Happy 2013. Nothing like getting back into the swing of things with a Sunday Funday rooftop dinner party. Anj whipped up her Cajun chicken pasta as Sayo popped champagne bottles (stepping outside on the patio, only to aim the bottle inside, straight for our chandelier) for Dimitri, James, and Cathy. With the peach roses and chocolate that Cathy so kindly brought over, it looked more like Valentine’s Day than New Year’s but we’ll take it. Eager to catch up, the Cape Town crew began our story before we’d even finished cheers-ing. “Woah, one at a time,” James interrupted, “I’m getting a Crash vibe here. I like it.” He egged us on…

New Years Eve, the holiday of high expectations, is usually a let-down. But this holiday weekend, we got way more than we expected, or deserved.

Sleeping three deep in a two-twins-pushed-together made waking up a bit easier on New Year’s Eve day, despite the jet lag (Ambien hangover) from which I was suffering. After a breakfast of stale croissants with diabetic jam, Anj, Betty and I drove to Ocean View Drive to pick up Dimitri to join us on our excursion to Simonstown and the Cape of Good Hope. Par for the course, Sayo was still in bed, surrounded by the whole group trying to come up with a New Years Eve plan. “Just go. We’ll get it sorted,” he assured us, still under the sheets in his sweats that say “I <3 Mom” down the right leg. We trust you, Sayo.

With Dimitri snapping away with his Nikon and Betty DJing with musical music, we were cruising down to Simonstown to see our penguin pals. After seeing the little fellas waddle along big boulders in water that looked (but probably didn’t’ feel) like Virgin Gorda, we headed to the Black Marlin for a nice seafood lunch. Anj decided on the Kingclip du Jour because when you’re at the seaside staring out towards Antarctica, you can’t not, right? When our food finally came, they delivered her not a plate, but a sword full of fish. So while we pulled out our butter knives to de-shell our prawns, Anjarae had Excalibur swinging in front of her face, dripping in bacon grease. Over our casual lunch, we laughed about how Betty’s “resting face” keeps her from getting approached by strangers, whereas Anjarae and I are too friendly, and end up in heart to hearts with strange old men. “I mean, we just don’t say no to anyone!” I yelled out mid-cackle. The table behind us, full of Excaliburs as well, turned around and stared for a good fifteen seconds. Uh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding?

After a gorgeous afternoon belting out “Pink pajamas penguins on the bottom” and “He Lives in You” to the baboon-infested Cape of Good Hope, we were wind-whipped and exhausted. Rally time. We headed back to Ocean View Drive to find out our epic New Year's Eve plan. Back on the patio, the sea split the sky in two. Malibu, upgraded.

But the tranquil setting didn’t match the scene before us. You could smell the stress from the overflowing ashtray on the teak table. “So do you want the conclusion or the story?” Dubi asked us. And here we go, folks. NYE let-down number 25 of my life.

Long story short, the EPIC plans had… fallen through. We were out of options, and it was looking like we were going to be eating pizza in our pink pajamas in our Cape Town Lodge twin beds at this rate. Sayo’s “I don’t call the shots, mate” wasn’t exactly helping as Dubi’s stress mounted. On the phone trying to coordinate with Anna, he was fumbling “yes, yes we’re all here. We’re trying to figure it out! It’s Anjarae, and um, Betty, and um, uhh that white girl from Bain’s here, too.” I'm guessing that's supposed to be me?

Back at the hotel, pizza in PJ’s was looking like an upgrade until we finally pulled together “dinner” at Lucy’s in Greenside. An apartment crammed full of girls getting ready, drinking Patron out of Solo cups like the 25-27 year olds we were, the “what to wear” advice was flying. Most notably, we peer pressured Anna into wearing Erica’s heels because they make your butt look SO good! It didn’t matter that they were two sizes too big. You can stand in them right? You’re FINE! It was New Year’s Eve, after all. If not now, when?

Fast forward to Caprice, where Dubi and Chuchu have secured a table, likely by choppin' their money. We beg for our “welcome drinks” from Don, the "cute bartender," even if it IS almost midnight. Broken bottles are everywhere, creating quite the hazard once the 3…2…1…HAPPY NEW YEAR champagne shower begins. Silk dresses become see-through, mascara masks are running, and hair everywhere is straight up Mufasa. It’s not pretty. In those good-looking-but-two-sizes-too-big heels we insisted she wear, Anna falls victim to the slip and slide of the dance floor. Blood’s flowing and next thing she knows she’s in the “clinic” (read: back room crack den) getting her two inch gash first aided by the club’s owner. Happy New Year!

Sayo and I are singing highlights from Les Mis and as we look around, our once-beautiful friends are starting to look like the opening scene of “At the End of the Day.” One victim is sitting at the table, neck-rolling one too many times, eyes at half mast. So Sayo does what any good friend does. He grabs the bottle of tequila, and “hydrates” her. One can imagine what follows. 

It’s ugly. We have messy couches, messy cabs, more falling, blood flowing and as Anj put it (rag in hand), “It’s just so. bad.” And yet trying to make “sober” conversation with the cab driver to distract him, asking how his grandmother made it to South Africa from Ghana and whether his wife was happy he wasn’t there to ring in New Years with her… these all seem like perfectly reasonable ways to undo any damage that's been done.

From the ashes we rose! One little New Year’s surprise was Dimitri asking Don, the cute bartender, for his number to give to Anjarae. Apparently a 3am “I can’t read the last four digits!” fit was thrown while in the McDonald’s drive-thru number three. The leftover nuggets didn’t look so good the next morning, but the digits seemed to be clearer, so there was hope. 

All ten of us pile into a taxi for six, which made for quite the entrance when we pulled up to the One&Only hotel. Shockingly, we were the obnoxious table at lunch, laughing loudly over our Amarula milkshakes, playing Miss Mary Mack and reciting our respective lines from middle school plays. The highlight: Sayo as the Constable in Sweeney Todd, “ Ello, ello ello, whAT’s goin’ on ‘ere, thEN?” It’s not about the number of lines, mate. It’s the quality of the delivery. Afterwards, we went by a day party at The Grand and tried to fit in with the locals from “SudAfukA." Surrounded by plastics - hair, boobs, bodysuits, the works - we stood out pretty clearly from the entertainment.

When we couldn't take anymore elevator house music and noodling in the sand, we met the crew back at the Clifton beach bungalow. One of those perfect sunsets where everyone glows and the sand turns pink and the shadows are sharp against the turquoise silver sea. Anj and I stood against the rocks, still warm from the sun, and took it all in with gratitude. This is incredible. A dance lesson full of new Nigerian moves and a few dance offs to Oliver Twist later with our new 7 year old friend, and we were on our way to Long Street.

Enter Don, "cute bartender." He wanted to take us up to Signal Hill with his brother, insisting it was the "local thing to do." My expectations were low, but The Twin Peaks of Cape Town, offered a breathtaking view of the city glittering against Table Mountain’s silhouette. Such peace, broken by the echoing hum of Long Street bars below. As we stared out into the night, Don asked us about Joburg, where he'd grown up before moving to Cape Town to bartend. I told them where I worked. “Oh, that school off of, uh, Beyers… something road?” Feeling like a "SudAfukAn" myself, I asserted, “Oh yes, Beyerskloof Road." But Anj caught me, “That’s the name of the wine, Alli.”

I was embarrassed...until the brother asks us, “So why do you think there isn’t a hotel on top of Table Mountain?” Is this a trick question? But Don knows the answer. “Uh are you serious? Clearly it’s because they’d have to take the bricks up on the cable car like 100 at a time! It would take too long.” That should have been the sign to get the hell out of dodge and leave them pondering these mysteries of the universe alone.

But hours later and we’re still talking to them, about the “evils of the ANC” (that was all them) to Don’s modeling career (showing us his fancy Look Book as he narrates: “That’s me with facial hair. That’s me without facial hair. That’s when I was wearing business casual. That’s when I wasn’t wearing business casual. That’s me with a six pack. That’s my strong jawline”). As he's narrating his physique for us, I can only shake my head.  Sometimes I wonder if we’re in the Truman Show.

The next day, we bask in the sun over the most lovely heaping salad lunch at Roundhouse at the base of Table Mountain and then lounge in plush  pillows by the sea. Looking up at the blue of the sky, I’m in awe that this place exists. Cape Town has surprised us this go around, that’s for sure, and we’re sad to leave. But when we arrive at the airport 50 minutes before takeoff and all of us get free Business Class upgrades back home to Joburg, I guess we can handle this.