Breakfast At The Westcliff

This morning is a rough one – sore throat and sinus problems that seem even to follow me here.  What a peaceful beautiful morning.  I must have slept well, I don’t remember my dreams.  The sun is just rising over Johannesburg through the thick haze.  The view from the hotel is spectacular, and the city is so silent.  I think it is Friday.  I am in Africa.

Last night I tried to catch a glimpse from the plane window. As I leaned over Gabby I asked if there was something to see. He said yes, “the airport”, and smiled. I had picked up Gabby in Dakar. I was fast asleep on the tarmac, blankets piled high like Shaharazod herself, I woke to a pleasant voice asking politely to get to his assigned seat. He must have thought I thought the vacant seat was somewhat of a first class accommodation, I looked as though I was tucked in for the night. It was time to get up. I could have slept the entire eighteen hour flight, dreaming of nothing but Africa.

“I’m Gabby”, he said. He was dressed so neatly in his Western African smile. More interested in politics than where I was going, this journalist from Senegal was an intriguing chap. We discussed the economy of America, and the coming election. “You have a tough decision” he told me. He had been to Washington and Maryland, and thought it was fascinating that he saw a man selling crabs. He told me that African’s would never sell crabs; they think that they are above that, that job is beneath them. He told me he envied America because you would never go hungry. I will always remember that.