Even the luckiest of us all become blase about our successes over time. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that it is perhaps the biggest winners amongst us that are the worst culprits at taking their happiness for granted, and becoming well, less happy about it all.
Five and a half years ago I decided to pick up and move my life to the US, choosing San Francisco as my new home away from home. Years later cabdrivers, cocktail party minglers and dogwalkers all continue to ask me why here. I want to mock them in that moment for their silliness. I mean, America is big and beautiful. Living here affords me the comfort of a strong(ish) economy, unequaled opportunity, unrivaled convenience, a wealth of choice, hospitable and interesting people, and a spot centerstage on the world’s platform. San Francisco because it is not unlike Cape Town in its natural landscapes, mild seasons, melange of worldy people, and sophisticated culture. The choice was obvious.
I don’t laugh outloud at the question anymore though because the downside of Americans, I have learnt, is that while eager to ask about my home, history and harboured doubts, that is about as far as that curiousity extends. It is true – many do still believe we know or are related to everyone else in Africa, and walk amongst lions on Sundays. I don’t blame them. An American girlfriend of mine worked to continue that legacy by taking a trip to an animal rehabilitation center in Oudshoorn where her job was to take the lioncubs for afternoon walks. I also recall asking foreigners who picked up and moved their lives from Berlin, London and Sydney down to Cape Town why. It is such a leap of faith, an earthquake in your life of shattering magnitude 9.9, to emigrate. Even if it is not for ever. It feels like giving up on all you know. For most of us, change is something we avoid like getting parking tickets. Time is the only limited resource we cannot buy, and watching our nieces grow up, and our parents grow old, over Facebook is a sacrifice. Travel, like anything, loses its lustre when there’s too much of it. Ask anyone in sales who spends a decade waiting at airport gates.
So this weekend, in the project of reawakening my love for this country and city, I set out to fall in love with San 
Francisco all over again. Like a golden couple sharing a bowl of soup without the kids, I probed and peeked around corners and through doors. At first it was hard, drawing nothing but a dull numbness from the plain beauty around me. Losing one’s curiousity and wonder of the world about them is my loss. Driving around the blurry corners of the Presidio, I discovered a rough-hewn viewing site with millionaire vistas of the Golden Gate Bridge. For the first time I was able to finger why ”international orange” just works when it is bounced off a dusty landscape of slopes and hills. Finally, I agree with Architect Irving Morrow who selected the color for this reason. I watched one of 250 daily vessels moving like a slug under the arches, leaving a moist snailtrail path of evidence. A year ago, an infamous atnker smashed into one of the bridge towers causing a massive oil spill that killed over 2,000 birds and damaged 26 miles of one of the most prized coastlines in the world. Reports filled the blogosphere and newsreels of the pilot, John Cota’s reported sleep disorder issues and questions were raised over the effect of his stimulant medication on his ability to effectively navigate on course.
As the wind shifted, I buttoned up my coat reminding myself that this coldest time of the year in the Northern hemisphere will be over soon Salted caramel hot chocolate awaits at Starbucks. In the meantime, I will continue to work on that new year’s resolution to stay awake at the wheel. And warm under my Gap coat.
