Last year our Hurricane Evacuation Plan it was Bangkok and South East Asia, including Northern Thailand, where we bonded with the elephants, earning a Mahout (elephant driver) degree, and where we learned to appreciate the cultures of Sri Lanka, Taiwan and Bali … but indeed that was a year ago. The hurricanes never materialized and as is the case in all false alarms, we came back home in late October with some mixed feelings about the fact that our evacuation plan turned out to be for naught!

The best way to cope with this phenomenon and not die of embarrassment for crying wolf so self-righteously when we decamped for better climes was to convince our friends that the absence of hurricanes had really been our doing and part of our “Plan” all along. Accordingly, everybody should owe us a debt of gratitude.

But this year, we are being told, will be different … in a bad sense, that is. The weather auguries predict an active and possibly nasty season since the dampening effects of the El Nino that kept the Atlantic Ocean from misbehaving last year, will not be there to help us.
And so, here we go again, escaping the annual threat by packing eight suitcases and setting out on an epic journey that would land us on the other side of the world - Cape Town, South Africa.
Like all the journeys concocted by the two Joyces (our intrepid travel agent Joyce Klein and my daredevil wife whose name is also Joyce), this one has even more moving parts than usual.
We start by setting up housekeeping in Fish Hoek, a suburb of Cape Town. Once settled, we will be joining a Safari to 2 Camps in South Africa at the end of June, organized by Ron Magill, Miami MetroZoo’s impresario, Ambassador and world-famous Communications Director. Later in the summer, we will visit other Safari camps in South Africa, Zambia, Namibia and whatever other adventure may come our way in the course of our meanderings though the bush. But, throughout it all, our house in Fish Hoek will remain our base.

The rest of our Hurricane Evacuation Plan is to return to Key Biscayne in mid-September, shed our “great white hunter” outfits, collect our urban winter gear and leave for a short, 30 day sojourn in Paris for the month of November.

Before writing about Cape Town, the epic trip needed to get there requires a word. The two Joyces had been working on this trip for months, starting shortly after we returned from Bangkok late last year. There were marathon sessions on the phone, flurries of e-mails were exchanged and every communication device known to mankind had been exploited to the extreme in order to finalize a manageable itinerary that would satisfy both my Joyce’s lust for new places and the maze of implementation difficulties that JTA (Joyce the Travel Agent) had to overcome.

As part of our preparations, Joyce had made elaborate plans to stay in touch electronically with everything and everyone. All batteries were charged; the Blackberry was updated and synchronized with desktop; the latest playlists were fed into the I-pod and the laptops were adapted so that each of us could pursue our respective interests without interfering with one another. She also spent hours with “The New AT&T” to make sure the cell phone and the internet would be working properly. Being in the dark about navigating around Cape Town, we also found it important to invest in a portable GPS with a South Africa map, and Joyce took to it like a fish to water. She tested the gadget on the local Miami streets. It wasn’t long however before she got into an argument with the uppity lady inside, who kept telling her to make U-Turns; and so she pushed more buttons, fired her and found this suave Englishman with a stentorian voice who commanded respect and simply had to be obeyed.

One key aspect of our preparations was how we were going to get to South Africa. That meant, of course, dealing with the airlines. This required solving an interactive Rubik’s Cube puzzle wherein complicated schedules, exorbitant costs, availability, “Frequent Flyer Miles” all had to fit a matrix that made the movie by that name seem like an ordinary walk in the park. The airlines provide very few options for getting to the tip of Africa from Miami. When the mysteries of the ever-changing rules governing the redemption of “Frequent Flyer Miles” are thrown into the mix, it became clear very quickly that we would not have the luxury of shopping around. When JTA called to tell us that availability, costs, schedules and destinations had reached synchronicity, we had to act instantaneously lest the arrangements she made collapse like a sand castle.

That’s how we found ourselves with Lufthansa as our shepherd in the sky. The name “Lufthansa” is derived the word Luft” which in German means air, and “Hansa” after the German city by that name which may have been, at one time, the headquarters of the “Hanseatic League” that dominated maritime trade in the Baltic region of Germany.

Lufthansa flew us all the way from Miami to … no, not Cape Town (that would have been too easy) … but to Johannesburg! That little stop-over ate up another five hours. We had to transfer to a domestic airline, retrieve our baggage – all eight pieces – clear immigration and customs and go through the entire check-in and security process all over again. From the time we left Miami to the point of arrival at the terminal in Cape Town, a full 41 hours had elapsed. Some years ago, South Africa Airways had a Miami-Cape Town non-stop flight which did the job in 13 hours. Alas, the convenience of the traveling public has always been subordinated to the imperatives of the travel industry. And so, the non-stop service is no more.

The first leg of the voyage was non-stop from Miami to Frankfurt. It was a good experience. The seats were extremely comfortable, and the in-flight service, food and entertainment above average. Peter enjoyed flirting in German with the attendant, while Joyce … slept. He had a lovely time with a bottomless glass of Riesling that surprisingly rivaled its Alsatian namesake. For mysterious reasons our seats were not together, but that was offset by the thrill of meeting interesting new seatmates.

When we landed at the Frankfurt International Airport, somewhat bleary eyed from the all night flight, and of course the excellent Riesling, we were in for a rude awakening. We stumbled out of our cocoon rolling our four pieces of on-board luggage, only to find that there was no jet way! We had to go down some nasty wet stairs that had been rolled next to the plane. It is hard to fathom how a sophisticated and modern culture as evidenced by the slick interior of the passenger terminal into which we emerged, would fail to provide a jet-way which normally enables passengers (particularly those arriving from long international overseas flights) to roll their on-board luggage out of the plane with some dignity. Instead, we were greeted by steps and more steps. With no help from the airline or airport employees, we had to drag the four pieces of luggage we had on board first, down the steps from the plane, then along a short but rainy walk on the tarmac and finally, into the cavernous terminal. There, we ultimately found our bearings; first locating Passport Control and then, after a seemingly endless schlep … still with our four on-board bags, we eventually exited the terminal to find our way to the Sheraton Hotel across the far end of the enormous terminal where we had reserved, guaranteed and paid for a Day Room.

A comfortable Day Room was very important, as we had arrived in Frankfurt at 6:00 am and were facing a 16 hour lay-over until the overnight flight to Johannesburg, scheduled to leave at 10:30 pm that night. We were looking forward to a long bath, day of pampering and some sleep in a cushy bed before boarding our Lufthansa steed for the next 10 hour leg that was to take us to Johannesburg.

Alas, our expectations were dashed. The Day Room was in a Sheraton that proclaimed with great pride its standing as a “Starwood” hotel. For us, the name was one which has lived in infamy, dredging up one of the most obnoxious hospitality experiences we had ever encountered. It was some years ago when the name Starwood first appeared in the luxury hotel market. On that occasion, we were visiting Vienna and had booked two or three nights at the Bristol Hotel, across the street from the Stadtoper, Vienna’s fabulous Opera House. We had reserved with great care (by phone, then confirmed by fax) and months ahead of time, four tickets to see the “Barber of Seville”, the opera du jour during our stay. Peter, who even speaks a little German, had assured us that the Concierge at the Bristol would have four tickets waiting for us when we got there.

On the night of the performance, Peter presented himself at the concierge’s desk to retrieve the tickets, only to be told in a most arrogant manner that there were only 2 tickets in our name. He then informed us with glee that the performance was sold out. After losing our temper and threatening to cause physical harm, the two girlfriends of Joyce who were traveling with us, as well as Joyce and myself besieged the concierge until, in the end, he was able to locate us four seats … scattered all over the opera house. Next, to add insult to injury, as the performance was early in the evening, it is customary in Vienna to defer dinner and have a late and copious supper after the show. When we asked for our reserved table, the manners of the Starwood Hotel Maitre d’ emulated those of the concierge. It was a classic Catch 22. Since they had lost our opera reservations, why should they be expected to hold a table for us! After raising all kinds of holy hell again, our pompous Maitre d’ condescended – resentfully - and put two tables for two together. We figured it must be the Austrian-German mentality. Never throughout this episode was there a word of apology or an offer to make up for the damage and inconvenience. On our return to the US, we wrote a long letter to Starwood to let them know about our disgraceful experience. We never got an answer … and we vowed to never stay at or near another Starwood hotel.

Yet, there we were, at the Frankfurt airport, arriving, after an interminable trek, from the Passport Control gate to the immense lobby of the Sheraton hotel across the airport’s terminal. To our horror, the hotel bore the Starwood identity. Since we were stuck without a choice and already exhausted from the long flight and the long walk, we thought this was an opportunity to give the Starwood product another chance.

There was a long line in front of the registration desk and the staff behind it was strangely reminiscent of the Bristol’s concierge. Indeed, after waiting half an hour, he informed us in the same diffident way, which is undoubtedly part of the Starwood training, that our room was not ready. We should find some place to park ourselves in this humorless and sterile lobby and wait until the room was available … which might be an hour or two, or a black hole of time. Of course, it was entirely our fault … Did we “guarantee” our reservation? If not, tough luck. As it turned out, our reservation was not only guaranteed, the room was prepaid. But that did not impress our imperturbable host, who could think of nothing more helpful than to remind us that we had to surrender the room no later than 5:00 PM, even though our flight to Johannesburg was not scheduled to leave until 10:30 pm. Peter sardonically pointed to the possibility that our day room might not be ready until we were required to leave it!

And so we sat at a little table in this humongous sterile Sheraton lobby, devoid of anything except a pathetic, unmanned tiny fast food stand that showed little promise for service of any kind. Frustrated to the extreme, Peter ambled off to find water to drink with some aspirin, as he was developing a headache. No luck, as the Germans consider water fountains unsanitary. It was at this point of utter desperation, after we had already waited an hour in the deserted lobby, that Peter noticed and stopped an important looking man with a Sheraton identification badge pinned on his lapel. He turned out to be Herr Roland Ohlberger, the Hoteldirektor (Manager, to us). After listening to our tale of woes, he not only got us some water but, more importantly, managed to free a room for us in five minutes.

Alas, although the room was spacious and comfortably appointed, we were doomed to gain our badly needed rest separately in twin beds, not the king for which we had paid. First, Lufthansa would not let us sit together and now Starwood would not let us sleep together … There must be a hidden message there. Later, as we prematurely vacated the premises, we renewed our vow to never again frequent a Starwood product.

Since we had lots of time between the 5:00 pm expulsion from our day room and the 10:30 pm departure of our flight to Johannesburg, we decided to sample the fare of the best restaurant in the hotel. This turned out to be an excellent experience. The food and wine was quite good, consistent with the hotel’s luxury label, but Peter was impressed with two things in particular; the décor was that of a Rathskeller or Bierstubbe, and was a pleasant counterpoise to the sterile lobby. The other was the Bauerbrot (peasant bread) with schmaltz (lard) served with the meal. We almost felt as if we were in a Heuringer near Vienna.

Back at the airport, we cleared passport control and security once again and eventually boarded our Lufthansa plane for the ten hour night flight to Johannesburg. It seemed very long, but on the whole not too unpleasant. We were able to sit together. As usual, Joyce slept, Peter did not. When we landed at about 8:30 am in Johannesburg, there was a jet-way, the distance to passport control and the lines there were tolerable, we got our four heavy checked bags back in short order and after we wheeled them and our other four on-board bags past Customs, we mercifully found two porters who helped us and our baggage reach the Domestic Terminal where we checked in for the last leg of our journey, this time with Nationwide Air.

We left Johannesburg at about 1:00 pm for Cape Town and got in at about 3:00 pm amidst a raging rain storm. After we collected all of our baggage and located our rental car, we had our test of fire. The “we” in this case was Joyce on one hand and the hand-held GPS on the other. Joyce’s challenge was to drive on the left side of the road. For the GPS, it was to capture a satellite signal through the heavy overcast that was surrounding Cape Town.

Both performed brilliantly, we found the village of Fish Hoek on famous False Bay and “Amazing Whale” our home-away-from-home during Miami’s Hurricane season.
WE HAD ARRIVED!!!