Oil and Water

It felt as if I were in France. Of course, I’ve never been to France, but gorgeous estate homes and rolling hills of grape vines is what I’ve imagined.

I wasn’t in France, though, I was in Constantia, the wine region of Cape Town. Massive oak trees sheltered each side of the road, hundreds of years old. Every 500 metres or so we’d pass a sign for this vineyard or that.

Wine making in Constantia began shortly after the Dutch arrived in the 1650s. Since then, the industry grew and shrunk and grew again. Miraculously, the vineyards remained largely family owned.

The endless variety of wine labels here isn’t a marketing scheme. It reflects the genuine diversity of families, estates, and styles producing millions of bottles a year. Were Cape Lodge not a dry house, I would buy a bottle for $8 or $12 (R50-80) and enjoy a glass with the amazing sunset. (If you’ d like, I’ll make some recommendations and you can head to Whole Foods and share the experience for $40 or $50 a bottle. The joys of import tariffs and sin taxes.)

The vineyards look like zen gardens with their rolling lines of vines. Driving through, we passed some horses then came upon the farm-house. Behind it were mountains, beside it the grapes. We were at Buitenverwachting vineyard. (No, I don’t know how to pronounce it.) Founded in 1796, this vineyard produces reds and whites and sells just over a million bottles a year.

The wine tasting was free, which surprised me. We were visiting, no intention of buying wine, and they wanted to give us free glasses of wine? Sure, I’ll take several. (Napoleon and Princess Diana ordered quite a few bottles, too. It’s world-renown wine.)

We tasted chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, cabernet sauvignon, and house blends. The coolest part, though, was talking to the hostess. Since it’s winter and tourists are sparse, it was just the four of us.

Vineyards in South Africa work much like plantations did in the South, except the workers are usually well paid and taken care of. We learned the hostess has lived on the vineyard for 30 years; she grew up there. Her children, too, live on the estates and go to its preschool. It’s certainly better off than a township. Odd to think both shack-ridden townships and grape-laden vineyards truly reflect South Africa.

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Our next stop was halfway up the mountain on a highway pulloff. After several kilometres of the cliff-hugging highway, we pulled off to the side. We had all of Cape Town Flats in view – the largest section of Cape Town not separated by mountains.

To our left was Constantia, full of vineyards and estates, including we one we just came from. Directly in front was the American embassy, quite a fortress. Beside it was the main prison (operating at 140% capacity). To the right was middle class housing, to the far left Cape Town’s prized Table Mountain. In the distance, beneath the factory smog and haze, was Khayelitsha, Cape Town’s largest township.

This one view provided a snapshot of society – the fruits of agriculture, the consequences of industry, the results of hatred, the masses of poor, the sparse elite, the civically refused.

We thought about the vineyard as we returned to the township. Quite the contrast. South Africa’s been a melting pot of oil and water for 300 years. We’re still waiting to see how well they mix.

Live and Love

“Lord. . .thank you that we can pray to you now. Send us your Spirit so we can help those in need.“

To experience serenity is unforgettable. To start the day with a Zimbabwian refugee in an South African township praying for the Spirit to help him serve others. . .that humbles one to a peace that is unmistakable. Such a peace is more serene than anything I can imagine.

One would think travelling abroad would bring chaos and unsurety. It certainly brings a change of scenery, but oddly enough the switch up brings more clarity.

When I sit at Samford, or Greenville, or anywhere for long enough, things begin to seem the same. I get used to the culture, the needs, the blessings…it gets comfortable. I lose sensitivity, I lose perspective.

When I head to New York and walk through Wall Street, it switches things up. The culture is different, the needs are different, the blessings are much more materially abundant.

And then landing in Hong Kong – definitely a different culture, totally different world, hard to even understand what’s going on.

Then Cape Town proves to be a world of dichotomies – rich whites, poor blacks, misplaced coloureds. Where do I begin with seeing the needs? In fact, it’s hard, because the blessings of people’s joy are so abundant.

But with each changing scene, among the Gucci purses and the barefoot children, the first class flights and tin shacks, comes more clarity.

Clarity that life is precious no matter where it is. Clarity that people love and want to be loved, no matter how much they hide. Clarity that the best way I can spend each moment is to listen to life – the heavens declare, the skies proclaim, the people reflect – and live with love.

The place doesn’t matter, Manhattan penthouse or Masi shack. People are the same, and Love never fails.

From Cape Lodge in South Africa

(written while in the Johannesburg airport, a day after New York and morning of my first night in Cape Town)

Two things made it clear I traveled to the other side of the world: the 15 hour flight and the change from 85°F to 2°C.

How long is a 15 hour flight, one might ask? Longer than you’d expect.

In fact, it’s long enough to get to know the person beside you (quite well), watch The Adjustment Bureau, read Bloomberg Business week, (try to) take a nap, read Bloomberg Markets, eat lunch, get bored, watch some movie about California wines, get bored again, read some more, eat dinner, watch The Departed, have trouble falling asleep, get another mini-bottle of wine to try and fall asleep, not fall asleep, eat 4th meal, get bored again, read some more, start another movie, eat breakfast, then land.

And how long is a 10 hour layover in a tiny, freezing-cold airport while exhausted? Enough to sleep on cold, metal benches sucking every Kelvin degree of warmth from one’s body. Certainly a downgrade from the NYC 2-star sketchy hotel with sticky carpet we stayed in.

But. . .I can’t get far with such thoughts before realizing tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping tangent to slums. There is no carpet to be sticky, no movies to be bored of, and no prospects of even being in an airport to board a plane.

Of course, ten minutes away is Fish Hoek, a previously whites-only suburb of Cape Town full of money, beaches, and their own country club.

It’s juxtapositions like this that keep me sober. During my time in Hong Kong, I realized that no matter in the business and Burberry-rich district of Central or the shack-ridden country side of Guangxi (广西壮族自治区), two things were always present: the creation of nature and the life of humanity. It’s these common denominators in every scene – slum, city, country, or suburb – that make me think about what’s common to humanity.

Beneath the Burberry and under the tin-roofs, what is common both?

Smiles. Frowns. Pain. Joy. Yearnings for life and longings for love.

So, with no shower in 24 hours and 5 more to go before the journey’s complete, I look forward to the next five weeks. They’ll be filled with table-topped mountains and men of a different color. I’ll meet women like none other and marvel at the wonders of creation. It’s gonna be quite the journey. Stay tuned. . .

Dream Like New York

When traveling, there are two things I diligently try bringing to pass. The first is saving every possible dollar on my flight, even flying out and in at odd hours and days just to save $50. The cost of such savings usually falls to my parents who so faithfully drive me to Charlotte or Atlanta, where flights are cheaper. Mom and Dad – thanks. :)

The second is trying to always fly through New York, and if possible, stay there for a few days (where, inevitably, I spend the money I saved on the flight). In case you haven’t talked with me for more than ten minutes, I love New York and aspire to live there.

So, on my journey to South Africa, I accomplished both. <pats self on back> I saved several hundred dollars flying out of Charlotte and into NYC on Sunday morning at 6 (you’d be surprised how many people actually fly places Sunday mornings at 6), and I stayed in NYC for two days.

And indeed was it an excellent stay. I had flash backs to the spectacular time in 2010 I was there with DuBose, Anne Marie, and Meg. See the ball drop in New Years? Check. The others further discovered New York is not their city. In fact, I think DuBose thoroughly hates it.

But this time, though solo, was just as exciting. I had dinner with Katharine Bierce, a friend and co-volunteer from Acumen Fund and a fellow StartingBloc Fellow from Boston ’11. Most unique and spectacular, though, was my afternoon with Laure – she’s a good friend from my time in Hong Kong who’s from France but interning in Manhattan this summer. Small world, no? Ok, it was New York, so maybe not.

The city, this time though, was different in two ways. First, I started thinking about what life there would be like as instead of just hoping to live there one day. I began looking at buildings and thought of rent checks and utility bills. I saw office buildings and wondered about paychecks and my likelihood of getting a job there.

That was depressing, so I went on to the second difference: starting to live the New Yorker’s life and not the tourist’s (well, sorta). I avoided the touristy places and jaywalked like the natives do.

Most favorite, though, was running in Central Park at sunset (looks like this guy’s picture). The view of the city behind Kennedy Reserve Lake is spectacular. I took a few pictures on my phone and texted the beauty to friends; they didn’t quite appreciate it. They texted back an “um” and a gorgeous picture of the sun setting over the mountains. Oh well.

Of course, two days is not nearly enough time so I’m looking forward to my next two in August, on my way back.

Pushing Paper and Tweeting Tweets

So I’ve been in California for almost two months now. Since week two I’ve thought, “Hm. I should write a blogpost.” But, I’m always either too physically tired in the morning or mentally tired at night, and of course I’m working during the day.

That is, after all, what has brought me out here: work. In January the founding engineer at Mint.com, Poornima Vijayashanker, began her own startup: BizeeBee. Four years ago, roughly the time she was churning up Mint, I was working for a Sassy Tails, a startup in Greenville. Since then, my boss from Sassy Tails (Liz Wiltsie) has moved to San Francisco and now works for BizeeBee. When a business development internship opened up there, Liz invited me to interview. (Or she opened one up for me, I’m not quite sure.)

Sassy Tails…BizeeBee…perhaps one day I’ll be employed at a company with a normal name. (And more than 6 employees.)

However, the small business culture is a fantastic one. Many people have asked what I do every day. Well, officially my card says “Business Development”.

I’m certainly not licking envelopes and pushing paper. (Actually, I asked for staples last week and Poornima said, “We’re a software company…I don’t understand why we need things on paper.” No pushing paper here—there isn’t any.)

The second day here I was handed a list of current projects, projects a real employee was working on before I showed up. Now they’re my projects to handle.

I don’t just update our Twitter several times I day, I’m supposed to help figure out how it fits into our marketing scheme. (Yay trial and error!)

And, while I’m doing that I monitor the conversation of small biz on the web (Facebook, Twitter, OPENForum, LinkedIn, Intuit, blogs, etc.).

Meanwhile, we’re stalking cities across the nation to find the best places to launch.

Below the surface of all of that, we’re looking for key partnerships (and figuring out what “key” means for us).

Then after dinner, we’re chatting about the grand marketing plan. (It’s top secret, of course.)

And my boss expects more than just compliance, she expects me to infuse creativity and invigoration into these projects. I love it.

Thoughts from Hartsfield-Jackson

(So, I was going to post this from the airport, but they charge for WiFi. Thus, it’s actually Thoughts from Hartsfield-Jackson as Posted from Palo Alto.)

Thought 1: My parents are awesome. They drove me all the way to Atlanta and engaged in theological and political discussion.

Thought 2: Hong Kong was fantastic; in fact I miss it. Anytime I see or eat at a Subway, Starbucks, or McDonalds I have flashbacks to good times and people at school, Sundays at ECC, and late night conversations with Daniel, Isaac, and Bryce.

[Sub-thought to Thought 2: I miss Korean Air. I’ll never get off that; they are fantastic.]

Thought 3: Dear Delta Airlines: I’m taking my extra two pounds on the plane one way or another. Good customer service would let it stay in the bag it’s already in (point Korean Air and US Airways). Bad customer service, Delta Airlines, would have me unpack and repack my luggage while in the Check-In line, because that makes sense. Ugh.

Thought 4: The flight announcements are in English and Spanish. Hm.

Thought 5: Airports are truly fascinating places. Around the clock they move masses of people and thousands of pounds of luggage through a logistical masterpiece. At least that’s what’s supposed to happen. One day I’m going to design an airport with Liz and it will be fantastic.

Thought 6: The Philadelphia airport offers free WiFi to students. Take note, Hartsfield-Jackson.

Thought 7: I walked by one of those grids full of screens with information and a lady said, “What they hell??” Exactly. That’s why I don’t bother with the screens unless absolutely necessary.

Thought 8: “The Homeland Security Terrorism Alert Level is currently Orange. Please maintain control of your luggage…” So, if one day the threat level ever reaches green (ha—I wonder if there’s even protocol for that), can I relinquish control of my baggage?

Thought 9: Delta has kiosks where one can scan the boarding pass of a missed flight, and it will rebook you and print your new boarding pass. This is ingenuity—no more lines, no more employees offering fake smiles. Now, if the creator of that system could work on the check-in and baggage procedures…

Thought 10: A Starbucks should not exist without seating space. That’s half the reason I go. My $5 coffee breaks down as such: $1 for coffee, $1 for cool music, $3 for nice atmosphere and cool seating. Without cool seating, I’m really getting ripped off.

Thought 11: I will be living in San Francisco this summer. Hm. This hasn’t quite hit me yet. It’s kinda like diving in the deep end, but of a different type of pool. I’m not expecting to post pictures of weird food or open-air meat markets, but I’m certainly not expecting things to look like Greenville.

Thought 12: I’ll be working for BizeeBee. Check it out: www.bizeebee.com/blog.

No one tells you…

When you study abroad, no one tells you how hard it is to wrap things up, to leave a city you spent almost five months rooting yourself in.

No one teaches you how to say goodbye to friends who will move time zones away.

The believers that provided such warmth sing with me for the last time; unlike high school, there will be no reunion.

I am wholly uncertain about what life will be like back home. What has been so familiar for twenty years will be seen with quite a new perspective when I land.

And when I say goodbye to friends here, I know not when or if I’ll see them again. They are not reachable on a weekend trip; I cannot have them over for fall break.

The train ride to the airport slowly murders my illusion that this flight is just for a weekend trip, that I’ll see everyone in class on Monday, at Axiom on Friday.

I dove in the deep end and now the lifeguard’s blown the adult-swim whistle; everyone’s going home. The water’s gotten eerily calm, the splashing excitement turned still.

Of course I’d do it all over again–no doubt.

But no one tells you about these things, so when you’ve just gotten settled in and begin living life in a new world, it’s time to pack up and go home, and learn how to live that life again.

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“No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow.”
“A wise traveler never despises his own country.”

Out of Focus

I would say even the best writers nor Pulitzer photographers can truly capture what we live. There are parts of life that just transcend photographs and writing. We try to catch those parts in five by seven frames and double spaced pages, but we fail.

Of course, we do stand in awe of the half-captured moments pictures and prose keep for us. These arts stun us because a photograph can remember a moment of surprise; a paragraph can bottle up the smells of a beach. What the photographer and writer can do is freeze a moment of joy, sorrow, sadness, celebration, etc…

But the weakness, where these arts and artists fail us (but not the their fault), is they can only capture a moment; in fact only a part of a moment.

What am I to do when I see joy, sorrow, sadness, and celebration all at once? What am I to write when I sit on the beach and behind it see a mountain? I walk off streets filled with joy, but sadness sits at my table. My heart is pulled into tensions, but still compassion seems to scream louder.

How am I to capture this? What frame, sentence, what verbiage, what language? These moments are powerful enough to freeze our mind and pause our lives. How does that fit into pixels or wiggle between the lines of a Moleskine? No matter how hard I try, some crucial aspect of what I want to capture always seems out of focus.

I am convinced that it cannot be captured, and I’m convinced it’s why we travel. We travel to experience what pictures and prose only give us things to dream about. In the streets of Rome or the hutongs of Beijing, by the beach, in the mountains, by the African drummer these dreams wisp down from the clouds and build themselves into our lives, and our lives into those whom we meet.

Such moments are so precious we want to remember them. But when you look at picture or when you read a story—do not let that be the end. No, it should be the preface to your journey, a journey where you come back half captured in a frame, half written in a journal, but fully remembering the time of your life.

Point and Shoot

A clear day–not only can I see the skyline, but also the mountain behind it. The view is overwhelming; mountain or city, which am I looking at?

I see why Hong Kong holds such pride in its skyline; the setting is one few others can boast. It looks like the ying and yang tried to guide a harmonious mix of nature’s jungles and those of concrete. They tried, but the concrete and steel, like kudzu, took over.

When such beautiful days like this come along, why am I without my camera? A photographer should carry his camera like a doctor carries malpractice insurance—you never know when you’ll need it, except for when you don’t have it.

From far left to far right and all behind me is the skyline of Hong Kong—I am standing in the middle of it. This is my home–for a few more days, at least. An odd character with different moods on each street. The ocean runs through its heart, and it’s all surrounded by mountains. The sun is shining crisply, turning the windows into glittery sparkles—and I with no camera.

My heavy sigh went unheard, it blended into the breeze of the sea and the streets. Tour groups pass by, both young and quite old. From China and further abroad, they are herded around by those brightly colored flags.

Below me children are playing. I watch boats and barges slide by. The skyline stands still, but energy is moving all within the city.

And I think–were it my great-grandfather standing here during his time, he would hold no camera. Were it my grandmother here with me even now, she wouldn’t know how to use one. Past generations have saved their memories without a shutter, so for today I think I can too.

From my bag I take the Moleskine and from my pocket a Pilot G2 pen—the lines of my journal and the strokes of my pen will capture the memories of this day.

But prose is prone to hundreds of drafts, photos are not. If only writing were point and shoot.

Tourist Trap

Laure and I were headed on bus 920 outside of Beijing to Myuan (it’s ok, I don’t know where it is either). From there we’d catch a bus to Simatai, where we planned to hike the Great Wall.

Well, the 920 was a long ride so I fell asleep. (Had it been a short ride I would have also fallen asleep; I was tired.)

Insight of the day: don’t fall asleep on the bus.

The shouts of people woke me up: “Myuan??! Myuan!?”, to which I thought, “Uhhh..where am I?” Which was followed by: “oh! Yes!! Myuan! Get off here? Oh ok, thank you! Bye, bye.”

So, Laure and I got off at what we very quickly realized was probably not Myuan—it was just a simple bus stop. Whether the stop was or was not Myuan we’ve yet to determine, but it was after this that the tourist trap began to clamp down.

All these men, including the one who apparently boarded the bus to tell us we were at Myuan, began offering taxi rides to Jingshaling and Simatai (where we would hike the Wall). I had heard that often Chinese will urge tourists off the bus a few stops early such drivers offer to taxi you to the destination for an inflated price; I assumed that’s what was happening.

But everything’s cheaper in China so we began to haggle with the price. Quickly being unsatisfied and seeing that these men clearly did not realize that we had bargained at the Silk Market (we knew what we were doing…), we began to walk away. Of course he chased us, went down a few yuan, and we kept walking. He eventually stopped following us, and we kept walking.

To where were we walking? I have no idea. I didn’t then either! Where were we? I still don’t know. But we walked—independent, stubborn foreign travelers walking along a highway to somewhere.

Half a mile forward we decided to walk back. We would catch the 920 and ride it out, see where it went.

As we approached the “station” we saw another white person. Woah! A white person!

She was an Aussie and seemed pretty confident that this stop was indeed Myuan. She then explained that this was where we had to catch a minibus/taxicab; there was no official bus to the Wall.

She had just agreed to a decent price and offered to split it with us, which is when the cab drivers quickly decided it was now time to renegotiate the price. Driving three people was much more burdensome than one, apparently.

So, for ¥80 ($11) we took the hour ride to Jingshaling. Turns out the scenery was worth the price.

We passed towns being erected like a child builds a lego set. One block onto another these towns were rising from the dust, literally. And people packed them out.

And during the sheer amazement of this raw development, I noticed that Pepsi and Coke have the peculiar ability to infiltrate every drop of civilization (at least the few drops I’ve seen). It’s quite amazing—all of it.

It turned out the tourist trap actually was ok, and probably made that hour more significant than had I been sleeping on the 920 bus.