Wish you were here
When I was little my father would sometimes take me and my little brother to a place that the English speaking natives of Cape Town, South Africa referred to as The Gardens . I liked wearing my sailor dress and sunhat and always remembered to bring a brown paper bag filled with breadcrumbs. Our first stop was usually the dinosaurs at the National History Museum, where I'd stand and stare with a mixture of horror and fascination at the huge beasts tearing at each other and leaving bloody wounds. Then we'd stroll through the rose gardens, inhaling the perfume of a thousand flowers. Voices speaking languages I couldn't understand blended with the buzzing of bees. Table Mountain, with its tablecloth of white clouds, loomed against the brilliant blue sky and served as the perfect backdrop to the roses in their gaudy summer splendor. Next, we'd continue along shaded pathways to the aviary, which housed a few scruffy parrots that refused to talk to me. I got a much more e