WHY do I feel like such a hick every time I travel to Johannesburg? I lived in the city for more than a decade, for heaven’s sake, but every time I return for a visit I get the distinct impression that I have been a Rina van Winkle, asleep for a hundred years. No matter how smartly I dress, I feel like a Jurassic throw-back whenever I get off the plane. And the pace of the place! We in the provinces are a gentler folk. We have become accustomed to potholed roads, gently collapsing infrastructure, people who drive like it is permanently Sunday, wheezing busses overloaded with people, chickens and goats. We take for granted the sleepy suburbs, dusty service stations, hitch-hikers on gravel roads and the so-called ‘rush hour’ that only succeeds in waking the dog sleeping in the middle of Main Street. Alright, so I exaggerate, but you get the picture. Compare this bucolic bliss with the frenzied pace and energy of our largest city. My last-but-one visit was by vehicle: a beat-up farm bakkie that hiccupped and belched its way through Mpumalanga towards the City of Gold. By Benoni this bakkie was experiencing similar feelings to those geese that regularly get sucked into aircraft engines. It was desperately trying to avoid being swallowed and spat out by the swishing, swirling traffic and aggressive drivers. It strained every sinew to keep ahead of the bustle that was threatening to engulf it, and it was only by taking a slipway off to a garage, stalling the engine and then getting out of the car and watching the current of traffic like the Niagara, while mopping my forehead, that I was able to acclimatize myself sufficiently to dip a toe back into the stream. There are no lanes or by-ways or corner cafes in Johannesburg, just roaring highways, gleaming office blocks looking like descending space ships, supersonic malls and petrol stations. And it’s always rush hour. My latest visit filled me with apprehension. I was unaccountably nervous about things like accommodation, transport, safety, getting lost, arriving on time, etc. The irony here, of course, is that you could dump me in any city in the world with a rucksack and a map and I would be fine. But abandon me in Johannesburg and I would be a nervous wreck. I suppose it’s the devil you know, isn’t it? Anyway, I arrived last Friday at Oliver Reginald Tambo International Airport. The last time I had come through this airport (about a year ago) it had been a never-never-land of unfinished walkways, inscrutable signs, clueless porters, thumping construction and nonsensical directions. This time, it was like visiting a movie set. There were swishing doors. There were gleaming skyways. There were friendly, cheerful and helpful attendants. There were signs that pointed towards an actual destination. It was thrillingly clean and new. It appeared to make sense.  Feeling that fish-out-of-water sensation that creeps up on me whenever I arrive in Johannesburg, I diffidently asked an attendant the way to the hotel shuttles. The directions were clear and briskly delivered. The lady even offered to walk me part of the way, but I declined as I felt I was capable of turning left, going though the glass doors, going to the lifts at the end and pushing the button marked 0 all on my own.  When I arrived at the public transport terminal, it was to find that the airport shuttle had stopped running and that my options were a metred taxi (very expensive, said the lady behind the counter, everyone is complaining about the cost of taxis), or the Magic Shuttle. The Shuttle would take me to the Sandton Convention Centre for a mere R450.  I gulped. If this was not regarded as expensive – as opposed to the ‘expensive’ taxi – then I was sadly out of touch. The lady at the shuttle counter must have seen my expression. “You know what,” said this fairy godmother, leaning over the counter, “if you are not in a great hurry, you can wait a while.  When someone else comes for a trip to Johannesburg, you can share with them. It will cost less. And you won’t have to wait long.” And so it proved. Within ten minutes we had a small group of commuters. We all shared the transport to town, and my part of the deal came to a much more realistic R170. A lot of people complain about poor service, and rightly so. There are few things that leave a worse taste than being at the receiving end of a bad experience. But on the other hand, the sheer exhilaration of being shown exceptional service, like the staff at ORTIA, left a kind of euphoria that I still feel. Whoever they are, they will always make me well-disposed towards OR Tambo Airport, and optimistic about the service levels of our country’s tourism players.