activities reveal as much about the dynamics of this quest—in all its ardour and paradoxes—than our travels. They express, however inarticulately, an understanding of what life might be about, outside of the constraints of work and of the struggle for survival.

Yet rarely are they considered to present philosophical problems—that is, issues requiring thought beyond the practical. We are inundated with advice on where to travel to, but we hear little of why and how we should go, even though the art of travel seems naturally to sustain a number of questions neither so simple nor so trivial, and whose study might in modest ways contribute to an understanding of what the Greek philosophers beautifully termed eudaimonia, or ‘human flourishing’.

At the heart of what makes moving such a complex emotional and physical endeavor is what Alain calls “the relationship between the anticipation of travel and its reality.”   It is never what you think it’s going to be, and that results in a lot of stress and mixed emotions.

The problem is that we can never fully anticipate all the mundane details involved in moving.  So we focus on the outcome — the first breakfast in your new home, the first family walk.  But oh, how the reality of the journey hurts.  One more quote from The Art of Travel that sums this up much better than I can:

If we are inclined to forget how much there is in the world besides that which we anticipate, then works of art are perhaps a little to blame, for in them we find at work the same process of simplification or selection as in the imagination. Artistic accounts involve severe abbreviations of what reality will force upon us.

A travel book may tell us, for example, that the narrator journeyed through the afternoon to reach the hill town of X and after a night in its medieval monastery awoke to a misty dawn. But we never simply ‘journey through an afternoon’. We sit in a train. Lunch digests awkwardly within us. The seat cloth is grey. We look out the window at a field. We look back inside. A drum of anxieties revolves in our consciousness. We notice a luggage label affixed to a suitcase in a rack above the seats opposite. We tap a finger on the window ledge. A broken nail on an index finger catches a thread. It starts to rain. A drop wends a muddy path down the dust-coated window. We wonder where our ticket might be. We look back out at the field. It continues to rain. At last the train starts to move. It passes an iron bridge, after which it inexplicably stops. A fly lands on the window.

And still we may have reached the end only of the first minute of a comprehensive account of the events lurking within the deceptive sentence ‘He journeyed through the afternoon’.

So, there’s that.  But I guess the point is that, somehow, you get through it.  You journey through the afternoon, and you get where you need to be.  And after the dust settles you are left with the sense of accomplishment that comes from beating down a challenge — and a new beginning to make.

So even though I know the reality of getting there is going to be pretty bad, I need to keep my eyes on that first breakfast in Cape Town.  And that, I guess, is the art of moving.

But I finally read it, and it gave me goosebumps.  So for anyone out there who have also not read it, here it is…

We, the people of South Africa,
Recognise the injustices of our past;
Honour those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land;
Respect those who have worked to build and develop our country; and
Believe that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity.
We therefore, through our freely elected representatives, adopt this Constitution as the supreme law of the Republic so as to:

• Heal the divisions of the past and establish a society based on democratic values, social justice and fundamental human rights;
• Lay the foundations for a democratic and open society in which government is based on the will of the people and every citizen is equally protected by law;
• Improve the quality of life of all citizens and free the potential of each person; and
• Build a united and democratic South Africa able to take its rightful place as a sovereign state in the family of nations.

May God protect our people.
Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika. Morena boloka setjhaba sa heso.
God seën Suid-Afrika. God bless South Africa.
Mudzimu fhatutshedza Afurika. Hosi katekisa Afrika.

I’m proud to be from a country where we can openly and honestly acknowledge the mistakes of our past, so that we don’t repeat them in the future.