Final Thoughts.

South African Subtleties
-"To Let" means the same as "For Rent." No one has inserted the obviously funny i to any of the signs we've seen, unfortunately.

-Servers in restaurants deliver the bill at a European speed--a suitable vacation speed, it's worth mentioning. They take your order and deliver and remove your plates very promptly, but it seems that they will never bring a check on their own volition. You just have to ask after you've been sitting at your table without plates for awhile. Sometimes, they will even come by to check on your empty table to see if you need anything, but they never ask if you want a check. Unlike in the states, the patron fills the tip out before the credit is charged, and the charge goes through a device at the table. If the patron decides to tip poorly, she gets to sit and watch the server go through the motions of typing it into the machine in front of her in an awkward silence.

-One must order a "filtered coffee" to get an familiar, American cuppa' joe. Servers ask you, however, if you'd like hot or cold milk, which I'm never prepared to answer.

-There is apparently no central heating and air in South Africa (some locals verified this fact for us, as we have obviously not inspected a lot of homes due to all the barriers surrounding them). This is due in some part to the good weather. The heating system in our room is basically giant square plates on the walls that one plugs in and turns on. If it was colder, the fact they don't heat up the room very well would be more of a problem.

-Not having a car means we haven't struggled with the fact that driving is done on the opposite side of the road. What's difficult, though, is overcoming the natural inclination to walk on a specific side of the street, of a walkway, or up a staircase, as the flow of foot traffic mirrors the road traffic.

-Green lights, of course, mean "Go" and yellow lights mean "Proceed with Caution." Red lights, at least when they change from yellow, do not really mean "Stop." Most drivers consider two or three seconds of red to mean something like "Get Your Ass Through the Intersection." Traffic laws seemingly permit this, as the opposing direction's light does not turn green immediately, apparently as a means to accommodate for this habit.

-South African soap operas on television include dialogue in a blend of both Afrikaans and English--something like our notion of Spanglish. What's funny, however, is how the network selectively subtitles this dialogue. Some of the programs have also had World Cup items in the background or being discussed as part of some strange product placement.

-Our motel, like any motel, provided us with a Do Not Disturb placard for our door. Having gone to bed near 5 a.m. after the knockout game, we hung the sign in hopes of getting sufficient rest. With the sign up, the staff knocked on the door at 9, called the room to get us to allow for breakfast delivery, and then called later to ask us to leave so the room could be tidied. My question: Why provide a Do Not Disturb sign?

A Land of Contrasts
The drives to and from Rustenburg really showed the contrast in the quality of life in South Africa. At a couple of points we skirted the edge of shanty communities. People walked along the road to and from major intersections, some spreading used clothes and goods along the route to sell. (Roadside window tinting, anyone?)



Less than 45 minutes away, we found ourselves near an upscale suburb surrounded by mini malls, car dealerships, and a luxurious golf community.


Inside 30 minutes from the previous spot, we found ourselves surrounded by nothing but typical, rugged African terrain.


Personal Records
-I've worn each pair of jeans I brought at least three times. Each pair of socks went 'round twice. T-shirts generally went a day or two, commonly layered over something long sleeve and reused as well.

-I now know why I own seventeen pairs of boxers.

-Stephanie has washed my team U.S.A. jersey and warm-up jacket in the sink. Ben has done some laundry in the room as well. Stephanie says I have to be careful not to make it seem as though this is a Chinese laundry joke. Regardless, they are very skilled with what soap we have and water.

-I, on the other hand, have made some dinners out of some truly non-standard items (tomato and cumin spread for pasta sauce?) and kitchen appliances that don't have specifics as to temperature or time anywhere on them.

-I painted my own face three times and decorated Steph's twice. I tied patriotic bandannas around my face, wrist, belt, and wife's hair. (I also dried her hair one night when she felt too feeble and ill to rub her hair vigorously.)

-I lost my glasses in a moment of exaltation at Ellis Park Stadium.

-My digital camera is haywire. It no longer zooms, the menu button has stopped registering, thereby making it impossible to change the settings or navigate through the photos.

-I have witnessed, captured, and experienced some the best football in the world in an expansive foreign country on the trip of a lifetime. Thank you for supporting, interacting, and joining us on our journey.

Adoption Papers.

I met a lot of great U.S. fans hailing from all over America. I met a lot of great Ghana fans, but none of them Ghanaian. Such is the nature of football when the tournament teams remaining represent a continent and not just a country. That said, you won't find many America supporters shifting their allegiances to Mexico now that the U.S. Men's National Team finds itself knocked out of the World Cup Finals.

After a 3-hour van ride, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rye, a trek through a dirt parking lot (over six carefully counted mounds), onto a stadium bus transfer, and through a series of fences, we found ourselves back in Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg for our last match of the trip. We spent some time at another friendly beer garden, tried our hands at ticket scalping, and endured the bandwagon Black Star fans before eventually finding our seats.

After only the third call of "quarter final tickets," we met Matthew, who hails from Mount Shasta, California. Matthew is in South Africa for a month-long internship, where his job is to drive soccer fans to their World Cup matches. Matthew, a new soccer convert due largely in part to the timing of this internship, unknowingly stumbled into the luckiest transaction in U.S. soccer history.

Scanning this beer garden photo, you'll see a homemade anti-Donovan shirt worn by a man in a green and yellow wig. The front of this Algeria fan's shirt says "Ghana's Newest Fans."

The fortune I felt at realizing our seating location is written all over my face.

We sat shockingly close, a mere three rows from the track bordering the pitch. We chatted up the man feeding the Jabulani balls to the players for throw-ins.

We sang. We cheered. We booed. The fans to our right were a veritable jukebox of nationally-focused rock songs. They worked with "Livin' on a Prayer," "Born in the U.S.A.," some unsuccessful Queen songs, and a nice little chant to the beat of a White Stripes' song. We watched Ghana take advantage of its two chances while the U.S. couldn't capitalize on countless. As the Black Stars hit the pitch, rode stretchers to the sidelines, and helped us vex our chances at a comeback, the feeling grew increasingly dire.

You saw me on television, likely mouthing an expletive that sums up the moment better than any writing I could do here and now. (This particular image was sent to me by a former student via Facebook. We are not Facebook friends, but he went out of his way to take a picture, search me out on the site, and send it with a heartwarming message. It's the most work he's ever done for me, come to think of it.)

Saddened by missed opportunities and surrounded by a large crowd relishing in the U.S. loss more than the Black Star victory, we retraced our steps through the throng of fans and locals selling an eclectic array of junk. We waited for another transfer bus while fans argued over how a queue works. We sat under another bunch of fans who'd adopted the Black Star, arrived at our van before any other members of our group, and then sat some more. A four hour trip to back to Jo'burg, through a mass exodus down two-lane roads, clogged highways, and three toll stops in non-reclining seats, and I'm rehashing it in the 4-o'clock hour before trying to get to sleep.

"Apartheid is exactly where it belongs--in a museum"

We spent our post-celebration downtime by asking our favorite Arrive Alive driver Collen to take us to the Apartheid Museum, a renowned South African attraction in Ormonde. We left the suburbs and headed south, past the huge skyscrapers of greater Johannesburg.
South Africans show national pride in numerous ways, from the flags, jerseys, and car decorations already mentioned, to the windows of the skyscrapers in the photo above and the painted freeways pictured below.

The museum does not allow photography once inside, so what appears in the blog here only represents the beginning of our experience. I will say, however, that the issue of apartheid in South Africa is immensely complex once one moves beyond the principle of segregation. The museum seeks to educate visitors on pre-apartheid conditions, including the history of South Africa's gold boom of the late 19th and early 20th century, its subsequent patterns of immigration, and mandated segregation and forced removal that ensued. It moves through emergent nationalist policies, the secularist regimes, and the political and social injustices, all the while emphasizing the oppression and tyranny embedded in the country's history.

We moved through this cavernous museum feeling both informed and overwhelmed--not due to the manner in which the attractions were designed to educate, but in the amount of information the museum sought to include. The site also boasts a wing dedicated to the life of Nelson Mandela, including the details of his 27-year imprisonment and the impact of his release and eventual peace negotiations on South Africa and the world.

Steph approaching the pillars outside the Apartheid Museum. Each includes a word: Democracy, Equality, Reconciliation, and Diversity.

Also outside, the quote from Nelson Mandela reads: "To be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others."

A park bench designated "Europeans Only."

You enter by choosing one of two absolutes. Ben contemplates the impossible: Which entrance does a half-Asian, half-European use?

We ended up rushing through some of the later exhibits because of a pre-arranged pickup with Collen at 3:00. It's safe to say that if you find yourself in Jo'burg, dedicate a good portion of the day to the Apartheid Museum. Not only should guests of the nation understand the (recent) history of the country, but the museum allows its visitors an opportunity to contemplate the ways in which humans have tried and failed to justify their ignorance.

The Greatest Game in U.S. Men's Soccer History?

The couch of our room before the arrival of the bus, which again showed late. In Pretoria, our guide decided to park us in an awkward location, walk us to a gate, and say, "Meet me here when it's over." None of it mattered, though, as we had over 2.5 hours to explore the grounds of the stadium before the match.

The stadium in Pretoria felt new in the sense that it had little character. We had a nice chat with a South African couple who were glad to hear our glowing reviews of their country, telling us we needed to see Cape Town in order to fully understand the beauty the nation has to offer. When we learned they had only seen Washington D.C. and Boston, we had similar advice about the states.

Despite having tickets in block 1, Chris stayed with us near block 11 before the match. When he located his seat he was interviewed by Al Jezeera, providing his thoughts on the outcome of the game. He returns to England Friday, ending our union here in South African together.

Ben and I thought this guy set U.S. fans back about 50 years. Stephanie agreed, adding that he simultaneously misrepresented everyone in the legal profession.

Signing the Hyundai ball. This makes more sense if you've seen the Hyundai commercial that airs here twice every commercial break in which fans sign and then bat around a giant, inflatable soccer ball.

The Algerians loved us, and we loved them back. Early on our group was a spectacle, posing for pictures and obliging the opposing fans. The Algerian fans do not think, despite whatFourFourTwo posited, that the U.S.A. is 'The Great Satan.' After the match, I shook more hands of congratulatory Algerians than I can recall. We also had a number of requests to trade our U.S. jerseys or scarves with Algerians', a post-match tradition (at least on the pitch). With an upcoming trip to the knockout game, however, we could not oblige. It was fantastic to share the experience with this group.

Zooks in their seats, all hopped up on emotion.

Sunset from our seats in Pretoria just before the start of the second half.

Ben and I both have video of the celebration, so this is the only picture we can offer. Just know that strangers hugged and shared high-fives. People cried, sending salt water streaks through the images painted on their faces. Voices already made hoarse by hours of supportive cheering were forced to strain and scream again. It was remarkably unique, a moment of raw celebration and tremendous relief.

The boys again lingered on the field to celebrate with their supporters. They visited multiple blocks of fans. Here, they're making their way to our side of the field where Jozy Altidore jumped the fence and ran into the front rows. Someone threw a flag to Donovan, who happily unfolded it and draped it over himself.

Next up, Ghana on Saturday in Rustenburg. Then, unbelievably, we depart for the states on Monday.

Three's Company

The sunrise brought with it the resurrection of Stephanie, who after two days down claims to have her health restored. After a morning passing around the computer, shuffling cards, and flipping through pages, she agreed to venture out to the Arch for sunlight and sustenance. The walk consisted of rehashing the events of the previous days and unpacking and explaining the jokes Ben and I referenced from the times she was indisposed.

Because we've reached the final games of the group stages, the schedule for football watching has changed. We no longer enjoy three games a day from afternoon to night. Now we toggle between two sets of matches, first at 4 p.m., then again at 8:30 p.m. The matches share start times to ensure an ethical unfolding of the stage's final results. Things will certainly quiet down around here for now, as South Africa's beloved Bafana Bafana were unable to clinch a spot in the knockout round this evening. With the Cameroonians eliminated and Nigeria in poor shape, local attention will likely shift to Ghana and the Ivory Coast for some continental representation in the tournament.

As for us, we're glad to have all members of the suite healthy and headstrong for tomorrow's final group match versus the Desert Foxes of Algeria. The U.S. team openly touts a never-say-die work ethic, so the do-or-die scenario for tomorrow seemingly works in their favor. Additionally, for animosity's sake, we three hope to squash the Algerians because our FourFourTwo World Cup guide (our Bible these past two weeks) posits the following in its preview of the Desert Foxes:

"[H]istory breeds expectation, and Algerians, like most of the Arab world, will still expect victory against 'The Great Satan' (USA)."

We know you're supporting our mission here, and hopefully the mission of the Men's National Team as well. Keep an eye on the game tomorrow, and as always, go U.S.A.!

Man Down.

For Steph, groggy turned into a fever, hence all that rest while her brother and I explored the craft fair yesterday. Our team reduced by a third, Ben and I struggled to occupy ourselves beyond the obligatory walk to Melrose Arch, trip to Woolworths, and watching the afternoon football match. The wheels started to turn as the day progressed, however, and by the time the Brazil-Ivory Coast game rolled around--with Steph promising to emerge and watch with us--Ben and I had constructed a game of our own to coincide with the events of the match.

The game mandated general consumption at the following moments:
- When the announcer used the full name of a Brazilian player.
- Whenever there were consecutive headers (later abandoned).
- Whenever a team passed back to the goalie.
- Corner kicks (also abandoned).

We stepped it up for the rarer occurrences, using the harder stuff, poured into plastic NyQuil dosage cups. Consumption rules were as follows:
- Stretcher appearance - 5 ml
- Yellow card - 10 ml
- Any goal - 20 ml
- Red card - 30 ml

Steph played along with a Vitamin Water (yes, an actual Vitamin Water, dissimilar to the one described when I recounted our bus ride to Rustenberg). We all made it out of the game safely, but sufficient damage was done to a some green bottles. The only one who woke up feeling under the weather was, unfortunately, Stephanie, who again spent the day resting and hydrating while battling symptoms of a fever.

Ben and I again did our best to stay occupied, this time following a wild hare by--wait for it--walking to Melrose Arch, going to Woolworths, and watching the afternoon football match. After laughing our way through the second half of Portugal's seven goal demolition of Korea DPR, we had to clear out for housekeeping. We took a different route down a new block to kill some time, finding a gem of joint called Debonairs Pizza. This place is pushing the limits of food; look at this section of the menu and tell me you're not simultaneously intrigued and concerned.

For indulging my digressions, I'll tell you that Stephanie is plugging along. She feels better at times, but so much rest doesn't provide her with a lot of strength to enjoy those moments. Ben and I are keeping her hydrated and cared for, and she has tomorrow to continue recovering before our next scheduled game on Wednesday.

How much for Father's Day? I'll give you Father and a D.

We woke up today, America's Father's Day, feeling collectively groggy. We'd initially arranged for a 10 a.m. car to the Rosebank Mall where, on Sundays, a market and craft fair take place on the structure's roof. Stephanie decided to stay in and rest, but assured Ben and I to keep our plans since our final Sunday might include a game in the knockout round.

After a ride in perhaps the most offensive, overly air-freshened SUV, Ben and I wandered through the marketplace outside the mall, initially thinking the Sunday market we sought had become a permanent fixture. Booth after booth included carved wood, handmade trinkets, bead work, bracelets, and an array of soccer paraphernalia. From a distance, the booths looked to offer the same items. Upon more careful browsing, however, the items differed ever-so-slightly. It became immediately clear that the other shoppers came to wager with the locals. Ben and I found the back-and-forths going on around us fairly comical, both of us ultimately realizing we weren't out to buy anything at the moment.

Up a flight of stairs, Ben and I found what we'd read about. On the top level of the parking garage, an array of stands offered unique clothing, goods, jewelry, even books. It was a mixture of art, food, textiles, and more commercial goods similar to the permanent marketplace. We strolled through unique goods, deciding it best to eat chicken kabobs and a set of spring rolls before making any commitments. Ben went with art; I decided on woodwork. Before calling our ride we took a brief stroll through the mall itself, quickly remembering that we've been to too many malls and ought to just leave.

After we called our smelly ride, we fortunately caught the Soweto Marimba Youth League Project before bracing for a headache-inducing ride back to the suite. On the way, we went through a driver inspection point--an initially frightening moment for Ben and me. The police officer checked our man's license, circled the vehicle, and demanded he open the boot (trunk). We later learned that during events like the World Cup, random people offer up their car and driving services for profit. He also noted that such events increased the likelihood that South Africans are driving around with "illegal things" in the car.

Moments later, our car was stopped to allow the Slovenian National Team's bus to enter the intersection on it's way Port Elizabeth. Amazingly, the bus stopped, the players got out, apologized to Ben and I for the ref's behavior in Friday's game, and offered the Americans a spot in the knockout round. (I would only believe the first sentence of this paragraph if I were you. Happy Father's Day just the same.)

Outta Sight.

Game day. U.S. versus Slovenia. By 11 a.m., we were focused on the task. By 12, we were ready for the brief coach ride.By 12:45 we were frustrated by the fact that the bus arrived late. We boarded, but hadn't started moving.By 1:00, Ben meant business. At 1:30, we were outside of Ellis Park Stadium, a beautiful facility and the infamous site of the South African Springboks' rugby world cup victory in 1995. (Note the presence of Chris, the infamous "lost boy" from the U.S.-England game and the subplot of my entry.)


The South African fans in attendance were jubilant. Upon entry, many cheered the foreigners, and one man asked to take a photo with us. Apparently we located the only person in the world who cannot take a photo--it took three or four tries and all somehow cut off huge chunks of the group. After finding a capable photographer and striking yet another pose, we told our new fan, "Go U.S." to which he replied, "Sure sure" (pronounced rapidly, shoshow) a common South African response. But then he added an, "ATL," hip-hop culture's call sign for Atlanta, Georgia. After some confused looks and a hearty laugh, we made our way towards the festivities outside the stadium, something we were not able to do in Rustenberg last week.

Our journey offered a mingling of Yanks, Slovenians, and South Africans. After getting clarification on the reason for Slovenia's green jersey and red, white, and blue flag, we asked the question on everyone's mind: Why use Charlie Brown's jagged stripe on the jersey? It's not about Peanuts, one fan said, it's the mountains in Slovenia, and the one in the center is taller than those that surround it.

We found the Slovenians to be extremely proud. We learned that they enjoy Sacramento's reception of their native Beno Udrih. They reminded us ad nauseam that their country contains only 2 million people. Given that fact, we found the number of supporters present at Ellis Park to be quite impressive. They also mentioned that Slovenia's publicity for the World Cup cast Johannesburg and South Africa itself in quite a dangerous light--not unlike that in some mediums in the U.S. The experience for these fans, however, had so far unfolded contrary to those warnings. They admitted South Africa felt safer and more welcoming than did Korea during their World Cup travels in 2002. (These sentiments may have been, in part, a result of the eager, cheery beer vendors in Budweiser's beer garden behind us.)

In a fit of anger after the game, Ben ultimately regretted bonding with this Slovenian, for obvious reasons.


Once inside, we had yet another reason to smile. Stephanie had unknowingly purchased tickets located in the first row of the upper deck, an unobstructed location where we could drape our flags, hover over the ledge, and slap the glass excitedly. Strangley, even with people standing behind us, the usher told us to sit on more than one occasion.
We watched the re-airing of the match again this morning. Apparently these seats also led to a television camera capturing me jumping up and down (twice, briefly). While the location of the seats no doubt increased the likelihood that the cameras would focus in our direction, having someone playing a hand drum to my right certainly didn't hurt my chances.

No one tells Ben he cannot stand. Later, he perfected the blasting of his long-coveted U.S.A. vuvuzela, conceding that it's an instrument that can only be mastered when one feels impassioned.


This stands as the last picture of me in these eyeglasses, excitedly celebrating Bradley's equalizer. Sometime during the fiasco associated with Edu's disallowed goal, they twirled into the lower bowl.


Ben, dejected and wearing the details of the day.


Our trip back to the coach was less treacherous than the one described in our trip to Rustenberg, but it was still flawed. Security blocked the route we needed to take, and the flow of people led us again toward unfamiliar territory. After an impromptu television interview with SABC and a subsequent wrong turn, Stephanie led Ben and I on a jog through the gates of the complex. With only one stumble on the way, she got us back to a bus that Chris claimed he kept idle on account that it could not depart without Zook, party of three, safely on board.

The Mourning After

No one debated the vuvuzelas this morning. Horns were nowhere to be found on the silent streets of our Jo'burg suburb after Bafana Bafana's poor showing last night against Uruguay. Today we opted to stay close to home, returning to our stomping grounds at Melrose Arch. We took the advice of every tour book on our coffee table, settling in at Moyo for fine African cuisine, South African wine, and an Argentinian stomping on the big screen.

Not a fan in sight until a busload of Hondurans rolled in.

Ben ordered the spicy lamb tagine, an African stew, with basmati rice.

Stephanie ordered the Isishebo curry, traditional in Durban, consisting of spicy lamb. In the background you'll see the country's Stellenzicht shiraz.

I ordered the cig cig wat, an Ethiopian braised beef marinated in fenugreek, here wrapped in flat bread.

We're back in the room now, watching a heated France v. Mexico game. It's quite cold again in Jo'burg, but the forecast shows a slight increase in temperature over the next four or five days. Tomorrow's match against Slovenia begins at 4 pm, so we'll likely be back on the coach by 6:30, thus avoiding the late hours and the near-freezing temperatures.

Youth Day, 2010

We spent the national holiday driving through the region in one way or another. Safaris, I've gathered, are supposed to be primitive. I imagine the open-air vehicle creaking and rocking through "the bush" and an expansive terrain where rare and wild animals live out the course of their lives, occasionally for paying customers. But I'm not in Africa for a safari. I'm here for the World Cup. But while we're here, why not spend today in South Africa's Northwest Province--Pilanesberg National Park--and take a chance to test my theory.

Our driver Nelson arrived early, around 7:45, and nine guests piled into the van eagerly anticipating all the day's offerings. Nelson's planning, however, led to a rapid deterioration of both our eagerness and our collective patience. After three stops (two of which were incorrect, one of which involved some questionable waiting), we had picked up more passengers and were northbound by 9:20, heading in the exact same direction as Royal Bafoking Stadium, the site of the U.S. v. England match last Saturday.

The travel time affords me the opportunity to explain some observations about this emerging country. For one, the smell of diesel in the urban streets of Jo'burg is, at times, offensive. Production obviously takes fuel, and it hangs in the air. When you leave the city, however, your nostrils must contend with the strong scent of wildfire, as smoke rises from chimneys, villages, and open grasslands across the horizon.

Another recurring theme here is protection. Everything, and I mean everything, warrants a protective fence or wall. Fence tops become sharp points, and when walls are preferred, spikes rise from upper tier. Then, perhaps to prove a point, electric fences or barbed wire wind above. All told, the South Africans enclose their worlds in 8 to 10 foot fortresses.

South Africans also use different terminology for various driving-related nouns. Stop lights, for instance are "robots." This is funniest in context. For instance, one man gave Nelson directions that included, "turn right at the second robot." We're still trying to figure out what they call headlights.

At noon, we finally reached the national park. We parted with Nelson, still perturbed at his pickup schedule, but more that he'd taken us on a totally unnecessary driving tour of nearby Sun City, a gaudy oasis for gamblers, golfers, and Ghana's Men's National Team.

Though Nelson had put my theory about the primitiveness of the safari in jeopardy, I tried my best to remain optimistic about the experience. The sights did not disappoint. I drew numerous parallels to Yellowstone--then reminded myself I was in Africa.
This rhino hung out by a roundabout.
These prompted our guide to make the obligatory "these are painted donkeys" joke.
We called it a wildebeest. The guide said "vile-de-best." Okay. You win.
We saw plenty of giraffes. The guide continuously complimented their eyelashes.

As we ambled out of the truck at the conclusion of our safari, Nelson and our van were nowhere in sight. Our guide herded us together again and drove us down the highway in his (windowless) safari truck toward Sun City at a whopping 45 km/h. We spotted road signs that indicated the speed limit was at times 100 km/h. Cars used the other side of the one-lane high way to speed by us going twice our speed. Even spotting a cluster of elephants from the road could not forgive Nelson in our eyes.

Certain members of our group felt--well demanded, actually--that they paid for a tour that included both a safari and time in Sun City. They wanted to take photographs of the palaces and hotel grounds and drop change in the casino. A majority of us, including Nelson, wanted to return to Jo'burg for tonight's Bafana Bafana match (South Africa v. Uruguay). "We're not here to sight see," we argued. Eventually, we found a compromise that involved Wimpy's Burgers, and in the process realized Nelson isn't that bad of a guy. He wondered to us why "some people" seemed to demand a false sense of leadership. He praised the U.S. and most visitors from there, saying that South Africans are rooting for our footballers nearly as much as teams from the African continent. He also swore he'd get us back to Jo'burg in 90 minutes, and told us he'd drop us off first. "If 'some people' want this trip to last longer, then I can make it so for them only." Another Nelson doing what's best for South Africa.

Another update on Ben's sleeping situation. We entered the room to find a new bed altogether. Ben is now luxuriously sprawling on a double bed. To recap, in six nights, he's slept on two twins put together, one twin alone, and now a double.

A Mild Winter's Bitter Revenge

FIFA worked with the host country to set up 10 fan parks around the country for soccer fans seeking stadium-style atmosphere for each and every game. Admission is free, food and drink vendors are scattered across a vast lawn, and the games are broadcast on a gigantic screen. Emcees keep the crowds engaged between halves and between games, sparing the viewers from an otherwise aimless broadcasting team with way (read: waaaayyyy) too much downtime between matches.

Today we chose to watch the first game from the famed "group of death" between Ivory Coast and Portugal. We expected large crowds. After enjoying a stroll through the Sandton City Mall, we trekked through Jo'burg's financial district to set up at the fan park. While the skies remained clear and blue, the temperature dipped into the low 50s. With the near-freezing wind chill, which often sliced through our jeans, the day started to feel like a battle of wills. Until now, winter in South Africa had been closer to October in Sacramento.


The large crowds we hoped to find must have read the weather report.
The soccer supporter scarf is normally a trendy addition to one's outfit. Today it was a lifesaver.

We sampled some of the food options today, which gives me a chance to discuss some of the fare we're finding in Jo'burg. For the most part, the options are similar to what we're used in the states, with some subtle tweaks. Thin, naturally rising breads and doughs are used for sandwiches and pizzas. We find panini-style concoctions, but they're not called paninis. Unfamiliar hard cheeses are put in salads and certain plates. Much of the vegetable options look familiar but go by different names (they offer a variety of strange peppers, it seems). The ketchup and pasta sauces are sweeter, and Ben reports the mustard is nearly neon. He also does not endorse the South African Lay's potato chips. Brewed coffee seems a specialty item; much of what I've had comes from a powder.

Yesterday, Stephanie and Ben ordered fantastic smoothies at a quaint restaurant in the zoo that contained familiar fruits but in different combination. Stephanie had apple mint passion fruit, for example, and Ben had something called Gummiberry. I went out on the farthest limb today, ordering mutton curry from a woman at the fan park. The food seems modern, even European (chips instead of fries, cafe con leche instead of regular joe). Overall, however, I must admit we're not eating terribly risky, but loving nearly every minute of what we find.

We have now returned to our hotel to watch Brazil take on North Korea in a much warmer environment. We were once again transported by Arrive Alive, this time by Collen. On the way out of the mall parking lot in the dark, Ben told Collen that his "lights" were off. Collen didn't seem to register this. When we approached a stoplight, another driver pulled up next to Collen, honked, and made a flashing-light gesture with her hands. Ben again told Collen that his lights were out when he didn't seem to understand what was being communicated. Collen said, "What about them?" and proceeded to punch the hazard lights, then turn off the interior lights somehow. Ben finally said "headlight" and Collen got it, gesturing and smiling enthusiastically at the other driver for helping him out. We arrived home alive.

By the way, if you'll remember from yesterday's post, Ben was dispossessed a bed. Well, either the staff is reading the blog, or they have a sense of humor. When we returned home tonight, this is what we found: