Cape Town is a place without references. It’s not a city. It’s the way up to Table Mountain, an access to the freezing ocean, a place to come back to from different worlds and a multitude of adventures that you would only expect to experience in your dreams.
While travelling through Western Cape I can’t remember visiting regions. Instead, every day was a new journey, a new season. A long morning spent on the beach, a Sunday in the countryside, a scorching weekend in the vineyards, a night with no lights in the red desert, a cloudy and windy afternoon eating prawns while looking at the ocean.
Getting from the airport to the city is an experience in itself although the sequence of landscapes you go through is recognizably the same as in any other part of the world: first poor suburbs and ugly and derelict buildings; then the city center, chaotic and full of contrasts. As you get closer to Cape Town, you can feel the Mountain’s warning: compact clouds puffing and rolling down the edge of a straight table top like a blue alchemic vapor spilling over the table of a gods’ banquet.
Words and pictures Meraviglia Paper.
