tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85958836888384946782024-03-13T13:19:28.675-05:00Kate's Travel BugInfected by the travel bug...Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-79029882359385684412014-05-30T11:59:00.000-05:002014-05-30T11:59:00.750-05:00Lessons in Zambia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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30 May 2014</div>
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There is a culture shock that occurs when one travels from
the developed to the developing rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Uncomfortable, worried, sad, lonely, isolated, irritated describe many
of the feelings I experienced when I first arrived in Zambia two-weeks
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was busy, dirty, and
foreign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood out as one of the only
white faces in a sea of black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People stared;
there were catcalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt a million
miles away from home; I was a million miles away in every sense imaginable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the last two-weeks unfolded, and I
traveled around the country, my sentiments gradually changed as I really had
time to understand Zambia and Africa in general.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After arriving, we had two-days of rest and recuperation in
what is arguable the nicest hotel in Zambia before we were thrust out into the
heart of the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our first
excursion was to the city of Ndola, in the heart of Zambia, the Copperbelt
Region.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Zambian colleagues boasted
that Ndola was the cleanest city in Zambia as we drove into it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing aesthetically appealing
about Ndola.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an industrial town
full of copper and steel mills, dilapidated cinderblock buildings, heavy
traffic, roads torn apart with construction, red dusty earth, tractor-trailers
overfilled with metalwork supplies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Numerous
billboards lined the streets however<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>90%
of the billboards carried only advertisements for G. Rutherford Outdoor
Advertising, the company that owned them and sold advertising space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>G. Rutherford tries to entice you to buy ad
space by posting photos of people in cheesy poses with encouraging slogans
like, “You are never too small to advertise!” “Your advert will look very good
here,” “It’s party time, let’s advertise!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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We arrived at what we thought would be our hotel, only to
find out the rooms had been booked for the wrong nights and were full now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driving tour of Ndola continued until we
found a place called Fatmols Lodge, Conference Center, and Casino across the
street from a large sports stadium that looked straight out of the Soviet Era.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rooms we toured were awkwardly designed,
some excessively large with old gaudy pleather furniture sitting in oversized
areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The TV in the reception was tuned
to a telenovelo (Spanish soap opera) dubbed in English; a few people watched
the laughable acting in rapture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
realized the casino was not yet operational when I found three dusty, antique
slot machines sitting in a room with old two-by-fours and no electricity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dinner was served in a dingy, dim area with a
Coca-Cola refrigerator that had a built in alarm that sounded incessantly as I
gnawed on an over-cooked pork chop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
bedside lamps in my rooms had no light bulbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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We visited three different clinics in Ndola that were simple
but overall well functioning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All were
located in a gated area in the midst of slum accessible only by an unpaved,
dirt, pothole-ridden road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ate more
fast food in the Ndola region over the course of three days that I had in the
past three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First there was Hungry
Lion, also known as Zambian KFC, then there was Nandos Chicken, and finally
Debonair’s Pizza, which will go down in history as the world’s worst pizza
making even Dominos seem gourmet; I ordered the Hawaiian pizza for irony’s
sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The meat was mysterious to say the
least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was Ndola. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The next region we paid a visit to was the Southern Province
known for its sugar-cane industry, with the provincial capital of
Mazabuku.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drive to this region was
much prettier than the one to Ndola.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
drove through rural scenes containing rolling hills, plateaus, open dry plains,
and even a few baobab trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We learned
some of the common names people had in the Southern Province such as, Progress,
Loveness, Weather Expert, Liveness, Patience, Gifty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We visited a very rural clinic where women
had to travel up to 15-km on foot or bicycle to receive care for themselves or
their children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A large group of them
formed a line in front of a large tree where a hanging scale was suspended to weigh
their children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They talked about us in
their local dialect when we arrived, saying something to the effect of,
“Children! Stop crying! The white ladies are here!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t get a lot of foreign visitors out
in these parts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our only eastbound journey outside of the capital city was
to a region called Refunsa, to visit an extremely rural outreach clinic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no running water and the
electricity was out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the patients
was wearing Toms shoes; I guess they really do donate them in Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eastern area seemed even drier and for
the first time, I saw the mud huts with thatched roofs that one imagines seeing
in Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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We made a few stops during our 3-hour drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One was at tsetse fly checkpoint where a man
walked around our vehicle with a net, ready to catch any of these nasty flies
that carry the always-fatal-if-untreated African Sleeping Sickness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other stops were at produce stands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inevitably, every time we stopped at one, women
with bowls full of various produce swarmed our car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tried baobab fruit, which came in a large
fuzzy shell and had chalky citrus flavored meat, and also had something like
jicama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our driver bought bananas and
sweet potatoes and commented on the fact that the price for the produce went up
as soon as they saw “muzukus” (white people) in the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A drunk, mentally ill appearing man threw his
upper body on the hood of our car when we didn’t give him money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hand looked like it had been run over my
something heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our guides were very
excited to stop and show us a hot springs on the way home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not far off the main road, we got out to see
the hot springs water bubbling out of a short fat metal pipe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The steam smelled like sulfur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cattle roamed around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our driver, Chris, told us that people come
here to baptize themselves in the water, to attempt to obtain improved
fertility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said people had tried to
channel the water into a pipe, but the pipes continued to break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Salome bought some rape greens (like kale)
from a farm just beyond the springs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The western province of Zambia would be our final
journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To get to the provincial
capital of Mongu, we had to make a 7-hour car drive; two hours of which were
through a large national park/game preserve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This portion of the drive was beautiful in a desolate way; the park
consisted mostly of tall dry grasses, brush, and short trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We saw brush fires and even a few animals
including impalas, small monkeys, baboons, large waterfowl with organ plumes,
and even two hippos in the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
western province was extremely primitive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We saw countless villages on the side of the road that were comprised of
small mud huts with roofs thatched with dried river reeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These villages were extremely cut-off from
all modern amenities and reminiscent of how we humans would have lived
thousands of years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cotton and river
reeds seemed to be the only industry in this area. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The town of Mongu was perched just above a large flood plain
with views as far as the eye could see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was an unfinished bridge to nowhere and a stagnant harbor with
small fishing boats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the rainy
season, many parts of the western province become accessible only by boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During these times, there are real concerns
for tragedies like crocodile attacks while boating to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There wasn’t much water left at this time of
year, in fact Mongu was almost desert like and full of sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking around one of the remote clinics was
like trekking down a beach with black sand and no water; four-wheel drive is
necessary to navigate the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among
the sand and grunge also grew tropical flowering vegetation, like bougainvillea
and plumeria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ventured into the heart
of the slums in Mongu during our clinic visits and even visited a small market
place where we observed the community health workers as they did a call and
response song with the women about Family Planning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was dancing and clapping; it was
moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally back in Lusaka, which felt like a modern metropolis
compared to Mongu, we spent our final days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For our last clinic day, we ventured into an area called Kanyama, which
is one of the most densely populated areas of Lusaka containing at least
160,000 people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our driver, Chris, had
to navigate through a sea of humanity to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He mentioned he would avoid one short cut due
to the fact that “thieves” congregated there and another due to the high volume
of drug raids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The streets were packed
with cars and buses that did not appear to following any sort of traffic
laws.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thousands of people walked in and
around the traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women carried heavy
loads on their heads and babies on their backs so their hands were free to
carry more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw one man who had three
cases of Gatorade balanced on his head as he walked through the masses, trying
to sell the bottles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some men even waded
through the traffic, standing between the lanes, holding up a random solitary
windbreaker jacket, stuffed animal, or even an Ab-Flex contraption in a box
with a blond 80’s aerobic instructor on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Kanyama clinic was an experience in and of itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the nurse midwives gas a tour of the
facilities, which also serve the 160,000 plus people in this poor area. There
was the TB treatment area, the HIV testing and antiretroviral dispensing area,
the children’s clinic and weighing station, inpatient wards, clinics that
performed male circumcision, cervical cancer screening, and family planning,
and finally, labor and delivery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
were long lines out the doors of virtually every clinical area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point, a car pulled up, the door
opened, and a stiff elderly woman was dragged out of the back seat and thrown
on her granddaughter’s back and carried in piggyback style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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The labor ward was incredibly busy for a tiny facility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The delivery area consisted of 6 cots
separated by curtains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women were naked
and screaming as they labored and pushed out their babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw one young woman deliver her baby on the
cold hard floor with nothing but a trash bag under her to contain the amniotic
fluid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another woman was pushing and
grunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurse stood next to her
and smacked her legs, yelling at her to push harder, not even trying to really
help guide out the head that already stuck out of her vagina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flys landed on her newborn baby as it sat on
her abdomen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next door to the labor
room, was the postnatal recovery area, which also doubled as a laboring
space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a fairly small, open room,
packed with cots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were 3 to 4
women per single cot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some were nursing
their babies, others were moving around, grimacing with labor pains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The screams of the laboring women were very
audible through the wall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole
process seemed terrifying, and to think this is considered a safe birth in
Africa. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As I sit in the hotel lobby, waiting for my shuttle to take
me to the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel sadness at
leaving Zambia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I first arrived, I
yearned for home, for the “western” world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now I felt surprised at my melancholy in leaving this place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had begun to feel more comfortable here,
fascinated by the sights and sounds, charmed by the friendly people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is hard here, but the people make the
most of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They aren’t tied to social
media and the many petty concerns that we have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They appreciated life, health, family, and their country; the simple but
important things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could learn a thing
or two from Zambia. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-18820688949170331482014-05-25T15:48:00.000-05:002014-05-25T15:48:55.865-05:00It aint easy being a woman, especially in Africa...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
25 March 2014</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_XJMW_Ol7WQ/U4JUVVh4bVI/AAAAAAAAEwM/WwF3JakuON0/s1600/IMG_7314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_XJMW_Ol7WQ/U4JUVVh4bVI/AAAAAAAAEwM/WwF3JakuON0/s1600/IMG_7314.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The concept of being “born” is a crazy one; one moment you
don’t exist, the next moment, boom, there you are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The clock starts, experiences happen,
memories form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have no control over
by whom or how we are born, it just happens to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t choose to be born into a family with
kind parents in a developed country, but I sure feel fortunate I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we travel around Africa and I interact
with my peers here, I can’t stop thinking how lucky I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same time, I feel kindred to these
women; I could be her, she could be me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is harder for women; some may argue that, but I believe
that is a fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As women, the world
over, we subject our bodies to the risks of pregnancy and childbirth, we are
more likely to be the victims of sexual and domestic violence, we are sexually
objectified, we earn less money than our male counterparts, and even in
developed countries, we must endure sexual oppression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of us women of the developed world can
share stories of our experiences with gender-based harassment, abuse,
discrimination and oppression, but our sufferings most likely pale in
comparison to the sufferings of our “sisters” in the developing world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dgDAImdP2_M/U4JT7iY5MJI/AAAAAAAAEwA/VjDg-Y6rMAA/s1600/IMG_7253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dgDAImdP2_M/U4JT7iY5MJI/AAAAAAAAEwA/VjDg-Y6rMAA/s1600/IMG_7253.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me enlighten you with the facts about life as a woman in
Zambia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She starts off with fewer days
on her clock than we do, with the projected life expectancy for a Zambian woman
being 58 years (compared to 81 in the US).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She might consider herself lucky to even make it past the age of 5,
since 89 out of 1,000 Zambian babies won’t make it that long (compared to 7 of
1000 US ones).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will probably start
bearing children at a young age since 125 of 100,000 live births are to women
aged 15 to 24 (compared to 31/100,000 in the US).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will have a lot of babies, on average,
nearly six.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not all of those babies will
make it through pregnancy, as Zambian infant mortality is 56 of 1000 live
births (versus 6 of 1000 in the US).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are also fairly good odds that she may not survive pregnancy or
childbirth either since 8% of women of reproductive age will die during
childbirth (compared to 0.8% in Canada and 1.5% in the US).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometime during her life, she very well may
be contract HIV, with prevalence in Zambia of 14%.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zambian women might actually feel fortunate when they
compare themselves to some of their neighbors, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The situation seems to be particularly poor
in Chad and Sierra Leone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chad has the
highest adolescent fertility rate at 152 of 100,00 births and the second worst
maternal mortality at 980 per 100,000 childbirths, which translates into this
staggering fact:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">29% of women of reproductive age will die during childbirth</b>. One
out of three!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sierra Leone has the
highest maternal and infant mortality rates in the world at 1100 per 100,000
births and 117 per 1000, respectively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
few other countries in Africa had some shocking statistics as well, like the
20% prevalence of HIV in women aged 15 to 24 in Swaziland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there is the 39% female literacy rate in
Mali (compared to 56% in their male counterparts).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, there is also the fact that 44% of
girls aged 7 to 14 are employed and working in Burkina Faso and Guinea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T6WA0vNOIFE/U4JSdiyEgxI/AAAAAAAAEvw/o4Mf4IjyMsE/s1600/IMG_7179.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T6WA0vNOIFE/U4JSdiyEgxI/AAAAAAAAEvw/o4Mf4IjyMsE/s1600/IMG_7179.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The many reasons I listed are essentially why I am here in
Zambia right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Providing
contraception and educating women about family planning saves lives of women
and children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With an unmet need for family planning quoted
at 27% in Zambia (compared to 7% in the US), there is still room for
improvement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is why groups like
PSI, the NGO with whom I am working, have helped to establish Family Planning
programs in Zambia and similar countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is not as simple as merely teaching the local providers about
contraception and providing the birth control methods though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are many barriers to overcome here that
we simply do not deal with in the developed world and many of these barriers
are just inherent to being a woman in Africa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qS2YIa66W8g/U4JT9cnfPvI/AAAAAAAAEwE/BldRBZKi8sI/s1600/IMG_7248.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qS2YIa66W8g/U4JT9cnfPvI/AAAAAAAAEwE/BldRBZKi8sI/s1600/IMG_7248.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first barrier is education and socioeconomics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The women that I have seen in the clinics
here are not a privileged and educated bunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In 1998, it was estimated that 63% of Zambians were living below the
poverty line, making less than ONE DOLLAR a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This number has surely improved since then,
but I hope it illustrates the kind of poverty I am talking about here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the women that I have seen
interviewed seem to have made it about halfway through school, maybe to grade
7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One woman said she never went at all.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a whole slew of contraceptive myths we have
encountered during our trip which, to me, also highlight the lack of education
these women have: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“the implant can move
from the arm to the heart and pierce it,” “IUDs cause cancer,” “if the man’s
penis is very long, can it move the IUD out of the womb.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Half of the work that I have been involved
with here is focused on educating women, dispelling myths, increasing
awareness, and even identifying women in the community that spread rumors
against contraception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Transportation, or lack thereof, is another huge
barrier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Driving down the roads, we see
hundreds of women on foot with babies strapped to their backs or fronts, maybe
even simultaneously breastfeeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
they are lucky, they may have a bicycle for transportation, but it seems mostly
men get the bikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some rural areas may
not have a clinic or hospital any closer than 15-km.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the majority of Zambians have mobile
phones, the reception in these rural areas is unreliable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of these realities explain why only 42%
of Zambian births are attended by skilled professionals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This circles back to the maternal mortality
again…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The women here do not have a lot of control over their
lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The men largely dictate when and
how many children they have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
heard a number of women say they don’t want any more children, but they must
defer to their husbands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The men get to
have the final say about contraception and whether they can use it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the contraceptive counselors here
sell the IUD to the patients by reminding them that it is a “secret method”
that their husbands will not be able to tell they are using.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She can’t use the female condom for pregnancy
and HIV prevention, because the man will think she is promiscuous and diseased
instead of empowered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some groups,
the women don’t even get to decide when they can wash or shave their genitals,
as the husband must perform it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she
were to wash or shave herself, it would lead him to believe she was
unfaithful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the husbands even
send the women to do the manual labor like farming or selling of produce, while
they do the beer drinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They do it
all while tending to a couple small children at the same time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X6xUZmjVido/U4JSKAcMQDI/AAAAAAAAEvo/-O_l8GrV-OI/s1600/IMG_7232.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X6xUZmjVido/U4JSKAcMQDI/AAAAAAAAEvo/-O_l8GrV-OI/s1600/IMG_7232.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Domestic violence is clearly another major problem here
based on the number of billboards and posters around the country making public
service announcements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nearly every
other woman who is interested in the contraceptive implant (in the arm) has
asked, “If the man beats you and hurts your arm, can the implant move to the
heart?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Domestic violence is clearly all
too common a worry on these women’s minds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3cjhKRyGIPo/U4JSCMfwhVI/AAAAAAAAEvg/4GJqH_VQ5rk/s1600/IMG_7186.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3cjhKRyGIPo/U4JSCMfwhVI/AAAAAAAAEvg/4GJqH_VQ5rk/s1600/IMG_7186.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a> </div>
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During one of our clinic visits last week, the nurse asked
the patient if she would mind letting us observe the insertion of her IUD.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She giggled a little at first, looking shy,
but they said, “Yes, why not, they are my fellow sisters after all.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you have a rough day and feel like life
can’t get worse, remember your sisters in Africa. </div>
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<i>(Statistics I listed came mainly from the World Health Organization but also the World Bank, most stats were from 2013) </i></div>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-13648020735612696812014-05-23T14:40:00.001-05:002014-05-23T14:40:38.372-05:00Tales from the road in Zambia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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23 May 2014</div>
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I cannot imagine living in Zambia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The most redeeming aspect I can find is the
people; they are warm, friendly and quick to smile – at least the ones we meet
in the medical field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Driving through
the run-down towns, I noticed a lot of hardened faces walking down dusty roads;
it’s not all smiles here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the
people, but I find Zambia in general to be one of the most depressing
developing countries I have visited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Unfortunately, the Zambia I have seen so far is lacking in
natural beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The terrain is mostly
flat with some occasional rolling hills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then there are the dusty roads, open plains with tall grasses,
interspersed with large trees, and once in awhile, a slow-moving river or marsh
area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The winter weather we are
experiencing here now is lovely though; it’s cool in the evenings and warm,
sunny, and dry in the daytime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
only seen one mosquito all week. </div>
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The highways we’ve been driving are pretty decent by third
world standards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are overall well
paved with occasional dirt portions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
like to throw in a series of speed bumps and police checkpoints at random locations,
which creates a lot of traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
highway only consists of two lanes, which means there is a lot of high speed
passing going on, even with large tractor-trailers which is proving to be more
unnerving than normal due to the fact that they drive on the opposite side of
the road here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So as the driver (which
fortunately I am not), you are not only darting past tractor-trailers, but you
are also trying to avoid the man teetering past on his bicycle in the shoulder,
the teenage boy who sprints out into the street, the brush fires on the side of
the road, and the many broken down cars, trucks and buses who take up one of
the two lanes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our driver, Chris, has
been doing a great job getting us safely around Zambia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without him, we’d be screwed. </div>
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Spending three to six hours a day in the car has given me a
lot of time to observe Zambian life from the roadside:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at certain times of day, there are groups of
uniformed school children walking along, most young women have a baby strapped
to their back and sometimes a heavy item on their head, sometimes there are two
men on a bicycle in their factory uniforms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Also on the side of the road, you will find any number of items for
sale:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bright red tomatoes stacked into a
pyramid, dozens of watermelon, freshly made cinderblocks, butternut squash,
plates of honeycomb, couches, packages of charcoal the size of a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One town was selling nothing but calabash
gourds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to our Zambian travel
partner, these gourds are dried out and then used to hold and drink the local
moonshine. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bLKEMRrLe7g/U3-g2PSsy0I/AAAAAAAAEu0/Yc4IVFm2EaQ/s1600/IMG_7233.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bLKEMRrLe7g/U3-g2PSsy0I/AAAAAAAAEu0/Yc4IVFm2EaQ/s1600/IMG_7233.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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From driving around, it is clear that the Zambians are very
religious people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that half the
buildings we pass by are churches, everything from the United Church of Zambia,
to the Church of Latter Day Saints, and even the Jehovah’s Witnesses have made
it out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tiny cramped buses
that pass by have giant stickers on the front and side with slogans like, “God’s
time is the best time,” “Only Prayers,” “Favour from God,” and “Missing
Identity.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I am not sure the
religious significance of the last slogan, but it was on the side of the “God’s
time is the best time” bus. </div>
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It is obvious that Zambia is an industrial nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During our travels, we have passed by steel
and copper mills, oil refineries, cement factories, and large agricultural
corporations like Zambeef and Zamseed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The hand-painted billboards on the side of the road advertise for
borehole drilling and flushing or construction supplies like Harvey Roof Tiles,
“A house with out Harvey Tiles is like a zoo without animals, there is no
entertainment!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of the towns that
have sprouted up, are located around major transit points.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We always see a steady line of tractor
trailers at the major highway junctions, some are coming to and from the
capital city of Lusaka, others are on their way to adjacent countries like
Zimbabwe, Malawi, Tanzania, or the Democratic Republic of the Congo. </div>
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Zambia is not all industry though; in fact most of it is
rural with some farmland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have
visited a number of cities already, but between those cities, is nothing but
dusty earth, bush, trees, and anthills that seems to stretch as far as the eye
can see across the flat terrain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-83659372593768499882014-05-19T14:09:00.001-05:002014-05-19T14:09:33.177-05:00Polygamists and Sinful IUDs: Family Planning in Zambia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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19 May 2014</div>
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“Every morning she used to shampoo my locks…first we were
dating, now we are mating, penetrating…” went the lyrics to the African
rap/reggae song that so appropriately welcomed me to Zambia where I would be
working in family planning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After over
35-hours of travel time, I had finally made it to Zambia and was on the way to
my hotel at last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had literally
traveled to the opposite side of the globe from the middle of the Pacific Ocean
to southern Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the chauffeur
to the hotel asked where I was from, and I answered, “Hawaii,” she was actually
surprised to hear that that was an island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She asked if we had a Mediterranean climate there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly she knew about as much about the
geography of my continent as I knew about hers. </div>
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I had about 24-hours to try to recover from serious jetlag
before we had to report to work Monday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was to be working with another OBGYN from Seattle and a physician from
Madagascar to perform a quality assurance audit of the Society of Family Health
program in Zambia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Together, we would
spend the next two-weeks traveling to different regions of Zambia on behalf of
a global NGO called Population Services International (PSI).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would observe the local practices related
to intrauterine devices and contraceptive implants to be sure they were
performing these services up to code.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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A driver picked us up on Monday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaving the hotel, we literally made two left
turns and a right before we arrived at the Society of Family Health (SFH)
headquarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we got out of the
car, we realized that SFH was literally across the street from the back of the
hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We did not want to make you walk
on your first day!” they explained. </div>
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A bowl of both female and male condoms caught my eye as I
walked in the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the
first time I had ever seen a female condom since they model they showed in high
school sex ed class; let’s just say, its not a popular birth control method in
the US.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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We received a very warm, friendly greeting from the staff at SFH in an
office building that was as nice as any I had been to in the US.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spent the morning being debriefed by the
leaders of the reproductive health program, which consisted primarily of four
Zambian women, two of whom used to be practicing pediatricians, another who was
a midwife, and the fourth who had more of a public health background.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was happy to see this group of smart,
progressive women running such a worthwhile program.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were all exceedingly professional,
polite, energetic, and articulate.</div>
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During the morning presentation, we learned that the
organization, in place since 1992, focuses on HIV care, male circumcision,
malaria net distribution, chlorine tablets for water purification, and
reproductive health and family planning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The organization worked to train retired midwives who work out of government-funded
clinics to place implants and IUDs free of charge. </div>
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Zambia is healthier than a lot of African countries, but
still not anywhere near the status of a developed country; about 14% of people
have HIV, 591 out of 100,000 women die during or after childbirth, and the
average woman has at least 6-children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They said it was not uncommon to see a woman in her late 20’s who had
already had 8 or 9 children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly
this highlights the need for family planning options and sadly, les than 1% of
women were option for long-term contraceptives like intrauterine devices or
implants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This group is working to
change this by training more nurses and midwives to place them and have what
they call “mobilizers” go out into the community and talk about birth
control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The group here feels that the
tide is turning with funds coming in from the Gates Foundation and political
support from the first lady of Zambia who happens to be an OBGYN. </div>
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I have heard many a myth and misconception about the
contraceptive devices in the US, but they were even more interesting and
outlandish in Zambia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reasons women said
they avoided IUDs and implants included, “it causes cancer,” “it could move and
travel to my heart,” “it’s a sin to have a foreign object in your body when you
die, who will take it out of I die,” and then some men said, “we want our women
to have their monthly periods to clean them out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many women also want to have a lot of
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having many children is seen
as a sign of wealth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Polygamy is quite
common in Zambia so women contest to be the wife with the most children; they
say it offers them polygamist marriage security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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After our debriefing, we spent the remainder of the day
sorting through the documents that the SFH headquarters uses to train, audit
and oversee its many sites all over the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as a good overview to get an idea of
what we would be seeing and experiencing as we traveled to four different
provinces in Zambia to observe and audit the contraceptive practices over the
coming two weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-60298007969697004742013-07-09T16:05:00.001-05:002013-07-09T16:05:57.515-05:00Goodbye Houston<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
8 July 2013<br />
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We serendipitously arrived at the Adickes sculpture just as
a crane was preparing to deconstruct it. The men had already taken down the portion
of the sculpture that reads “We love” and all that was left was “Houston.” The
crane hovered menacingly over the “H.” Jason, Holley and I ran over to the crew
with our cameras in hand. Holley yelled,
“This is her last day in Houston! We
need to take pictures!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The men backed the crane away and patiently indulged us in
our nostalgic photo session. They even
gave us a ladder so we could climb up into the sculpture and perch ourselves
within the letters that made up the name of our beloved city. Before we overstayed our welcome, we climbed
down from the scaffolding and just as we made it across the street, the crane
removed the “H” from sculpture.
“Goodbye, Houston,” I said and then it hit me; this was really
happening. Today I would drive away from
Houston for good. I had been so occupied
with the business of packing, moving, graduating and celebrating that I had not
fully realized the weight of the concept that an era of my life was coming to
an end. I started to cry and within a
moment, found myself in the middle of a three-way embrace with Holley and
Jason. These were happy tears. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I moved to Houston three years ago, I had no
expecations. I had made a tough decision
to leave my residency program in Connecticut after what had been the most
challenging year of my life on nearly every level. Little did I know at that time that my move
to Houston would mark such a pivotal moment in my life. I was on the cusp of great change. I was just emerging from the sadness of a
painful break-up. After four years in
the kind of relationship that left me feeling raw and derailed, I was finally
ready to rediscover myself. Houston was
the backdrop to that journey. It wasn’t
long before I was welcomed into the sweaty but loving arms of that city. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On the surface, Houston seemed like an overwhelming large
concrete jungle, but I quickly learned that it is really the smallest big city
I have ever known. It wasn’t long before
I discovered the personality of its many diverse, quirky neighborhoods and varied
subcultures. Soon I found myself recognizing
the same friendly faces around town. By
the time I left Houston, it was rare for me to go on an errand or outing and
not run into someone I knew, even in the fourth largest city in America. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Houston is not the kind of city that puts all of its rewards
right in your face like New York or San Francisco. It isn’t until you start to scratch through
the outer layer, strike up a conversation with a stranger, read the free weekly
press, that you really discover the gems that this city has to offer. There are a plethora of non-pretentious
incredible spots to eat and drink, free outdoor concerts and performances,
hipster cafes, farmers markets, eclectic art displays and instillations, parks,
breweries, and the representation of nearly every foreign culture one could
imagine. While in Houston, I tried so
many new things that enriched my life; each novel experience leading me to the
next. From impromptu two-step dance
lessons from middle-aged men at Blancos, to crystal bowl meditation sessions at
yoga studios to delving into the athletic communities of cycling, crossfit and
even hash-running. I began to see that
Houston had so much to offer if you just looked for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even greater than what I learned about Houston, I learned
about Texas as a whole. After a few
years, I finally understood why the inhabitants of this state are so fiercely
loyal to their “heritage.”
Northeasterners can be cold, gruff, and blunt upon first meeting, but
over time will let down their walls, treat you like family, and tell it like it
is. Southerners act with the utmost of
politeness and hospitality to all, but you never quite know where you
stand. Do they really like you? Or were
they just exercising good manners?
Westerners are friendly in a relaxed fashion; they will chit-chat with a
stranger, but keep their distance, taking time to let a new person in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Texans seem to have the best of all of these qualities. They are a genuinely friendly group of
people, to the point where you feel welcomed and at ease without feeling
patronized. Texans are straight
shooters, but they typically manage to be blunt and honest in a pleasant
manner. If you give a little, you get a
lot from a Texan. Once you start to open
up, they let you right in. You can go
from stranger to part of the family over the course of a few hours. And then you are family just like everyone
else, no special privileges. “Get down
and dirty now because you are one of us.”
No strangers have ever welcomed and embraced me more than Texans
have. With a family from College
Station, all it took was sharing beers while we waited in line for BBQ together
that made us family. With a grandfather
I met two-stepping in Austin, a few dances and some deep conversations about
our lives was all it took one night to make a life-long friend. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my last night in Houston, I looked around at the people
who had gathered at the icehouse to say goodbye and realized that I have never
had a better conglomeration of friends in my life than I had in Texas. Friends from the hospital showed up in
scrubs, cycling friends rolled in on bikes from their evening ride, Crossfit
friends came sweaty from the WOD, and close friends baked cakes, made posters,
and wrote heart-felt cards. I took a
brief moment between the laughs, beers, and hugs, to take it all in, and I felt
my heart swell with happiness. I
realized that the last three years in Houston had truly been the best of my
life: full of personal growth and self discovery, fierce friendships, positive
energy, amazing meals, quirky characters, sweaty bike rides, humbling 5am
work-outs, long days at the hospital, and endless laughter. When I moved to Houston, I think I was fortunate
enough to be in a phase where the canvas of my life was freshly cleaned and
ready for new paint. Today I feel as
though I leave Texas with a quirky but beautiful work of art that I am proud to
display to the world outside. Somewhere
in the midst of the streaks of paint on that canvas you will find the outline
of the state of Texas with a heart over Houston. This is my ode to that town. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-24842996252120424822012-09-08T19:21:00.002-05:002012-09-08T19:23:39.336-05:00A couple days in Denver<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
25-27 August 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7TmA7o5LgSs/UEvf4dVps-I/AAAAAAAAC00/MElZe-OTtz8/s1600/IMG_8703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7TmA7o5LgSs/UEvf4dVps-I/AAAAAAAAC00/MElZe-OTtz8/s320/IMG_8703.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I immediately missed the convenience of the little
Albuquerque airport when I landed in busy Denver, Colorado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting to the rental car proved to be a much
lengthier process requiring me to take a shuttle bus blaring Christian rock to
which the other bus riders sang along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
felt a little out of place. I was also surprised at the landscape as I looked
around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had pictured Denver to be a city
surrounded by green hills and snow-capped mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The area around the airport is flat, brown
and arid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost wondered if I had
gotten on the wrong plane. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After waiting at least thirty minutes in line at the rental
car office, I was getting antsy to start exploring Denver. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got to the front desk, the woman told me
that I could either wait awhile for my compact car or take the Ford Explorer
she had ready right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the
green conservationist within me cringed at the idea of driving a massive,
gas-guzzling SUV, I had had enough of Fox Rental car for one day so I sold out
and caved in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had procrastinated on reserving a hotel room that night in
Denver until the morning of my departure. I had hoped to get a room in the same
hotel where the University of Colorado was putting me up the following night,
but thanks to my slacking, the hotel was fully booked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While driving from Sante Fe to Albuquerque
airport that morning, I had done a quick google search to find a hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I realize Googling while driving is not
the safest maneuver, but its what I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I even managed to find a hostel in downtown Denver for just $39 per
night for a room with a shared bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The man on the phone didn't even make my leave a credit card, he just
promised he would hold me a spot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Google maps lead me a bit astray on the way to the
hostel, taking me to the south part of Broadway, just about 3 miles away from
downtown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turned out to be a cool
neighborhood with lots of bars, eateries, hippie cafes and even medical
marijuana shops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had skipped lunch and
was starving at this point so I pulled off to grab a slice of pizza at a place
I had passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being a New Jersey pizza
snob, I wasn't too impressed with the pizza slice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was, however, quite impressed with the man
who I saw walk out of one of the bars wearing an outlandish costume of very
short 1980s gym shorts, a T-shirt with Bill Murray’s face on it, and a matching
sweat band.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked like these Denver
folks knew how to have a good time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eleventh Ave Hostel was right in the heart of downtown
Denver, as it had been described.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
walked into the lobby, I began having serious reservations about my decision to
stay here though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I should have
paid more attention to the reviews I’d read online that spoke of one traveler’s
experience acquiring bed bugs there….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The under-construction lobby of the hostel reminded me of a
run down post-office with drab colors, yellow fluorescent lighting, gray
furniture, and sketchy patrons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one
of the couches, there was a very thin and anemic looking older black man,
sullenly sitting there staring into space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A short and stout mentally retarded man with coke-bottle glasses paced
around the lobby holding a glazed donut with sprinkles while talking to
himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was greeted by a man wearing a nametag that read “Mark H”
when I walked up to the front desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
recognized him as the same man I spoke to over the phone with his unmistakable
raspy smokers voice. He was a middle-aged man who had clearly lived a rough
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His thinning hair was slicked back
into a greasy little ponytail, his skin dyed a nice yellow hue either from the
years of tobacco exposure or perhaps the a bit of jaundice from the drinking.
His right arm had a large scar on the forepart, an injury that rendered the
limb barely useable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered what
kind of accident had caused the wound; perhaps a late-night bar fight, an
aggressive attack dog, or maybe a former job on a factor line.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark H was friendly enough and remembered me from the
phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was one of those people who
likes to use your first name a lot in conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him that I’d like to see the room
before I committed to staying in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was really just buying myself a little more time to decide if I wanted to cut and
run to the closest Best Western I could find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He walked me upstairs through long corridors with red wooden doors,
slightly reminiscent of the hotel in “The Shining.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spotted a few European tourists in the
hallways and felt a bit more at ease to know that the hostel wasn’t really a
half-way house for recovering addicts and semi-homeless folks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room was clean enough and for $39, I
figured why not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I handed over my credit
card, $5 deposit for a key, and another $3 to rent a towel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark H promised it would be the fluffiest one
he had. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nzny-Z2qW1k/UEveXj5tSSI/AAAAAAAACy8/3cVc53OqUCU/s1600/IMG_8666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nzny-Z2qW1k/UEveXj5tSSI/AAAAAAAACy8/3cVc53OqUCU/s320/IMG_8666.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was ready for some exercise after sitting in airplanes and
cars for the last few hours and I was anxious to be out in the late afternoon
Denver sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was changing into my
running gear, my phone rang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was my
cousin, Drew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drew lives in the Boulder
area and we had been talking about the possibility of meeting up while I was in
town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drew told me, “I am parking right
now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he said this, I assumed he
meant he had just pulled into his own driveway when in actuality, he was
parking down the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he heard
from his dad (my uncle), that I was in town Saturday night, he figured he’d
better head down since I wouldn't be here long and just drove to downtown
Denver. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, he just so happened
to have parked his car a few blocks from my hostel, even though he hadn’t a
clue as to what part of town I'd be staying in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We took a walk through downtown Denver which was light up
with afternoon sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were some
architecturally interesting art museums and a beautiful capital building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside of the capital, there were bleachers
and other festivities being set up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tomorrow, this spot would be the finish line for the ProAM cycling race,
a professional ride that summits many mountains in Colorado over a 10 day
period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was happy to see that Denver
had a downtown that appeared thriving even on the weekends, unlike many
cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This place was really growing on
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For dinner that night, I met up with an old college friend,
Erin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erin had been one of my closest
friends during the 6 month period I spent studying abroad in England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hadn’t seen each other since around 2003
and certainly a lot had happened since then, namely her getting married and
having a new baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She picked a trendy
and delicious restaurant called Colt & Gray where hipster-type servers
brought us hand-made cocktails and lots of delicious things to eat like foie
gras terrine, beet burgers, house made charcuterie, and cheesecake in a mason
jar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erin and I still had lots in common
after all these years, including a love of food.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
In my gigantic SUV, I followed her to her house after dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The city was busy with nightlife that
Saturday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spotted quite a few brewpubs
I’d love to come back to on the way and was happy to see many people using
bicycles for transportation too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got
to meet Erin’s husband, his sister, and the cute baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erin was excited that I could possibly be
moving to Denver in the near future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
told me she had a friend who ran a CrossFit gym and that I could go hiking with
her other friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Matt’s sister was
talking about her recent “fourteen-er.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It appears that in Colorado, there are lots of people who keep track of
the number of mountain peaks over 14-feet that they summit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are about 53 of them in the state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had most recently done 2 peaks in one
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was ready call home and tell them
I wouldn't be returning to Texas any time soon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I left for the evening, Erin asked if I was sure I
didn't want to stay at her house on the air mattress that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought my hostel experience sounded a
bit sketchy, and although she was right, I was excited for my possible
adventure that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back at the
hostel, I found a parking spot in the dark, graffiti covered back alley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few smokers sat on the patio and I could
hear the loud music from the bars nearby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was thankful for earplugs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I am happy to report that I made it through the night
unscathed and without bedbugs or scabies (as far as I can tell).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I woke up to a beautiful, cloudless
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got into my running clothes
and found the closest café that Yelp reviews promised would have a great
espresso bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I washed down by raspberry
scone with a latte while I planned out a running course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Sufficiently caffeinated, I set off towards Cheesman Park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realized my pace was fast and my legs felt
strong, but I was struggling to breath and violently thirsty thanks to the
altitude in the Mile High City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
was a rose garden with on a hill with views of mountains beyond so I took
advantage of if to catch my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From
Cheesman Park, I ran down to City Park which was quite a bit larger and also
apparently preparing for the ProAM ride to pass through it that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got in a good seven mile run, and although
my lungs were burning, it felt good to run in the cooler and dryer weather
while I toured more of Denver. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I said goodbye to Mark H, the man with the donut, and the 11<sup>th</sup>
Ave Hostel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before leaving town, I
picked up a fruit and yogurt smoothie from a health food shop called,
Parsley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sign on the wall implored you
to cut up your American Express card as an act of defiance against corporate
greed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They even provided the
scissors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Juice in hand, I started my
drive up to a town called Longmont, not far from Boulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was heeding the suggestion of my friend,
Luke, who told me I should check out the Oskar Blues taproom there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It promised dozens of locally brewed craft
beers and live bluegrass so he knew I’d like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also figured I could visit with my cousins
a bit more as I’d learned last night they would be right down the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend Shan Shan met me there and we
shared a huge plate of barbequed ribs and pulled pork, drank good beer, and
caught up while listening to an impromptu bluegrass session complete with
fiddle, mandolin, bangos, and even an Irish stepper. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After lunch, I visited my cousins Drew and Seth at a test
kitchen down the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are trying
to start a business making “mochi.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
always thought mochi was just the fluffy white sweet rice candy that one can
find in frozen yogurt shops as a topping, but it turns out there is more to it
than that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They showed me around the
industrial test kitchen while they waited for their brown ride to boil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later they would make it into a sort-of paste
and eventually it would look like a flat thin square that one could use like
toast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the storeroom of the test
kitchen I also saw a lot of other health food items, like granola, gluten-free
cakes and chai tea, in various stages of production.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole place smelled wonderfully of
cinnamon granola.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t seen my
cousins since our grandmother died in 2010, so it was good to catch up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I drove back to Denver that afternoon, I enjoyed the
rural beauty of Colorado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Expansive
farmland and horse corrals led up to massive mountain ranges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the Colorado I had envisioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wished I had more time, but I had to get
back to Denver for a work function that evening. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The University of Colorado put all of the interviewees up in a cute little boutique hotel in the affluent Denver neighborhood called Cherry Creek. There were tons of shops within walking distance, including a very bustling Whole foods. I picked up an excellent cortado at a very hipster café which used Intelligentsia coffee beans. I got back to the hotel just in time to meet the rest of the group for an awesome dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant using mostly local ingredients on their menu. I saved room for dessert and met up with my friend, Casey, at a very popular ice cream spot. The place is an open-air creamery that serves its ice cream out of a circular building that looks like a giant, old fashioned milk jug. After waiting in a very long but quickly moving line, I ordered a mix of peanut butter pretzel and banana chocolate chip ice flavors. Somehow in 24 hours, I had managed to visit with 3 friends, and 2 family members, run 7 miles, take a drive through the country, listen to bluegrass, and eat and drink lots of wonderful new things. I was satisfied. It was now time for the work portion of my trip to begin!</div>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-62713717982281954822012-08-30T06:29:00.000-05:002012-08-30T06:29:08.732-05:00Southwestern Excursions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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23-25 August 2012</div>
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Southwestern Excursions</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WUq0bb_y1ZU/UD7nQ4RBgBI/AAAAAAAACwk/V-VpoyJ1uMo/s1600/IMG_8586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WUq0bb_y1ZU/UD7nQ4RBgBI/AAAAAAAACwk/V-VpoyJ1uMo/s320/IMG_8586.JPG" width="320" /></a>From an airplane, New Mexico looks like another planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The brown and arid land is dotted with
occasional bushes and vegetation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
expansive flat land is interrupted occasionally by mountain ridges as far as
the eye can see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Albuquerque is like an
oasis in the midst of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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In this sleepy little airport, it took me less than five
minutes to walk from my airplane to the front of the airport where I easily
found the shuttle to my rental car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
middle-aged driver eagerly lifted my suitcase on the bus, said hi, and asked me
where I had gotten my interesting necklace from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we all boarded the shuttle bus, the
driver came over the loudspeaker and introduced himself as Bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He informed us that the ride to the rental
car area would take about 3 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
went on to give us the statistics on Albuquerque including the weather
forecast, how many miles of visibility we had today, the exact time of
tonight’s sunset, and the population of the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he lifted my suitcase off of the bus
again, he said, “I really would have liked to talk to you more.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normally A comment like that would have
seemed sleezy coming from a middle-aged married man, but he did it in such a
genuine way as if to say, “You just seemed like an interesting person with whom
I would like to have a conversation.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
would come to find that this genuine and open sense of friendliness was common
in New Mexico. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After a long day of work and traveling, I was in need some
caffeine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right across from the
University of New Mexico campus, I found a café called Satellite Coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shop and its patio out front was full of students,
hipsters and aged-hippies; some were discussing their studies, others were
smoking marijuana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked an older
couple to watch my laptop while I went to the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman said that she would tackle anyone
who tried to steal my computer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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After completing a full day of interviews at the University
of New Mexico, I set out to explore Albuquerque some more; if there was a
possibility I might live here for 2 years, I’d better get a feel for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I changed into my running clothes after the
interview was finished and set off to find a trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drove east out of Albuquerque and headed
towards the mountains; in about 20 minutes I arrived at the foothills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were miles of paved running/biking
trails along the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that higher
elevation I could see the city below and dessert beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sky was bright with the afternoon
sunlight and dotted with impressive clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It took me about 30 minutes to drive about half of the perimeter of
Albuquerque.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finally parked my rental
car near a park that runs along the Rio Grande river where there were many more
miles of running and biking trails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Being used to Houston humidity, it was wonderful to take a run in the
cooler and drier weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My pace was
faster than it had been in the Texas heat, but I did feel a little short of
breath in the 5000 feet altitude of Albuquerque.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had dinner plans with my friend, Nancy, that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way back to the hotel to shower, I
took a quick drive through Old Town Albuquerque which is full with old adobe
buildings painted in rich browns and reds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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I met Nancy on Central Ave, which is also known as the old
Route 66.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For miles, this road is full
of restaurants, shops, bars, and other industry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the buildings have a retro or
southwestern design and funky neon lights that remind me a little of the older
part of Las Vegas. I drank an Albuquerque-brewed IPA at the bar in Nob Hill
where I met Nancy and her brother and sister-in-law.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way to the gourmet taqueria where we
ate dinner, they all kept running into people they knew, old friends from
highschool and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Albuquerque may be
a city but it feels like a close community. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We ended our night at a club set inside one of the oldest
buildings in Albuquerque called Casa Ascensia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It has been a long time since I have gone out “clubbing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I waited in the long line to get in,
wearing jeans and a shirt, I felt grossly overdressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The barely-twenty-one year old club-goers
around me were quite scantily clad even from my liberal perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that the new trend is spandex
micro-mini skirts or high-waisted 1980’s style short-shorts, even for the obese
girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trendy clubs with cover-charges
and dress-codes are not my scene, but I enjoyed catching up with Nancy, dancing
to some 1990s throwback music, and watching the drunk kids go by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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I considered catching up on sleep the next morning, but
decided life was too short to sleep in and got up early to drive to Santa
Fe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had always heard Sante Fe was a
magical place and so I didn’t want to miss out on an opportunity to visit
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Albuquerque was quiet and sleepy
when I hit the road around 7:30am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could see about half a dozen hot-air balloons floating through the sky over the
dessert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After grabbing a coffee Michael
Thomas Roaster, at a small café their roasts their own coffee beans, I jumped
on the highway. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Santa Fe is a quick drive from Albuquerque; with a speed
limit of 75 mph, one can arrive in Santa Fe in under one hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were some stunning desert vistas along
the way contrasted with bleak looking Native American reservation land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been quite a few years since I had
driven through the beautiful southwest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every time I do, I am taken by this feeling of openness, adventure and
possibility when I see the long straight road stretching for miles ahead and
surrounded by beautiful nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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When I arrived in Santa Fe around 9am, the town was still
waking up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before the hoards of Saturday
tourists arrived, I got to walk through the small but beautifully preserved
adobe city as the sun light up the warmly-colored earth-toned buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year, Santa Fe is celebrating its 400 year
anniversary which is almost hard to believe considering how well-kept the
structures are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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I had brunch at a restaurant called Pasqual’s Café, that I
had read had one of the best New Mexican breakfasts in town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a single diner, I had to wait about 15
minutes to get a seat which was at a large community table in the middle of the
small restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man seated to my
right was an older hippie, with his long white beard and red and green colored
Hawaiian shirt, he looked a little like a desert Santa Claus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waiter approached him and said, “Hi
Jim!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you going to have the usual?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I turned to Jim and said, “So, I guess you’re a regular
here?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me that he has been
coming to this café for 23 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
decided that I should probably order whatever he was having to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was called the Huevos Montelunos which had
tortillas, eggs over easy, beans, red and green chilli sauce, green peas, and sautéed
bananas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was delicious!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The couple seated on my left were in town for their son’s
wedding later that day in Los Alamos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The couple was from Los Angeles but hoping to retire in western Montana
soon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man told me he was getting in
touch with his artist side, that he had just written and published a book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out, his father was a famous actor in
the 1950s, a heart-throb named Glenn Ford and so he had just written his
biography.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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My flight out of Albuquerque was at 3pm so I didn't have
much time left in Santa Fe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent the
last hour checking out a small artist fair and the jewelry and craft merchants
located in the central square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of
the vendors were Native Americans selling turquoise jewelry. I couldn’t help
but buy a variety of their wares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
weren’t very open to my attempts to bargain a price, but I didn’t really care. I can feel good about financially supporting the Native American efforts. Before I knew it, the town clock struck 12 noon, signaling my departure back to Albuquerque. If I jumped right in the car, I would have just enough time to make my flight to Denver. If only I just had more time to explore....<br />
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-50396855829343469632012-02-29T19:12:00.001-06:002012-02-29T19:12:14.126-06:00Tents, Pit Toilets and Bovine Neighbors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
14-18 February 2012<br />
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Tents, Pit Toilets and Bovine Neighbors<br />
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It was a long drive from the Dhakpo monastery to the campsite where we would spend the next five nights. We slowly descended through the Kullu valley to a lower elevation, eventually ending up on road that circled the perimeter of a large reservoir. After about 4 hours of driving, the caravan of cars stopped at a pedestrian only suspension bridge and we got out and walked the last mile to the campsite. <br />
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We could see our bright yellow tents from afar; they were set up in a neat row near the bank of the reservoir. The campsite was located about 500 feet below the level of the road. We all carried our heavy bags and suitcases down a narrow dusty trail, pausing to let a herd of cows pass us. I was thankful to have a backpack I could carry easily on my back instead of a suitcase. It was humorous to watch some of the others attempt to wheel their suitcases down the trail.<br />
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It was a beautiful afternoon, and we all settled into the campsite. I was pleased that the weather at this lower elevation was at least 10 degrees higher. Feeling quite sedentary, Karen and I decided to do some strength training like sprints, squats and push-ups on the edge of the water. It was great to feel hot and sweaty instead of numb and shivering.<br />
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Throughout the course of our five night stay we worked four clinics. The first was about a 45 minute drive away in a more remote section of the valley. It was a beautiful site, surrounded by terraced fields and stone and thatched roof buildings. The weather was gorgeous that day and we sat outside as we interviewed our patients. There was a brief interruption of our clinic when a big local politician arrived for a rally. There were firecrackers, horns and lots of fanfare. The patients and our translator all momentarily left to listen to the speech.<br />
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I had quite a few interesting gynecological cases that day instead of predominantly primary care issues. At the end of the day, we were even sent a male patient. This was the first time I had seen a penis, in a medical setting, since medical school. I quickly called Max, the ER resident, over for a consultation about the man's penile lesion-I was way out of my league there.<br />
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The second clinic was located 40 minutes away in an even tinier town than the first one. Our examination tents were set up next to a small farm lot. We ate lunch on the roof top of a box-like building. I was really getting spoiled on the concept of an outdoor clinic--seeings patients while basking in the sunlight. Why can't we do this at home?<br />
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The other two clinics were located at a school within walking distance of our campsite just near the foot bridge we had crossed on the first day. The school site offered a great view of the reservoir and valley as it was set higher above the level of the water. The school children were very curious about us the first day. The giggled and posed for pictures, clearly we had distracted them from learning. My gynecology exam table was placed in a dark smokey room the size of a closet. The room was normally used as a kitchen and it had no electricity so we needed a camping headlamp to do exams.<br />
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On that day, our group provided a lunch for all of the school children and locals who visited the clinic. A man had come down from one of the local Hindu temples to help prepare the meal and was wearing a special outfit. I spent awhile in the "kitchen" which was just an abandoned building, watching the meal preparations. When lunchtime finally arrived, the children sat on the ground, neatly lined up in rows. They were served heaping mounds of rice, at least the amount of 4 servings. They were also given lentils, a fried yogurt dish, and a salad. Many of them had seconds. It was probably one of the largest meals they had had in a long time. It was also apparent why most of them had vitamin deficiencies and cavities from their unbalanced high glycemic index carbohydrate-laden diet. <br />
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The second day of our clinic at the school site, we had a small turnout of patients. The villagers told us that there had been a suicide in one of the nearby towns. A 23 year old man had hung himself and they'd found him that morning. He had a one year old child. They were preparing for his cremation. When there was downtime in the afternoon, the children performed a song and dance routine for us. Apparently it was a dance that is often done at Indian weddings. In return, they asked us to perform for them. Mandy, Karen, and Jess did some kind of aerobic dance routine for them to the tune of some '90's music playing on an iPhone. <br />
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In the afternoons and evenings, we got creative with different ways to entertain ourselves. For some people, I think it was difficult to feel entertained without television or internet so a few resorted to drinking cheap vodka and rum in their tents or by the water. <br />
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During the afternoons, we might sit around on our camping stools, reading our respective books. It was refreshing to finally be able to spend time reading a book for pleasure and not for study. One afternoon, half a dozen of us visited the local Hindu temple where a man in some sporty sunglasses gave us a blessing. The blessing consisted of some orange paint on our foreheads, sweet water to drink (or in our case, pretend to drink), flower petals, and sugary sweet rice puffs. There was usually an afternoon cricket game being played in the large field by our tents. The Americans were learning how to play the game from Ravi, the drivers, and the local kids. Karen and I did yoga one afternoon by the water. Another day, Jess and I went for a run along the main road. In a matter of 2 weeks, I had already lost a lot of endurance and what would have normally been a simple 5 mile run turned into a challenging event. The hill climbs didn't help either.<br />
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There were Hearts and other card game tournaments. Some people went into the kitchen tent and helped the cooks prepare the night's meal. One night we celebrated one of the medical student's, Shaneel's, birthday. Ravi had brought birthday cake mix from the US and the cooks did a good job preparing the cake in their rudimentary propane-powered oven. We drank beer and played music in our dinner tent and even had a little dance party. <br />
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There were periodic visitors to our campsite, both human and animal. Besides the boys coming for a cricket game, some of the other villagers would also walk through the campsite, curiously looking at our tents. Many times they were in the process of herding cattle. Other times, the cows showed up alone; they didn't do much besides stand there and poop. A few dogs took a liking to us, in fact one shaggy black dog ran along with Jess and me while we went out on our run. He was a very good companion. There was a little girl with a unibrow who we spotted many times at our site. Sometimes she was collecting sticks, other times she was kicking cow piles around. She always seem to show up out of nowhere, it was actually kind of creepy. She seemed a little "off." Max was even a bit frightened. <br />
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I enjoyed the camping experiences, overall, but was also glad to go back to some of the daily "luxuries" that we take for granted at home. I had not had a proper shower in about six days. Our version of a bath or shower was a large bucket of hot water in a "shower tent." It was difficult to even get all of the soap off of the body, it was cold, and at the end, there was dirt and grass on my feet. I had gotten used to squatting over a pit toilet, also known as a dirt hole, to go to the bathroom, but my knees were starting to feel sore. There is something wonderful about a proper western toilet. </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com3Pandoh, Himachal Pradesh, India31.66744 77.05902931.6539255 77.039288 31.6809545 77.078769999999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-35066405956714025882012-02-28T00:02:00.000-06:002012-02-28T00:08:33.096-06:00Three nights at a Buddhist Monastery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">11-13 February 2012<br />
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Three nights at a Buddhist Monastery<br />
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I was sure I had the flu when I woke up that morning in Manali. My entire body was sore from shivering throughout the night and lying curled up in the fetal position. I had tossed and turned, at times feeling like I was burning hot too-clearly I had had a fever. The hotel room was still frightfully cold when I woke up, so cold, in fact, that I needed to psych myself up to just emerge from the bed covers. I forced down some porridge in the cold dining room. When one of the servers asked me how I was doing that morning, I responded that I was cold. He agreed and said, "Too much cold, ma'am!" <br />
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It was a 45 minute drive from Manali to the site of our clinic that day. We were headed for a government-funded Buddhist cultural school to do check-ups on the children there. Our cars stopped at the bank of a river, just next to a narrow suspension bridge over a crevice at least 4 stories deep. We were instructed to take our belongings and walk across the bridge and down hill a short distance to the school.<br />
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When we arrived, we found a long table set out in the sun. The school teachers greeted us with warm, sweet chai and an assortment of biscuits. We reveled in these treats while basking the the late morning sun. Ravi took us on a short tour of the facilities. Besides the classrooms and dormitories, there was also the beginnings of a clinic on site. Ravi had been working closely with a local doctor to set up a general medicine clinic to service not only the Buddhist and Tibetan refugee population but also any local indigent patients. It was a basic but clean clinic and Ravi promised that on future trips, we could work there. <br />
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After the tour everyone scattered to different stations. I had Vik working with me for the day and together we did mostly a lot of well-child exams. I have to give credit to Vik for doing the majority of the work, and doing it well, because half the time I felt sickly and exhausted. Throughout the course of the day, we saw a lot of children with fungal skin infections resulting in hair loss, scabies bites, and awful dentition. The children were quite shy but adorable. They looked a lot more Asian than Indian, or at least what one normally thinks of as an Indian-looking person. <br />
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There were half a dozen people doing manual labor at the school while we worked at the clinic. There were a few women carrying large rocks from one area to another and a couple of ragamuffin children running around or staring at us westerners. I had noticed that one of the women appeared to be pregnant as I saw her transporting the large rocks on her shoulder and head. Right as we got ready to close up the clinic for the day, I was sent one final patient; it was the pregnant worker. <br />
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I could tell that the female teachers at the school were quite worried about her. They informed me that she had never seen a doctor before for her pregnancy and that everyday she was doing heavy labor. "Please give her some good medicines!" they women pleaded.<br />
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According to the pregnant woman, she was about 27 weeks gestation. Fortunately she had no complaints at all and had had 3 other normal healthy pregnancies. I was the first and likely only OBGYN she would ever see. I measured the height of her uterine fundus, easily felt the position of the fetus through her thin abdominal wall, and was just barely able to hear the fetal heart beat through my stethoscope. I reassured her, and the teachers, that everything seemed to be fine. We loaded her up with prenatal vitamins and recommended she see a local doctor. The teachers kept asking me if it was okay for her to keep working. How do you tell a poor woman to cut out her source of income when she has 3 other children to feed? The fact of the matter is that her body is used to this level of manual labor and thus it was unlikely to pose much of an ill effect on her. Sometimes reassurance goes a lot further than any medical treatment. I was glad I got to meet her. <br />
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At the day's end, we took another hour long drive to Dhakpo Monastery where we would be spending the next three nights. It was a simple and fairly small monastery complex located in the Kullu valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains. We found the place quite quiet when we arrived and we were told that this was due to the soon approaching Tibetan new year celebrations. Some Tibetans celebrated for up to 15 days for the new year and so many of the monks, or lamas, had left for bigger monasteries or others were home for holiday.<br />
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Beth and I had a simple room consisting of two twin beds with thin foam mattresses and a shared bathroom without hot water. After we dropped off our bags, some of us took a tour with one of the lamas. He brought us into the main temple; it was colorful and ornate with large gold statues of Buddha and big photographs of the Dalai Lama and other important head lamas. The temple was littered with many offerings to Buddha, mostly in the form of food items. <br />
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After our tour of the temple, I few of us lingered to wander around. In the basement of the building, we found about thirty young monks chanting methodically. A few of us peer back at us while we watched them. They were clearly just as curious about us as we were about them. <br />
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It wasn't long before they all broke out of their chants and went from solemn Buddhist monks to mischievous little boys. They all ran out of the room, fooling around, hitting each other with their books or cushions as they rushed out. A few minutes later a bell sounded and a few of us followed the noise. It was the dinner bell and slowly the monks all lined up with their own respective eating utensils. Some had large colorful bowls, others had plates, and one even had a bucket. Some older lamas served up dinner out of huge vats. The amount of white rice they were given was quite impressive. In addition, they also received lentils and spinach and potatoes. There wasn't much protein in this diet.<br />
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The following day, our clinic was held at a Buddhist nunnery. The girls were all shy and demure and with their shaved heads, it was hard to even distinguish some of them from boys. The site was ridden with puppies and kittens, between that and the young nuns, it was like cute-ness overload. But these nuns were not as innocent as one would think. When we were preparing to leave the clinic for the evening, one of our cars starting blaring loud 1990s music, like the Macarena. A few of the nuns broke into dance which was, at times, quite seductive. The others laughed and cheered them on. A few of the medical students in our group joined in on the fun. <br />
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We had our next clinic at the Dhakpo monastery where we saw all of the young lamas and a few of the local villagers. It was a very cold clinic located in the damp ground floor of the temple with no electricity due to heavy rains. We had to wear hats and all of our layers to be comfortable; it didn't make my flu-like illness any better, especially now that the diarrhea had started. I knew a GI bug was inevitable in India! The cold weather seemed to keep a lot of locals away and we heard they got 2 feet of snow in Manali. While there was downtime at the clinic, we huddled around the furnace, read books, and listened to an impromptu drumming and singing session by some of our drivers. <br />
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One afternoon, the drivers took us for an outing in the town of Kullu, located, of course, in the Kullu valley of Himachal Pradesh. Kullu valley is often called the Valley of the Gods as it is home to 360 different Hindu temple gods. Kullu valley was largely unknown to the western world until it was discovered by traveling hippies in the 1960s. They were attracted to the region not only for its mountainous splendor, but also for the plentiful cannibas that grew on hillsides. The town of Kullu is not a very exciting or classically picturesque town, but there was still much to observe with its many tiny box-like shops, street food vendors, and grungy alleys. We walked through a produce market where brightly colored fruits and vegetables were sold out of carts. The vendors were happy to pose for pictures too and laughed when I showed them the end result. A visit to the butchery market was fascinating and slightly disgusting. Half a dozen slaughtered goats hung on racks, some of them still dripping blood. Their decapitated heads were available for sale, as were their innards. There was also a nice selection of plump chickens and their feet too. But of course, there was no beef to be found!<br />
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Ravi took us all to a confectioner shop where we tried a bunch of Indian sweets. The Indians don't mess around with their sugar, these desserts were sweet enough to actually rot your teeth on the spot. When we looked for our drivers, we found them not at the designated meeting spot but standing outside an open air liquor store where they were watching a cricket game on TV. India was playing against Australia and the game was almost over. Most of us had no idea what was happening with the game, but it was fun just to watch the crowd of men slowly accumulate, pouring into the street to watch the end of the big match. They all had a big cheer when India won the game and then quickly went on their ways. <br />
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text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-wyxEeOPTHAw/T0xvXPuRUqI/AAAAAAAACdc/7vRkDi4DbPY/s640/blogger-image--282233364.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-wyxEeOPTHAw/T0xvXPuRUqI/AAAAAAAACdc/7vRkDi4DbPY/s640/blogger-image--282233364.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-buiYVFLJtRg/T0xvXT8Hu2I/AAAAAAAACdk/6KmhzPCBUCY/s640/blogger-image--245008005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-buiYVFLJtRg/T0xvXT8Hu2I/AAAAAAAACdk/6KmhzPCBUCY/s640/blogger-image--245008005.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RCrhqVuIWqE/T0xvXmFcBvI/AAAAAAAACds/Ew_uEEfSxzU/s640/blogger-image-6863835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RCrhqVuIWqE/T0xvXmFcBvI/AAAAAAAACds/Ew_uEEfSxzU/s640/blogger-image-6863835.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/--OG6xiZ3mPI/T0xvXoNv7hI/AAAAAAAACd0/txyU1MJfN7s/s640/blogger-image-618889677.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/--OG6xiZ3mPI/T0xvXoNv7hI/AAAAAAAACd0/txyU1MJfN7s/s640/blogger-image-618889677.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-e_2d5yB3iqM/T0xvX2PFYBI/AAAAAAAACd8/SR0XWIXIU24/s640/blogger-image--490405140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-e_2d5yB3iqM/T0xvX2PFYBI/AAAAAAAACd8/SR0XWIXIU24/s640/blogger-image--490405140.jpg" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com2Kullu, Himachal Pradesh, India31.957851 77.109459731.944379 77.0897187 31.971323 77.1292007tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-56157937692022785142012-02-25T12:31:00.001-06:002012-02-25T12:31:20.132-06:00A Cold Night in Manali10 February 2012<br />
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A Cold Night in Manali <br />
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After 3 days of camping in the snow and slush, we were all thrilled to go to Manali, a small city that used to be a British hill station at the base of the mountains in the Kullu valley, to sleep in a proper bed and have a hot shower. The sun was shining when we arrived about 3 hours later. Our hotel was located in the center of town on a pedestrian only street. There were at least a dozen mangy and likely rabid dogs sleeping in the sunshine in the street. <br />
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The afternoon was spent exploring the small town which is a popular tourist destination for Indians and westerners as they head further into the Himalayas or come for winter sports. We heard that for about $60, one could take a helicopter ride to the mountains and ski in the fresh powder. <br />
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Caroline, Max, Beth, Karen, Jen, Jess and I set out in search of a coffee shop we'd read about in the travel guide. After nothing but tea for the last week, we were ready for our coffee fix. We failed at finding the coffee shop, but we did get a walk around town. There were lots of small alley ways lined with one room shops or eateries. The roads were narrow and packed with snow so there was very little space for us to walk without nearly getting run over by cars, motorbikes and auto-rickshaws. We walked up the hill above the main town next to large parks filled with tall pine trees and snow banks. It was cold but at least the sun was shining.<br />
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On our way back, we finally found a shop with an espresso machine. We all savored our lattes and cappuccinos and even pieces of chocolate cake. I almost felt like home. <br />
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We ran into the rest of the group wandering around as well. Together we weaved our way through the heart of Manali which was brimming with action and livestock. We saw a cow, covered in her own diarrhea, who appeared to be close to dying while she lay in the middle of a busy street. Aren't cows sacred in this country? There was a group of donkeys eating voraciously out of a dumpster. We almost ran into a cow who was nearly the size of a small car as she stood guard over a fruit stand. <br />
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The store fronts were all fascinating to peer into. There were confectioners filled with brightly colored squares of sugary treats. The barber shops were he size of stalls and each contained a lathered-up man getting a straight razor shave. We tried some freshly fried samosas and the Indian equivalent. of funnel cake. Interspersed throughout the town, we found Buddhist temples, Tibetan shops, and food stalls selling Chinese food and momo dumplings. <br />
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My camera sporadically stopped working despite a full battery so I found a camera shop to buy a new battery in hopes that it would solve my problem. While I was out on my quest, I bumped into Brett who had just come back from wandering around town with Nick. They had visited one of the many parks in town and found not only a temple but a yak they rode for about $2. <br />
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When Beth and I reconnected, we decided it wasn't everyday that one had the opportunity to ride a yak so we thought we'd go find it. We tried not to slip on the icy streets and steps as we walked uphill as fast as we could; there was only about an hour of sunlight left so we had to beat the clock. In a deodar tree thicket, we found a pair of yak with saddles. While we negotiated the price of a short ride, we were harassed by women holding fluffy white bunnies. Even as Beth and I mounted the yaks, the women still tried to shove their rabbits at us so that we'd pay them for photographs. We needed to be firm to reject here advances. Our yak herders moved things along as the large stout animals plodded uphill towards the temple. It was a short ride but we got our touristy photos for the cost of a few dollars. <br />
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We took a brief look at Harimba temple, a simple wooden structure built in 1553. There were some brightly colored statues inside but it was an overall simple Hindu temple compared to others we'd seen. After leaving the temple, Beth and I caught beautiful pink sunset that illuminated the snow-capped mountains and the Kullu valley below. <br />
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It was a brisk walk down to make it in time for the group dinner at the hotel. We had a few mangy dogs who tried to follow us home so we also figured the speed-walking might help us lose the dogs too. No such luck. <br />
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Back the hotel, we found the entire group eating dinner, still bundled up in their jackets. The hotel had no central heating and to make matters worse, it had the worlds worst insulation. A few space heaters were on in our dining room but the temperature was still frigid.<br />
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After dinner, Ravi, our tour leader, invited us into the adjacent bar area for a drink on him. I ordered a scotch, hoping it might warm me up. While we all sipped our complimentary drinks, we huddled around the radiant space heaters, fighting over who got to sit closest. After the bar shut down, a few of us plotted to steal the large heaters from the bar for the night. The hotel had provided each room with a heater that put out about as much heat as a hairdryer. Beth and I had had the heater running all day and it was still freezing in our room. It was cold enough that we could see our breath when we spoke. Even with our new, large heater running all night, the thermals I wore under my pajamas, the thick fleece jacket and wool hat I slept in, I was still painfully cold. The only way I could get a little comfortable was if I lay in the fetal position but eventually my body would cramp up and I'd awake. I tried to inch closer to Beth for body warmth. It was one of the worst sleeps I'd had in a very long time. We'd have to wait another week to fulfill our dreams of hot showers and comfortable beds. <div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-y2z53vz92Y8/T0ko0SD1zII/AAAAAAAACbk/l8XfaJaz0qg/s640/blogger-image--1828444419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-y2z53vz92Y8/T0ko0SD1zII/AAAAAAAACbk/l8XfaJaz0qg/s640/blogger-image--1828444419.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-l1sIJYhjBeI/T0ko1JPzyiI/AAAAAAAACbo/CN23_ybio-I/s640/blogger-image-1668567925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-l1sIJYhjBeI/T0ko1JPzyiI/AAAAAAAACbo/CN23_ybio-I/s640/blogger-image-1668567925.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Ep_pxQ1u7zM/T0ko2MljvKI/AAAAAAAACb0/8kswaTDGOQU/s640/blogger-image--1256043980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Ep_pxQ1u7zM/T0ko2MljvKI/AAAAAAAACb0/8kswaTDGOQU/s640/blogger-image--1256043980.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-L2xOxGb9eLA/T0ko3E3nbdI/AAAAAAAACb8/OWv5EFToCGo/s640/blogger-image--1616693362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-L2xOxGb9eLA/T0ko3E3nbdI/AAAAAAAACb8/OWv5EFToCGo/s640/blogger-image--1616693362.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--VKFHcukQLM/T0ko50-cFII/AAAAAAAACcE/FMDMYz7-O2o/s640/blogger-image-890754351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--VKFHcukQLM/T0ko50-cFII/AAAAAAAACcE/FMDMYz7-O2o/s640/blogger-image-890754351.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Exq1oCAIZdo/T0ko7RU-ZZI/AAAAAAAACcM/9VhTP1hw1UM/s640/blogger-image-1839805585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Exq1oCAIZdo/T0ko7RU-ZZI/AAAAAAAACcM/9VhTP1hw1UM/s640/blogger-image-1839805585.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-gKy7mm9OEj0/T0ko9I4iOhI/AAAAAAAACcU/eqt2MqWs1fo/s640/blogger-image-1952472128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-gKy7mm9OEj0/T0ko9I4iOhI/AAAAAAAACcU/eqt2MqWs1fo/s640/blogger-image-1952472128.jpg" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-61106431192365209542012-02-19T09:36:00.000-06:002012-02-19T09:36:07.962-06:00A Snowy Trek through the lower Himalayas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="" style="color: #1155cc;"><span style="color: black;">7-9 February 2012</span></a></div>
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A Snowy Trek through the lower Himalayas</div>
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It was a four hour drive from from Bilaspur to the mountainous location of our first campsite. The first portion of the ride was on a well-paved highway that ran along a river below. After about 2 hours, we turned off the highway onto a dirt road the rose steeply up the mountain. Our caravan of cars climbed up the switchback roads under the shadow of tall pine trees. The views became more and more beautiful as we rose higher until finally we could just make out massive snow-capped mountains in the distance. </div>
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The cars pulled off the road on the top of a mountain ridge. We could see the trucks of the kitchen and housing staff already unloaded. It was a short hike down a steep hill to the campsite. While we had been driving to the site, the rest of the staff had created a small village of tents. There was a kitchen and food preparation tent where the men were already busy chopping vegetables and making chapatti bread for lunch. Next door to the food tent was a dining tent with a propane powered furnace in the middle. Past two canvas shower tents we found a cluster of yellow LL Bean tents. Beth and I chose a tent in the sunshine. From the thick tree cover around the campsite, it was hard to see the mountains around us.</div>
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After lunch a group of us took a walk down the road to explore the area or perhaps find a trail for hiking. We found a narrow trail that veered off the road and appeared to lead to a small rustic village below. We passed by small one room houses made of clay walls and thatched roofs with cows tied to the sides. The cows stared blanking and carelessly at us as we continued on.</div>
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There was a two-story building further down the trail where we encountered a family. The grandmother was hanging out in the front patio with the children while the mother worked with the cows in the back. The children stared inquisitively at us, hesitant and timid. Their faces and hands were brown and dirty, their nosed crusted with snot, they wore tattered clothing and sandals on their feet despite the cold. Brett and Nick started playing with the kids, tickling them, fooling around. Their shyness quickly evaporated and more children came out of the neighboring houses. The grandmother brought out a tray of steaming cups of chai for us to drink. </div>
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As we walked further into the village of just 250 people, we amassed quite a following of children until we had at least a dozen. They led us through the tiny town that was perched on a mountain ridge; there were gorgeous views of the valleys on either side. We passed by rustic farm houses made of stones with hay roofs. There were a few small two-story apartment buildings that were painted in bright colors. Goats, sheep and cows would intermittently walk out in front of us. The villagers stood outside their door staring at the foreigners who passed through their small town. Avi, one of the Hindi speakers in our group, told us that the villagers hadn't seen any white people in their town for many years. </div>
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One side of the mountain was covered in terraced fields. There was nothing but grass growing presently due to the winter season. We followed a narrow concrete trail through the fields. Further down below there were workers creating more terraces; they were literally using hammers and pick-axes to break up the mountainside. </div>
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As we neared the end of the village, a woman in a house yelled to the children in Hindi, it was clear that she was telling them to stop walking and go back to the center of the village. The children complied along with the rest of our group. Brett and I continued to walk a bit further. We came along a group of three women who were sitting in a circle breaking up large rocks into small stones with tiny pick-axes. There were two cows tied up next to them and a few goats scurried at their feet. They giggled as we took photographs of them. I encouraged Brett to try his hand at rock-breaking. He motioned for the hammer; the woman smiled broadly and handed it over, laughing. Brett struggled to get into a comfortable kneeling position and then got to work on the to rocks. It was harder than it looked. The women all had a good hard laugh at him, I couldn't help but to laugh along too. </div>
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When we got back to the main square of the village, we found Avi and the others who had taught the village children how to play Duck, Duck, Goose. The kids caught on fast and before long there was a big game going with some of the adults from our group joining in too. After they tired of Duck, Duck, Goose, we played Red Light/Green Light and Freeze Tag. The rest of the villagers came to watch the spectacle while they drank chai, swatted at their livestock, or knitted sweaters. We stayed and played in the village until the air became distinctly colder and we could see our own breath. </div>
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By the time we made it back it camp, the sun was down and the air was crisp. The sounds and smells of dinner preparations wafted out of the kitchen tent. I could hear the cooks slapping dough back and forth between their hands as they prepared <a href="" style="color: #1155cc;">tonight</a>'s chapatti. It was warm inside the dining tent where most of the group was circled around the furnace for warmth and the others were playing a card game. After a delicious dinner, we played some camping games to pass the time until we went to bed. It was cold in the tents that night and I wore most of the warm clothes I had.</div>
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I woke up sometime around <a href="" style="color: #1155cc;">4am</a> when my bladder just couldn't hold it any longer. I had heard rain drops hitting our tent earlier in the night, an that was preceded by thunder, so I was surprised to find about 2 inches of snow on the ground when I walked out of the tent. </div>
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A few hours later when we emerged to start our day, there were about 4 inches of snow on the ground and it was still falling steadily in big wet flakes. When the Australians, Caroline, Beth, and Karen came out of the tents they squealed with delight as it was the first time in their lives that they had ever seen real falling snow. </div>
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We warmed ourselves in the dining tent with multiple cups of tea and a big hot breakfast. Ravi came and announced that we would be canceling clinic due to the weather. We were supposed to about 12km up the mountain to work in a clinic that would serve this remote population. With the inclement weather, not only would the village at a higher elevation be difficult to access, but the villagers would not be likely to trek that long distance in the snow.</div>
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The branches of the pine trees were heavy with wet snow as we all set off for a morning hike. There was snowman-building and a snowball fight along the way. The following night, a few of the guys had taken a hike up to a Hindu temple on a mountain ridge otherwise the path would have been impossible to find. They led our entire group of 18 to the trail that snaked upwards. I quickly became hot in all of my layers as we made our way up. </div>
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By the time we reached the summit, it was difficult to even seen the temple under all of the snow that continued to accumulate. We all took some photos while we waited for the stragglers of the group to make their way up. The entire valley below us was beautifully covered in snow. </div>
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To get back to the campsite, we took a different path which was quite a bit steeper. As the hill became sheer, most of us lost our footing and tumbled down the slope. I have a good sized bruise on my right elbow and butt cheek to prove it. The snow finally stopped falling on the way and the sky turned brilliant blue. We finally emerged on the main road and already the snow was turning to slush. Further downhill there was a large truck stuck in the ice. Men were using dirt shovels and other random tools to try to clear the path for the truck to continue on. Two guys tried to make it up the hill in a tiny hatchback car that probably weighed all of 300lbs itself. When the driver couldn't manage to make it up the hill driving forward, he did a K-turn and attempted to go up the switchback road with no guardrails in reverse. </div>
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Over our lunch break at the campsite, we warmed up around the furnace with hot food and tea before setting off on another hike. This time about half a dozen of us set out on a 10K walk to the next town further up the mountain. The sun was out and it was actually quite pleasant as we made our way up hill. It was already apparent that the snow at lower elevations had all but melted away but where we were there was at least 4 inches still on the ground. </div>
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On the way up, we passed through a few tiny villages. The inhabitants were mostly outdoors already, but when they saw us, they came out into the street. They stared curiously at us and we took pictures of them. They were not shy about posing for the camera and were in fact excited to look on the camera displays to view their photos. A few of the women even tried to instigate a snowball fight while others shyly watched from the side-line while continuing their knitting. A few men sat outside a shop playing a heated game of cards. At another store front we saw a man working on a loom making a traditional shawl. He used both his hands and bare feet to work the loom. An elderly man with a deeply wrinkled face sat in front of the loom, winding string around a spool. He stopped working while we were there to ogle the westerners.</div>
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Although these towns were small and simple with meager and rustic homes, they were perched on the ridge of a mountain with amazing views at all angles. If I had to be a peasant in a developing country, I would at least be glad to live in the mountains. </div>
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As we neared the main village, the sun started to get low in the sky and the temperature began to drop. We decided it was probably about time we turned around to head back to camp before it was too dark to see. The downhill trip took about half the time and we made it back to our cozy campsite just as the sun set. The stars were shining brightly overhead. </div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The following day we attended to a clinic in a village called Saroa which was an 8km walk from our campsite. We all decided to commute on foot and it was quite a vigorous hike but the sights along the way were fascinating. We saw farmers bringing containers of fresh milk to large receptacles on the road side where they would be picked up and brought to a processing center. There were women herding their cows and children carrying baby goats. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The hike back home from the clinic was pretty challenging as it was about an hour of steep steps the entire way. There was a little bit of evening traffic as the villagers came home from work. People who looked to be in their 60s or 70s were walking up the steep steps with us as they carried large shovels or bundles of wood on their backs. They women giggled when they saw us and followed close by. One women of about 50 years of age started throwing snowballs at us, laughing and playfully taunting a fight. Then she invited us in for tea. We continued on. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When we returned to the village square where we'd played games with the children the prior day, we were greeted by some faces we had seen before, both at clinic and in the village. We stood around in the square, watching the activities of the day's end. Goats jumped through the square, children played, women fetched water. A village women went around serving hot chai to us and to a few of the elder men. We found Nick and Brett further uphill, horsing around with half a dozen children. They had taught them some American songs and the children were singing and laughing. You could tell they were sad to see us all go, especially Nick and Brett. I was impressed with the people we encountered in this region. They had been the friendliest and most gracious of hosts, and even if we spoke no common language, the connection was still tangible. These villagers had few material possessions and amenities, but they were clearly happier than most of us. It was easy to sense the strong community bond within the small villages where it was apparent that everyone looked after each other. I don't mean to glorify their existence, as it was clear that they lived hand-to-mouth with only but a few pairs of clothes, working hard labor, but they seemed not to take life too seriously still. They should serve as a lesson to all of us in the western world. </span></div>
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</div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-7386081474576095882012-02-10T21:48:00.001-06:002012-02-10T21:48:38.309-06:00Clinic Day in Bilaspur4 February 2012<br />
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Clinic Day in Bilaspur<br />
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It was a one hour drive to reach our first clinic site of the month. We had a delicious and filling lunch at the hotel before we left, complete with bananas, porridge, eggs and chapatti. It was another bumpy ride through dirt roads to reach the clinic on the other side of the valley. We were using a small local hospital as our clinic for the day. I was to be completely in charge of the gynecology clinic with two medical students working with me. We had some dusty speculums, lubricant, cotton swabs, urinalysis dipsticks, and hemoglobin finger sticks. <br />
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By the time arrived, the porters had already set up a large canvas tent that would be used as the pharmacy. They had unloaded lots of large metal chests filled with different medications. The staff took us on a tour of the rest of the hospital. The hospital was tiny deserted. It was cold and damp inside with concrete floors and walls; some rooms lacked electricity. Triage was set up in the foyer, medical and pediatric clinics were in bare rooms upstairs, and my gynecology clinic was delegated to the labour ward. <br />
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In the labour ward there was a small damp room with two single beds. The mattresses were sagging in middle and there was dirt and debris on them. A used syringe sat on the window sill. This was a recovery room. The next room was the Labour Room/O.T. (Operating Theatre). It was a large room with one ancient appearing OR light. There was a barbaric old delivery bed/OR table with an IV poll attached at the top. The room reeked of toxic smelling antiseptics.<br />
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There was a metal shelf at the end of the OR table with some steel trays. Inside of one tray were some rusty and dusty instruments that were far from sterile. There was a faded red rubber catheter, lots of clamps, ring forceps, and curettes. Another tray had two small sets of delivery forceps. There were lots of gauze pads. By one of the windows was another shelf with a baby scale. I was impressed with the tray full of medications which had most of the obstetrical drugs that one would need in an emergency including oxytocin and every other uterotonic, magnesium sulfate, anti hypertensive medications, steroids, and a small selection of antibiotics. There was even a neonatal endotracheal tube and some IV tubing. In a closet we found some IV fluid bottles; they only came in 500ml amounts unlike the standard 1 liter in the US.<br />
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A group of women who were nurses at this local hospital came by to meet us. They were curious to see what a western doctor thought of their facilities. Frankly, the delivery room scared the shit out of me; it was something out of a medical horror movie. If this room scared and obstetrician who is used to seeing massive amounts of bleeding and other gory sights, then you can only imagine how frightening this place would be for a patient. Many of these village women have likely never set foot into a hospital in their life before they are brought in, in painful labor, to push out a baby. I felt scared for them because there was nothing at all comforting or welcoming about that room. I asked when the room had been used last; they said they'd had a delivery just yesterday.<br />
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We had a steady flow of GYN patients throughout the day. The complaints were pretty standard to what I am used to having at home: heavy periods, itching, vaginal discharge, irregular cycles, pelvic pain, post menopausal bleeding. The difference was that I had even less resources here than I was used to even at my very basic US public hospital. There was no way to do pap smears or endometrial biopsies. The oral contraceptive pills in our pharmacy had recently expired so I had little to offer the women with heavy or irregular bleeding besides a prescription to go to local pharmacy. We had one woman who had become anemic enough that she was eating "soft rocks" off three ground. Anemia seemed to be quite prevalent here, likely exacerbated by the vegetarian diet low in green leafy vegetables and high in rice and potatoes. <br />
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It was awfully damp in cold in our examination room. As the day wore on, I borrowed more and more additional clothing layers from my co-workers. I looked like a bag lady towards the end and even wrapped a shawl around my head. It didn't help that the jet-lag was so powerful either; I had trouble even keeping my eyes open while the medical students, Vikram and Jen, were interviewing patients. It felt like a particularly rough post-call day. All I wanted was a nice big cup of chai tea and a bed. I fell fast asleep on the car ride home, despite the incessant bumps and holes on the road. <div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-39G13k-_J5g/TzXk0rmQz6I/AAAAAAAACaI/aeV4NGYcx7w/s640/blogger-image--1973313017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-39G13k-_J5g/TzXk0rmQz6I/AAAAAAAACaI/aeV4NGYcx7w/s640/blogger-image--1973313017.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eXOoH0XwMyo/TzXk7WZ4YxI/AAAAAAAACaQ/FR5SRi6Bs70/s640/blogger-image--2138305149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eXOoH0XwMyo/TzXk7WZ4YxI/AAAAAAAACaQ/FR5SRi6Bs70/s640/blogger-image--2138305149.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-9fThwuMx-8A/TzXk_HrK0uI/AAAAAAAACaY/kl6_eWKs3_g/s640/blogger-image-793953115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-9fThwuMx-8A/TzXk_HrK0uI/AAAAAAAACaY/kl6_eWKs3_g/s640/blogger-image-793953115.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-cLJPxyhE-9I/TzXlB5QBbJI/AAAAAAAACag/iWU1nWWPdHo/s640/blogger-image-1805324674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-cLJPxyhE-9I/TzXlB5QBbJI/AAAAAAAACag/iWU1nWWPdHo/s640/blogger-image-1805324674.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-HRoyFBMRHVo/TzXlE9CHLII/AAAAAAAACao/lrd50Uv1S-o/s640/blogger-image--621480099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-HRoyFBMRHVo/TzXlE9CHLII/AAAAAAAACao/lrd50Uv1S-o/s640/blogger-image--621480099.jpg" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-52392207644781349822012-02-05T10:19:00.001-06:002012-02-05T10:19:51.596-06:0028 Hours to Himachal Pradesh1-3 February 2012<br />
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28 Hours to Himachal Pradesh<br />
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I already felt like I had stepped out of the United States when I walked into Terminal D at Houston Airport. It was a small and garishly light terminal with white-robed muslim men and women in saris bustling around. The security was quite stiff at the terminal so despite its relative emptiness it still took a very long time to pass through to my gate what with half a dozen passport checks. <br />
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On board Qatar Airways, I found my seat towards the front of the plane. My two seat mates were there. The shiny new Boeing-777 had purple tinted mood lighting and a crew of young and exotic looking flight attendants. As the plane gently lifted off into the air headed towards the Middle East, a cacophony of infant cries erupted. Luckily ear plugs were provided by the airway however I suggested to my seat mate that the airline also hand out baby Benadryl. <br />
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A thirteen hour flight gives one plenty of time of time to get acquainted with one's seat mates. Next to me sat Amir who was probably in his thirties; he was traveling back to his homeland of Pakistan. He told me how he missed his original flight to Karachi because the Houston rush hour traffic was so bad. Amir was quite relieved to have made it onto this flight because he was going to Pakistan to get married. Coincidentally, his wife-to-be was also a gynecologist in-training. I couldn't resist asking if this was an arranged marriage. It was not. Amir's and his future wife's families were good friends who known each other for a long time. Had this not been the case, the families would have run background checks of the future in-laws as is customary in Pakistan. <br />
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On they other side of Amir was our other seat mate, Francis. Francis was also flying to his motherland, in south India. Francis has been in the US for decades working as a family doctor in College Station. Francis was a petite grandfather with hands as small as a child's, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in personality. He was a veritable ball of energy and he sure liked to talk, particularly about politics. Before long, he was calling me "Katie" like we were old friends. <br />
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He liked to talk about the rednecks in Texas. I liked the way rolled his R dramatically when he said "redneck." Francis told us a story about when he first started practicing in Texas. A bonafide redneck came to see him as a patient one day and apparently really liked him. He called the receptionist a few days later to say say that he'd like for Francis to be his physician. The problem was that the man couldn't remember Francis ' name and there were half a dozen doctors working there. The receptionist asked him to describe the doctor and the redneck sheepishly replied, "You know, the tiny little nigger.". Francis was not offended, he said that he understood that to this man, anyone who was dark was obviously black-he barely knew the difference! Francis said the man is still one of his most loyal patients & his dear friend as well.<br />
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Through dinner and the first few hours of the flight, the three of us discussed politics. Francis was a bleeding heart liberal who was "anti-religion." Amir seemed to be a moderate republican although he didn't like to put it all out there. Francis teased Amir that Sarah Palin was his girlfriend for the remainder of the flight. Francis also liked to tease Amir about the fact that he was about to marry a doctor. He told him to prepare for the fact that she will "always be right" because she is a doctor. He clearly spoke from his own experience with his ex-wife. <br />
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Thirteen hours, three movies, one overhead call for a doctor, and two large meals later, we were preparing to land in Doha, the capital of Qatar. I landed in Qatar at exactly the same time that I'd left Houston, just 24 hours later. It felt wonderful to stretch my legs and breath in the fresh dessert air. It was already dark out so I couldn't see much of the terrain in Doha. As we were shuttled to the transfers terminal I did get a brief look at the dusty and sandy ground and even a mosque.<br />
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The terminal in Qatar was quite small so I walked just about every foot of it during my 2 hour lay-over. The Duty Free shopping area was filled with the usual alcohol, chocolate and perfume. There were also a few swanky sports cars on display. It was illegal to bring alcohol into Qatar but it was ok to buy it there and bring it out; it seemed a bit contradictory. There were groups of Middle Eastern men dressed like sheikhs wandering around. They all wore long flowing white robes but some of the men wore checkered head scarfs and others wore bright white ones. There were a lot of women in burqas and I have to admit that the burqa concept still disturbs me greatly. <br />
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I perused through some magazines and travel guides in the airport book store. I was particularly amused by the series of Islamic romance novels all featuring burqa-clad women on the covers. They all stared out of the slits in their head coverings with mysterious slightly seductive eyes. I was more interested in reading the book called "I am Nujood" about a girl who was married off at age 10. <br />
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The airbus from Doha to Delhi was jam packed. I was stuck in the back of the plane next to college-aged girl from Montreal who spoke little English. She was going to spend the next 3 months traveling in India because she needed a break from school. I always seems to be the Canadians and Europeans who are out on these lengthy adventures around the world. What are we Americans doing wrong?<br />
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I dozed and watched re-runs of The Office as we flew 3 hours to Delhi. I was so tired by the time we arrived that I didn't even want to get off the airplane. I was just before 3am when we landed according to my watch but my internal clock had no clue what time it was. In India I was 11 and a half hours ahead of Houston time. I still don't understand where the extra thirty minutes came from though. <br />
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I waited in one of the longest immigration lines that I had ever seen when I got off the plane in Delhi. I didn't mind though considering I had about 5 hours to wait for my next plane ride to Chandigarh. I was anxious to ditch my very heavy backpack as soon as I retrieved it from baggage claim. I lumbered slowly through the quiet airport looking for the Indian airline called Jet Airways, so I could check in again. <br />
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There was a small crowd of people around the Jet Airways counters and half of them were quite fascinating to look at. They were very short and had interesting faces that looked hard and weathered with features of both Asian and Caucasian. They were bundled up in many robes and other warm clothes. I wasn't sure I they were Tibetan or from the Himalayas of India and I have o say that I was surprised to see them out in an airport as they looked like tribal people who lived in the mountains without electricity. <br />
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I went in search of a place to crash while I waited for my 9am flight. There was a mostly deserted food court with some benches. Tucked away on the edge of this food court was a lounge area. For $20 you could stay, lounge on their comfortable, chairs, get access to free wifi and eat and drink all you wanted. I decided to treat myself since I'd b roughing it for the rest of the month. Unfortunately I had gotten a second wind and never wound up sleeping, but at least the wifi helped pass the time and the free cappuccinos caffeinated me sufficiently. <br />
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As I finally got to the gate for my final flight, I spotted some westerners and wondered if they were my work companions. The flight to Chandigarh in North India would be my shortest so far at a brief 40 minutes. It was just enough time to nearly go insane from hearing the elevator music versions of half a dozen '90's love ballads play on repeat. If I never hear Bryan Adams' "Everything I do, I do it for you" again, it will be too soon. <br />
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Standing at the baggage claim in the rustic Chandigarh airport, it was clear that about eight of us were all congregating to join up with the Himalayan Health Exchange. We introduced ourselves while we waited for the bags. Out in the parking lot, we found the remainder of the group. There was a total of about 18 of us; the majority were 4th year medical students. Three people in the group were from Australia. The americans were from all different states. It seemed like an upbeat and friendly bunch.<br />
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We all piled in vans to undertake a 4 hour drive from Chandigarh in the Punjab state to Bilaspur further north in the Himachal Pradesh state. I shared a van with Karen, a student from Sydney, Jamie from Arkansas, Brett from Vermont, and Avishek, a geriatrics fellow from NJ. We all got to know each other on the long ride, swapping stories about the different exotic places we'd all traveled to before.<br />
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The first half of the ride was flat and urban on a two-lane highway. It was a busy road but nonetheless children would dart out into moving traffic and cows walked along the shoulder. Immediately off the side of the road were miles and miles of shanty towns. This was a wonder that most of the shacks could even withstand a slight breeze as they slanted off at extreme angles and were made of just wood slabs and sticks. There were even structures that looked like teepees that were made of long sticks. Mangy dogs trotted about, children were squatting, urinating out in the open. Women knelt by open fires boiling water. <br />
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As the trip progressed we left the Punjab state and entered Himachal Pradesh. It is one of the newest states in India which was carved out of the Punjab state. Himachal Pradesh literally translates to "In the lap of the Himalayas." It is the second least corrupt state in India; second to Karela. The state has one of the highest literacy rates in India at around 90%. At one time the government actually paid each family 2500 rupees to send each child to school. <br />
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The switchback mountainous roads to Bilaspur were quite treacherous. There were dozens of brightly colored trucks transporting cement products from any of the three large cement factories in Himachal Pradesh. The drivers were not shy about passing other cars on blind turns. Horns are used liberally in India. It was easy to get car sick. The locals walked along these busy roads in the narrow shoulders. Women carried large baskets on their heads or bundles of sticks. The people were dressed in colorful fabrics. They stared inquisitively at the westerners in the car as we drove past. We even spotted monkeys on the side of the road. They were hanging out watching traffic go by just like many of the humans were doing too. <br />
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I had just fallen asleep when we finally pulled up to Hotel Sagar View. I was a basic hotel where we would spend the following 4 nights. We were randomly assigned roommates; I was paired up with Beth, a South African who is a medical student in Australia. It looked like we were going to be getting friendly quickly as we were sharing a king sized bed. We had a balcony with lovely views of the valley and river below.<br />
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After a late lunch a few of us took a walk down to the river. It was about a 1 mile distance down hill first on a path and then along the side of the road. We had to be vigilant of oncoming cars as they sped down the road. We took in some views of the river from the bridge; it was difficult to see very far into the distance with a thick smoggy haze hanging over the valley. <br />
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We ended the night with a big buffet dinner complete with tandoori chicken, daal, and homemade chapatti and even dessert. Between the jet lag and all of the food I ate, I was nearly comatose. I could barely manage to rinse of my smelly body in the shower before passing out in bed. I never felt so good to sleep.<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KroUmWqfblY/Ty6r7E3Ix0I/AAAAAAAACZI/Ds3r1HI5Rhg/s640/blogger-image--532711147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KroUmWqfblY/Ty6r7E3Ix0I/AAAAAAAACZI/Ds3r1HI5Rhg/s640/blogger-image--532711147.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cR4hIa98pH8/Ty6r8qxeuDI/AAAAAAAACZQ/QMHAcKO62nI/s640/blogger-image-2035951191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cR4hIa98pH8/Ty6r8qxeuDI/AAAAAAAACZQ/QMHAcKO62nI/s640/blogger-image-2035951191.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IE50mVJoNek/Ty6r-dGftdI/AAAAAAAACZY/vzbA9dCpiqg/s640/blogger-image-1401920419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IE50mVJoNek/Ty6r-dGftdI/AAAAAAAACZY/vzbA9dCpiqg/s640/blogger-image-1401920419.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-mRfgenGlEJk/Ty6sAFCSLeI/AAAAAAAACZg/eO33sz7vJ8Q/s640/blogger-image-1925820755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-mRfgenGlEJk/Ty6sAFCSLeI/AAAAAAAACZg/eO33sz7vJ8Q/s640/blogger-image-1925820755.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-aglc5Ef2ewc/Ty6sBp9E8hI/AAAAAAAACZo/PT-wG5el_I8/s640/blogger-image-1854253226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-aglc5Ef2ewc/Ty6sBp9E8hI/AAAAAAAACZo/PT-wG5el_I8/s640/blogger-image-1854253226.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-K_7ep97ERH8/Ty6sDb7GIDI/AAAAAAAACZw/3WZMnPBfiSE/s640/blogger-image-907403881.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-K_7ep97ERH8/Ty6sDb7GIDI/AAAAAAAACZw/3WZMnPBfiSE/s640/blogger-image-907403881.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-0iM5h1Tcu6U/Ty6sFLNh8yI/AAAAAAAACZ4/-zBB1yGqsYk/s640/blogger-image--1414522537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-0iM5h1Tcu6U/Ty6sFLNh8yI/AAAAAAAACZ4/-zBB1yGqsYk/s640/blogger-image--1414522537.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-RdLSoyEonak/Ty6sIELuedI/AAAAAAAACaA/r-Ajffk8Vq0/s640/blogger-image-1854706532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-RdLSoyEonak/Ty6sIELuedI/AAAAAAAACaA/r-Ajffk8Vq0/s640/blogger-image-1854706532.jpg" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-17640773070246924292011-12-27T23:22:00.000-06:002011-12-28T22:40:09.875-06:00The many neighborhoods of San Francisco<br />
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20-21 December 2011</div>
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The many neighborhoods of San Francisco</div>
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I set out on foot that morning to explore the hippie heaven that is the Haight area of San Francisco. From what I read, the hippies moved into the Haight neighborhood in the 1960s because property was cheap due to plans for construction of a freeway (which never subsequently happened). This area transformed into the epicenter of the San Francisco Renaissance which was an avant-garde poetic activist movement. During the summer of 1967, hippies and college students on summer break flooded the area; with that influx came the drug culture and "rock and roll lifestyle." Eventually even the Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, and Jefferson Airplane had apartments in the 'hood. </div>
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Today, the area still has it's hippie vibes but it is clearly not the progressive center of change it once tried to be. Haight Street is crowded with tons of small shops selling things like tie-dyed clothing, Tibetan souvenirs, marijuana paraphernalia. In between these shops are tattoo parlors, coffee houses, and small cafes. The crowds on the streets ranged from students to professionals to seedy strung-out individuals. </div>
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I found my way to the Pork Store Cafe where I would have breakfast. This place was started in 1914 as a butcher shop, hence the name. Now it functions as a tiny little diner. It was surprisingly crowded for a weekday morning around 10am. I took one of the few remaining seats at the bar area where the waitstaff and cooks shuffled around with impressive speed. I ordered the Green Benedict and while I waited for my food, I watched the short order cook churn out breakfast after breakfast, every move he made was done with speed and efficiency. My breakfast was massive; it consisted of a large slice of sourdough bread, smeared with half of a ripe avocado, covered with scrambled eggs and asparagus and topped with hollandaise sauce. There was a heaping pile of hash browns next to it. It was delicious.</div>
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Cole Valley Cafe was my next stop in the Haight. It was a cozy corner cafe also virtually filled with people. I ordered my latte, pulled out my laptop and took in the scene. The other patrons of the cafe were a mix of students, loafers, people "working" and lots of aging hippies with grey beards. There was a middle-aged Asian man wearing puffy pants with mushrooms all over them. He had funky round plastic eye glasses on. He was cutting out those little fliers with a box cutter; the kind of fliers where you can rip off one of the tabs on the bottom. I was curious what he was advertising, but I was too far away to catch a glimpse. Another guy was discussing with the barista about his work in the recycling business; apparently he had single-handedly made sure that Tetra packs were recyclable in San Francisco. At least he was a hippie with some goals. </div>
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From the Haight, I walked back to the Sunset to drop off some dead weight. It was about a 1.5 mile walk. I plotted out my next course and made the trek over to the Castro, the gay neighborhood of San Francisco. The distance of the walk to the Castro was only 2.5 miles, but to get there, I basically summited a small mountain. San Francisco is known, of course, for its ridiculously steep hills. The crazy thing about these hills is that they seem to come out of no where. One moment you are walking down a typical city road, you turn a corner, and next thing you know, you are hiking up a hill at what feels like a 45 degree angle. I actually like this aspect of San Francisco though because not only is there always a surprise around the corner, but I could be both enjoying a cityscape but also hiking at the same time, getting some damn good exercise while getting from point A to point B. This is definitely my kind of city! </div>
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Once I descended from my hike, I got to take in the view of the sunny city below. Further downhill, I came across the center of the neighborhood at Pink Triangle Park. A man of about 60 years sat out in a chair in the busy square, basking in the sunlight in all of his naked glory. He wore nothing but a hat on his head. While he sunbathed nude, he sipped on a coffee and read a novel. No big deal. He had his penis tucked between his crossed legs; he was a modest nudest. He had very neatly coiffed pubic hair, so kind of him to trim. I think I was the only one who even looked twice at him. Perhaps others were more interested in the punk rock queen sitting next to him wearing a tall top hat, black leather outfit, and large plugs in his ears. </div>
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On my walk back to the Sunset, I also enjoyed amazing views but this time of the Golden Gate bridge off in the distance. While I walked, I made plans for the night. I would finally see my brother, Gordon, who had just returned the day before from a business trip to London. We had decided we'd make pizza and drink wine with his roommates. I picked up all of the ingredients in the meantime. </div>
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There were so many amazing eating and drinking establishments I'd read about in San Francisco and I was eager to start trying some more. Gordon wasn't going to be home from work for another 2 hours so I made a spur of the moment decision to walk over to the Panhandle neighborhood and check out Nopa, a California cuisine restaurant that many people had recommended to me this week. It was another hike of a walk to get there, and I added another 2.5 miles onto my day's journeys. </div>
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Panhandle is more of a bustling neighborhood that reminded me of Greenwich Village in New York City. It is usually quite difficult to get a table at Nopa, but from 5pm to 6pm every week day, the restaurant offers small plates at the bar and then offers the happy hour guests to stay in their seats for dinner. I made it in just by 5:45 and grabbed a lone seat at the bar. I set about ordering a cocktail and some small plates from the heavily tattooed bartender. He was a knowledgeable guy with pictures of fruits, vegetables and cutlery etched onto his skin. I quite liked his tattoos, actually. I told him what I was in the mood for and he created a great cocktail for me that had rum, apricot, white vermouth, lemon and raspberry.</div>
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While I was waiting for my food, I noticed a large group of people standing around one of the tables next to the kitchen, clearly discussing food. I thought maybe it was some sort of cooking class. The bartender informed me that it was the waitstaff being led through a tasting of tonight's menu. Every day was different. He told me next time that maybe if I show up wearing brown colored clothes, I can just blend in and try the food too. </div>
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The small plates were quite affordable at $4 a piece, so I ordered a few of them including the fish and chips with malt vinegar. The fish was literally juicy and full of flavors; I liked that the skin was still on. I also got a small salad with frisee, persimmon, feta cheese and pecans. It was light and refreshing. I had initially planned to stop after that and save room for dinner with Gordon, but before long, they set out tonight's dinner menu and I couldn't resist trying a few of the starters. I ordered a another cocktail from a cute, but unfortunately gay, hipster bartender. He also gave me some tips on what to order. I got the fried Brussel sprouts with lemon and parmesan cheese and a small casserole of tomato, white beans, feta and a few other vegetables. The food was simple and clean but also so full of flavor. The amuse bouche that night was a satsuma orange dipped in their smokey house made chili sauce with rock salt to sprinkle on top. Simple goodness.</div>
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Although I was full and a little tipsy, there was no reason to stop eating when we got to Gordon's place. After meeting his roommates Thayer and Anna Kate, we set about to preparing dinner. On top of our dough, we put tomato sauce, fresh ricotta cheese, mozzarella, fresh garlic and pancetta. While the pizzas were in the oven, we worked on a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir. Gordon gave me the tour of his fancy apartment building which is located inside of the Presidio, a California state park. The building used to be a hospital. Today, the facilities include a hot soaking pool, fire pit, massage room, and a huge catering area with a state-of-the-art kitchen. With the building's location inside of the park, it was easy to forget we were in the middle of a large city and not out in the wilderness of Northern California. </div>
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I began my Wednesday morning with a quick trip to the Japanese Tea Gardens in Golden Gate Park. On Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays there is free entrance to the garden between 9 and 10am when one would otherwise pay $7. The gardens were quite full of visitors for a Wednesday but even so, they remained peaceful and serene. The Japanese style gardens were perfectly coiffed. There were trickling streams and serene ponds. Bamboo and cedar grew. There were statues of Buddha and small pagodas. The morning sunlight light up the orange leaves on the trees.</div>
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While my time in San Francisco was quickly dwindling my waistline continuing to expand from the week's gluttony. When I woke up on Wednesday morning I decided it was time for a substantially long run to see the city and burn off calories. After devouring yet another scone and latte from the neighborhood, I set off on my epic running tour of the city. I began by run by heading west through Golden Gate Park. I ran past the museums, the Japanese Garden and made a quick stop at Stowe Lake. Stowe Lake is a decent sized lake set on the top of a hill in the park. It was so easy to forget I was in the middle of a large city while in the Golden Gate Park.</div>
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About three miles later I found myself at the end of Golden Gate Park at Ocean Beach. I followed the beach side trail for another couple miles to the windy Point Lobos. This is where the trail took a seriously steep climb upwards. I was glad to have the excuse to stop for photo opportunities along the way, but I was impressed with my ability to make it up to the top of the hill fairly unwinded despite the fact I only train on flat terrain below sea level in Houston. </div>
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Once I got to the top of the hill, I entered into a wooded park area. The coastline makes a turn at this point and starts heading towards the Golden Gate Bridge. As I crested a small hill, I was presented with views of the rusty red Golden Gate Bridge set against the brilliant blue sky. These stunning views continued along the entire northern coast trail. I couldn't get over the concept that if I lived in San Francisco, I could run to these gorgeous views every day! </div>
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The trail eventually dumped me out onto Baker Beach, a small wild and mostly secluded beach that runs below the Presidio Park and the bridge. I awkwardly ran through the wet sand before finding another step path leading upwards. I hiked most of this until I got to the top again and from there continued my jog into the Presidio. I had to get out my iPhone to map a proper course back to Jessica's apartment. I had a lovely run through the cool shaded portions of the Presidio, under the tall California pines. It was another three and a half miles until I was home again. With 11 miles of running under my belt, I felt cleansed and satisfied!</div>
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After a well-earned and delicious sandwich from the Wooly Pig, I got picked up by Chris, one of my friends from high school. He had mostly been working from home since he moved to San Francisco three weeks prior so he had some time to hang out that afternoon. We took about a 15 minute drive to Fort Funstan, a park along the coastline south of the city. It was a wild beach with huge dunes; a place where dogs could run free. We brought is black labrador, Madison. She ran around joyously trying to steal the balls out of other dogs' mouths while we walked along the beach for a mile or two. The afternoon sun was blinding and the views were beautiful. </div>
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Before the sun set, we also brought Madison to Bernal Heights. This is another neighborhood in San Francisco that offers great views of the city below. The peak of Bernal Heights is a tidy park also teeming with dogs. The sun was casting a reddish hue over the city as we looked out at the 360 degree views below. I was really starting to fall in love with this city.</div>
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I got to visit the Mission District, where Chris lives, after the sun went down. We dropped off Madison and killed some time before we would meet Megan, Adam and Gordon for dinner. As Chris pointed out, the Mission is an eclectic neighborhood. It was obviously a historically hispanic area that had been gentrified over the years. One street we drove down was a scene </div>
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out of Mexico and another block over felt more like Williamsburg, Brooklyn with hipsters and funky shops. I did some shopping and we grabbed a beer at a hippie bar while Adam and Megan were on their way.</div>
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Dinner was at a restaurant called Serpentine located in the Dogpatch neighborhood. Adam said the Dogpatch was thought to be the new up and coming area due to its ease of accessibility to the finance firms and the water. It was a quiet area with lots of old warehouse buildings. Serpentine was located in a warehouse structure itself. We had an interesting dinner that included Prohibition type cocktails, appetizers like chick pea breaded calamari, house-made charcuterie, and a salad with kobocha squash. My main course was a generous piece of pork belly served with mussels. The five of us had fun catching up on the years that had passed.</div>
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Gordon and I picked up Jessica once returned to the Sunset and headed down to the wine bar, Inner Fog, that is located just a block from her apartment. It was so fun to all be together in San Francisco; I was envious that I didn't live in the city myself. After visiting Oregon this summer, I really had my sights set on moving to Portland, but now I have to say that San Francisco is playing a tough competition.<br />
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<br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-73867594411819944382011-12-22T23:35:00.000-06:002011-12-22T23:43:28.984-06:00East Bay Eats by Day, Cocktails & Characters by Night<br />
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19 December 2011</div>
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East Bay Eats by Day, Cocktails & Characters by Night</div>
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It was another flawless day in San Francisco. After a quick 3 mile run through part of Golden Gate Park and the Panhandle neighborhood, Jessica and I packed up the kids and headed over to the East Bay. </div>
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We were heading to Berkeley to visit Sara. Sara is Jessica's step-father's niece. I had gotten to know Sara over the years particularly when she spent a month in New Jersey visiting one summer. We bunked together at the beach that summer as kids and had a great time. Sara had recently moved to Berkeley because her husband, James, had started a PhD program there in fine arts. Sara is originally from Vancouver so the Bay Area is just a sunnier version of home. </div>
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It had been about two and a half years since I'd seen Sara last, when we all gathered at our cousin, Nicolas' wedding in Oregon. Sara climbed in the backseat with Julian and Vivienne, just barely able to squeeze in between the two carseats. </div>
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Sara took us to one of the main streets, Shattuck, to find a brunch spot. We landed at <a href="http://guerillacafe.com/">Guerrilla cafe</a>. We had to stalk a table as the small cafe was full, but finally we watched as two cute bearded guys vacated their table in the sun. I enjoyed a polenta porridge topped with fruit, nuts and dates as well as a poached egg. Vivienne had her first hot chocolate and really felt like a fancy lady. Julian and I played with a fluffy white dog who was tied up to a sign in the front. </div>
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After we finished brunch, we stopped by <a href="http://www.philzcoffee.com/">Phillz</a> coffeehouse next door. I went to order my usual latte at and the barista said, "So this is your first time at Phillz?" He then went on to explain that they don't do espresso drinks here. Instead, Phillz brews every cup of coffee freshly and separately. There is a long list of different blends organized by light, medium and dark roast. After they brew the coffee, they mix it with hot frothy milk. It was one of the best coffees I have had in a long time. The cafe had a huge upstairs section filled with an eclectic mix of couches and comfortable chairs. On that Monday at noon, it was virtually filled with studious looking patrons browsing on their MacBooks or reading books. </div>
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Berkeley is full of these cozy little spots. As Sara and I walked our way through Berkley, Elmridge and part of Oakland, we passed dozens of quaint cafes full of intellectual types. There were many shops with Buddhist prayer flags in the windows where fair trade ethnic items were being sold. If only my stomach were able to fit in every last enticing food item I saw! We saw so many gourmet ice-cream stores, asian noodle shops, bakeries, wood-fired pizzerias, and whole-in-the-wall taquerias. Sara and I did indulge in some delicious pastries when we shared a pain au chocolate and a lemon shortbread bar. We both tried different ice-cream shops. She went for tiramisu gelato and I had <a href="http://www.tarasorganic.com/locations/info/berkeley">organic berbere ice-cream</a> topped with pink Himalayan salt crystals. Berbere is a spice used in Ethiopian and Eritrean cooking. It's a flavor that is difficult to describe, but if you have ever eaten Ethiopian cuisine, berbere is that unique flavor that you can't quite place but still thoroughly enjoy. It was probably one of the best ice creams I had ever had. They had quite a few interesting flavors there like sage, lavender, balsamic strawberry, and molasses to name a few. We did our fair share of walking that day, perhaps enough to burn off those pastries and ice creams.</div>
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Sara also took me to the UC-Berkeley campus. It was quiet that day as the college students had just finished their final exams and most were heading home for the holidays. I could smell the faint aroma of eucalyptus as we passed by a small eucalyptus forest on campus. The trees were taller than most of the buildings on campus and the sunlight poured through the leaves in golden rays. </div>
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For two dollars, we took a ride to the top of the tower, the Companile, on campus. It is one of the tallest clock towers in the world and on a clear day like that one, we were able to see miles of beautiful vistas. Depending on which side of the tower I peered out from, there were all different views: the green campus below, a steep mountain behind, and the entire San Francisco bay beyond. </div>
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After a full day of exploring the East Bay and catching up with Sara, I hopped the BART back to San Francisco where my day of nostalgia continued. Adam, Megan and Chris, high school classmates of mine were living out in the bay area now. I met up with them at the Wreck Room, a sports bar in Nob Hill. I could hear the bar before I even saw it; the place was jammed with fans watching a 49ers game. I can't say I care much for watching sports, but the rowdy crowd was entertaining and it was great to catch up with all of them. </div>
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They all had to get up early for work the next day, but I was on vacation so there was no need to head to bed yet! I had been hearing so much about the excellent cocktail scene in San Francisco and wanted to try some drinks. I was debating on trying a few different spots including Bourbon & Branch, Smuggler's Cove, and Rickhouse, but wound up visiting Cantina. </div>
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<a href="http://www.cantinasf.com/">Cantina</a> is a small, narrow, dark space. The decor and the atmosphere is nothing spectacular, but the drinks were pretty awesome. I grabbed a spot at the bar directly in front of the area where the lone bartender, Sahar, was shaking drinks. Cantina uses only fresh fruits and juices in their cocktails. Sahar must have squeezed juice out of at least 50 citrus fruits while I sat there watching. He made more of the drink called the MIsdemeanor, than anything else. This cocktail was similar to a mojito but made with muddle pineapple, basil and jalapeño. </div>
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It is best to go to these kinds of bars on a quiet weekday night when one can actually have a discussion with the knowledgeable bartenders about their trade. Sahar told me that he got into bartending because he had always been a night owl and ended up getting an "in" to this spot. I told Sahar what I was in the mood for and he created a cocktail with crushed basil, agave, rye, lemon juice and sherry. My following drink was as a Blood & Sand. Finally I asked him to make me a drink with a stout in it. The bar had a few local beers on tap so to the stout he added a whole egg, sherry, mint, spiced agave and mole bitters. This drink was like dessert; it was delicious. By this time I had befriended a few other people at the bar and we were trying each other's drinks. One girl said that my beer drink tasted like cereal.</div>
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One of my favorite things about traveling alone is how conducive it is to meeting interesting characters. While I sat at the bar sipping on my cocktails and talking to Sahar, I noticed that one guy was slowly making his approach. He took is time gradually inching is way closer to me until finally he was standing right there next to me, also "watching" Sahar make drinks. It turns out his name was David. David was the kind of guy who used the term "bro" when addressing his friend. He worked in finance and implied that he did pretty well. He was a self-proclaimed foodie. He was playing third wheel to a very drunk couple who were on their way to Tahoe for vacation. David informed me that his friend's girlfriend was demanding they take her to get a bacon-wrapped hot dog. I told him she'd be better off going home and playing with his friend's hot dog and going to bed. While David recommended a few restaurants in town that I should try, in walked a burly man in his red 49ers gear. He was reveling in the "big win" of the night, talking about how his team hadn't won like this in years. I had heard enough about football for the night. "You know what else is a big win?" I said, "Your moustache." This guy had quite a large and impressive stache. He was very flattered with my compliment and went on to tell me all of the details about the stache down to how he had sketched out a plan before coiffing it. </div>
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When I finally decided to call it a night, tipsy off of good cocktails, Sahar left the bar unattended to walk me outside and hail me a cab. Now that is some damn good service! </div>
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<br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0Berkeley, CA, USA37.8715926 -122.27274737.8214551 -122.351711 37.9217301 -122.193783tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-40690190261610356012011-12-20T15:11:00.001-06:002011-12-20T15:15:20.699-06:00A Cozy Weekend in San Francisco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">17-18 December 2011</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A Cozy Weekend in San Francisco</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It felt so welcomed to San Francisco when I saw the smiling faces of my cousin, Jessica and family walking down the hill towards me on that very sunny Saturday afternoon. I hadn't seen three and a half year old Vivienne in so long, but she still ran right up to me and gave me a hug. Little Julian, at one and a half, was a little more cautious, but a few hours into the day, he was already climbing into my lap and showing me his "beep beeps" and "choo choo's." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Jessica, Dave, Vivienne and Julian had just gotten back from brunch but I was ready to eat after a 4 hour journey from Houston. Jessica took me on a short stroll around the Inner Sunset neighborhood where they live. It is a low-key neighborhood with more of a town & community feeling. It is still full of a diverse mix of ethnic restaurants and funky shops, but you get the sense that people there know each other by name or address. It is adjacent to the University California - San Francisco medical school and hospital so it also has a "student vibe" to it. I read that many locals name it as their favorite neighborhood despite the fact that it has the worst weather in the city due to its proximity to the Pacific Ocean in "fog zone." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">After Jessica & I parted ways, I found the Wooly Pig Cafe. It's a tiny little shop with just a few tables that serves well-made espresso drinks, lychee black tea, and gourmet sandwiches. I opted for the braised caramel pork belly sandwich that was topped with mizuno greens, pickled shallots and balsamic vinaigrette served on challah bread. It was a delicious little meal for a late lunch.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">While Dave and Vivienne went out to do some last minute Christmas shopping, Jessica and I took Julian for a walk in Golden Gate Park, just a few blocks from their apartment. Before I could even see it, I heard the drum circle from afar. There was a sun-filled valley of the park that was full of mostly-stoned drummers rocking out in a large semi-circle. It was a mostly male ensemble with all ages and walks of life represented. Mangy dogs ran about. Women in flowing scarves frolicked. An older man with long dreadlocks sang along, he seemed to think he was conducting the group. The entire gathering was shrouded in a cloud of sweet-smelling pot smoke, totally legal in the great state of California. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Jessica lives in a quaint old San Francisco row house; it is a two story building with a lot of character and even a shared backyard. While Dave prepared dinner, Jessica and I played with the kids in the back. Vivienne scooted around on her wooden "bicycle" while Julian watched on, trying to mimic his big sister's every move. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Dave made a delicious dinner of sole with a lemon-butter sauce, roasted butternut squash, and sautéed arugula. The vegetables had all come from either their farm share or the weekly farmer's market. All of the leftovers were composted, because in San Francisco, composting is not an option, it is a rule. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">While Jessica and Dave tended to the kids, I went out in search of alcohol. There was a small bar with onsite brewery just a few blocks away called <a href="http://socialkitchenandbrewery.com/">Social Kitchen & Brewery</a>. They made mostly Belgian-style beers. I was really in the mood for a porter or a stout but unfortunately they had none on tap that night. I sampled a few different brews, including one called the Devlish that was made with salted caramel, rosemary and thyme but settled for one called L'enfant Terrible, a dark ale. It was light but malty, I enjoyed it. I also enjoyed eavesdropping on the awkward first-date conversation of the couple seated next to me at the bar. The man was sharing his stories about how he used to take ten to fifteen shots of alcohol in the first few hours of any given night out at the bar. Yes, there are some things you should keep to yourself on a first date. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I slept better than I had in a long time on Saturday night. After a glorious ten hours of sleep, I awoke to the high pitched little voices of Vivienne and Julian. I joined the family in the kitchen and together we made apple pancakes. It was a cozy way to spend a Sunday morning. </span></div>
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The five of us made a visit to the Sunset Farmer's market, a weekly occurrence in this neighborhood. Vivienne and Julian got to meet Santa, who was giving out honey sticks in lieu of candycanes. Santa was picked up by a purple PT Cruiser with a spotted dog inside instead of a carriage with reindeer. The farmer's market filled up a small parking lot but was full of lots of delicious options including many hearty winter greens, tart apples, and even strawberries. I tried a delicious kumquat marmalade and some Afghani snacks.</div>
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Jessica was raving about a bakery across the street from the farmers market called <a href="http://www.arizmendibakery.org/">Arizmendi</a>, a bakery cooperative. The sign inside the shop said "Make Loaves Not War." It was warm inside the tiny shop and smelled strongly of yeast and coffee. We picked an assortment of items to snack on, including dark chocolate and cherry sourdough, cheddar scones, and the scone of the day which was pear and blueberry. I wasn't even that hungry after our big breakfast, but I couldn't resist. This place also makes a pizza of the day which also sounded delectable. </div>
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I figured it was about time I exercised off all of these carbs I'd been eating. I set out on a run through Golden Gate Park. This park is larger and more tree-filled than New York's Central Park. It was still damp and gloomy when I went on my run, but it made the air smell fragrant of pine needles, cedar wood with the faintest hint of sea air. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I headed towards the Pacific Ocean end of Golden Gate Bridge and took a few minutes to snap photos of the rocky coastline. As chilly as it was, the surfers were still out enjoying the waves. Tall sand dunes blocked the wind from rolling in off the coastline. I made my back through the park, running past the California Academy of Science and finally seven miles later, ending up back at Jessica and Dave's apartment. I felt fantastic. </span></div>
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The sun finally broke out of the clouds around 3pm that afternoon and so Jessica and I did a bit of shopping around the neighborhood, looking through eclectic shops tightly packed with various goodies. While Jessica and Dave entertained guests, I took the MUNI down to the Russian Hill neighborhood to check to some of the funky shops and quaint boutiques on Union Street. I decided to walk most of the way, to enjoy the sunshine and exercise, so a lot of the stores were already starting to close up by the time I made it down there. I perused through books at an independent bookstore, looked at eco-friendly children's clothing, and peered into cozy restaurants decorated with Christmas lights.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">On the way back to Jessica's place, I decided to stop in at <a href="http://www.zunicafe.com/">Zuni Cafe</a> for an early dinner. After the 7 miles of running and another 4 miles of walking, I was ready for a culinary reward. Dave had suggested Zuni Cafe and I had also read about it online; it sounded like good, solid California cuisine. On the way there, I walked past the very festively light City Hall and opera house. I also spotted my first San Francisco food truck which was serving sliders and greasy comfort food; a stand next to it was selling homemade pies as a fundraiser for some needy African tribal group. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The benefits of eating alone and early in the night are prompt seating at virtually any restaurant. Zuni Cafe had a decent crowd for 6:30 on a Sunday night. I got a window seat in the bar area which gave me a good view of the street outside, the bartender shaking cocktails, and the pianist sitting at the grand piano. </span></div>
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</span>I drank my sazerac cocktail (thanks to Peter for introducing me to this drink just last week) while I waited for my first course. I had a rabbit salad with barley, pomegranate, nuts and arugula which was all fresh and light. Then I got ricotta gnocchi from a local dairy, of course, served with butter and chard. Is there really anything better than butter and ricotta? It was a simple dish but still good. I debated another small plate or a dessert, and the waiter helped me to decide on the chocolate gateau, a Julia Child style warm flourless cake. It was both dense but light at the same time. My visit to San Francisco was off to a great start.<br />
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<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0San Francisco, CA, USA37.7749295 -122.419415537.6745235 -122.577344 37.8753355 -122.261487tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-13340680242049432102011-12-17T22:01:00.002-06:002011-12-19T00:04:04.315-06:00Beware of Snow Globes this Holiday Season<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">17 December 2011</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beware of Snow Globes this Holiday Season</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Oh, the joys of airport travel around the holidays! I had nearly forgotten how much I enjoyed the experience until I walked into Bush airport this morning. The place was bustling with frantic people rushing towards security lines. There were families herding their small children with fleets of miniature rolling suitcases and armfuls of stuffed animals and confused elderly couples wandering aimlessly, staring at monitors above. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The security line was the longest one I had seen in years. The lady checking boarding passes managed to squeeze out a "have a nice trip" to each traveler which is more than I can say about the state of affairs I experienced in a certain New Jersey airport 2 years ago at the same time of year. Back then there were shrill screams, stampedes, and accusations of assault by hysterical travelers. I'll take southern hospitality any day even if it means I have to live in the same state as Rick Perry.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I passed time in the security line by reading the array of TSA signs posted along the way. I was shocked and saddened by the poster that officially decreed that snow globes were no longer allowed in carry-on luggage. Apparently those festive little glass balls filled with plastic snowflakes and quaint wintery European village replicas were simply too dangerous for the American population. Way to stay one step ahead of those terrorists, TSA! I just know that somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan, rebel forces were hard at work creating the perfect snow globe bomb. Ha! Your plans are foiled now, my friends! And for those of you that asked Santa for a Golden Gate snow globe this Christmas, it pains me to say that I will no longer be able to hand-carry one back for you. Nothing is sacred in this country anymore…</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">After stripping off every last jacket, shoe, scarf, jewelry and any other superfluous items on my body, I wasn't left with much clothing on. The security guard attempted to offer me a trip through the full body x-ray scanner (also know as the "Cancer Machine.") but I declined. I'd like to keep these aging-ovaries functional for just a bit longer, thank you. "We have a female 'opt-out'!" he announced. And so they sounded the alarm as guards down the line repeated the phrase loudly. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A friendly woman, who we will call "LaJeana," greeted me and asked if it was okay for me to have my pat-down in front of everyone. "Bring it on," I said. She went on to explain to me, in graphic detail, exactly how she would perform the search. She would use the backs of her hands to feel between my legs and the sides of the hands to cup underneath the breasts. It sounded like some kind of dirty talk and I wasn't sure whether I should feel uncomfortable or flattered. "Do what you need to do," I responded. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">LaJeana offered commentary throughout the pat-down. "Now I am running my hands through your really cute hair!" "Next I will feel the legs and torso…wow, you really keep fit! You make my job easier by being so slim and wearing such thin and tight-fitting clothing!" I was happy to please and I could see her point. She must feel awkward when she has to hoist up the pannus (ie. the hanging flap of abdominal fat) that adorns most Americans these days. In the hospital, I have heard stories of staff finding half-eaten sandwiches and full spaghetti dinners under the pannuses of some patients, so imagine what kind of weapons could be hidden under there! Warning: Al Queda might start crafting bombs hidden in fat rolls. Next thing you know, travelers will be screened at security based on body-mass index. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">After the pat-down, she tested me for explosive chemicals. An alarm sounded when she passed the paper through the machine; that couldn't be a good sign. Had Whole Foods laced my patchouli oil with explosives? TSA hadn't thought of banning hippie fragrances, yet…you can never trust a hippie anyway…</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">LaJeana called in reinforcements. Another woman, let's say, "Shantrae," came right over. LaJeana informed her that she had to do the "Revolution Search" on me. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I felt both excitement and fear at the same time. They led me to a small private room. I braced myself, ready to see an economy-sized bottle of lube, a speculum and a large woman named Olga with rubber gloves up to her elbows standing inside, but alas, the room was empty. Shantrae and LaJeana explained that they had to just do a more thorough pat-down, paying closer attention to between the legs and the breast region. It was Shantrae's turn this time. I won't kiss and tell, but I'll just say that she was very loving, gentle and really treated me like a lady. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Before I accuse TSA of discriminating against hippies, I will remind myself of other innocent folks that were subject to similar searches. Earlier this year in Florida, an ever-so menacing 95 year-old cancer patient was forced to take off her adult diaper for a complete search. Small children have also been subject to similar pat-downs. (Take note, Homeland Security, Diaper Bombs could be an effective terrorist attack strategy!) Turns out the good nation of Texas was considering a law stating that if pat-downs were performed without probable cause, security officials could be fined $4,000 and spend up to one year in jail. We like our concealed weapons, personal freedoms and our pannus left alone in Texas! </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">After the thrilling events of the morning, I was ready to eat. I settled for an over-priced Starbucks coffee which was better than the alternative options of airline coffee or caffeine-withdrawal headache. I was happy to find a breakfast taco stand right across from my gate. The cashier assured me that she had already already tasted all the meats today and they were good; nothing was too dry. I got my cochinita taco, because pork is always the right answer.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By the time I got on the airplane, it was mostly full. I pushed past oblivious travelers standing in the middle of the aisles where they attempted to shove bags that were clearly oversized into small spaces. Back at row number thirty-two I found my seat, as well as a helpful man. Between the two of us, we re-arranged 4 overhead bins to accommodate luggage for the adjacent rows. A flight attendant wearing a sequined chili pepper bolero stood by, delegating tasks to us, because flight attendants are no longer able to help lift or move bags these days; it was just too much of a lawsuit waiting to happen.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I dove into my breakfast taco, which, as promised, was not dry. I nearly lost the entire taco mid-bite when a flight attendant's generously sized rump knocked my elbow as she waddled up the aisle. Luckily the coffee had already kicked in and my reflexes were speedy. My two seat-mates finally joined me. The man was an attractive yet anal-retentive triathlete with a heavy southern drawl and a c-shaped pillow behind his neck. The other was a grandmother dressed in all of her Christmas glory. She wore a red plaid shirt with snowflakes embroidered on the cuffs and collar. Over the shirt, she wore a vest with holly berries. Her dangly earrings had jingle bells on them and her necklace had a Christmas troll doll hanging from it. (Ok fine, I made up the troll part…I just miss trolls.) The triathlete complimented her on her "festive" outfit and I think he actually meant it. Damn you, you wholesome & genuine Christians!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">We all settled into our seats, ready to depart for San Francisco, when the pilot came over the loudspeakers. He informed us that we would have a slight delay due to an "oven malfunction in first class." We would have to wait for the airplane to receive food that did not require re-heating. Frankly, I think most of the people in those extra-large seats up in first class had enough fat stores to get them through a four-hour flight, but what do I know? I do know that the little Christmas troll hanging around my seat-mate's festive neck is staring at me with accusing eyes while I type this very message. I'm not sure if trolls can read, but I feel guilty nonetheless. I've said enough. Merry Christmas. </span></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com4Houston, TX, USA29.7601927 -95.369389629.319101200000002 -96.001103600000008 30.2012842 -94.7376756tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-20116429437289754932011-08-15T20:13:00.000-05:002011-08-15T20:13:35.514-05:00Crater Lake: The most beautiful blue water<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">11 August 2011</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Crater Lake: The most beautiful blue water</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The cold morning air rushed into the tent as I unzipped the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hard to peel my body out of the warm sleeping bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had actually <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>gotten quite a good night sleep thanks to my new sleeping bag mat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After deconstructing the dew-covered tent, we ate breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The farmer’s market bread was delicious with the goat cheese, blackberries and granola; better yet, all were locally made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made a pit-stop for some coffee, before continuing on to Crater Lake National Park.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LkwOGdEHP00/Tkm--S3_Y5I/AAAAAAAABz8/EVzgHKrX0ZU/s1600/IMG_8684.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LkwOGdEHP00/Tkm--S3_Y5I/AAAAAAAABz8/EVzgHKrX0ZU/s320/IMG_8684.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">About three hours later, we arrived via the north entrance to the park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bettina climbed up a few more steep inclines, and finally, we were on the rim of Crater Lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is hard to do justice to the awesome beauty of this lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crater Lake is referred to as a caldera lake that was formed about 7,700 years ago when the volcanic Mount Mazama collapsed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lake is about 6 miles across and more than 1,900 feet deep in some areas, which makes it one of the deepest lakes in the world and the deepest in the US.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are no rivers feeding it, just rainwater and melting snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is one of the most pollutant free natural water sources in the US.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To me, the most striking aspect of Crater Lake is the clear sapphire blue water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never seen a blue this pure and dazzling, the clarity and brilliance of a sapphire gem was the closest resemblance that comes to mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This clear blue was mirrored above the lake in the cloudless sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The water’s color is truly unreal, and Crater Lake, in general, feels otherworldly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like I was on a computer-generated set of a beautiful alien planet. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bFurU9ey4nE/TknBePR06tI/AAAAAAAAB0k/ijD826YXDQw/s1600/IMG_8741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bFurU9ey4nE/TknBePR06tI/AAAAAAAAB0k/ijD826YXDQw/s320/IMG_8741.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is a 33-mile drive around the rim of the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We followed this road until it took us to the lodge and visitor’s center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are dozens of hiking trails throughout the park and we decided to start our day with one of the highest ones along the rim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trail guide said the hike was a strenuous 3+ mile hike round-trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It said to expect to take 2-3 hours to do the hike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Two to three hours?” I said, “We are in much better shape than the average person so it should only take us one to two hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Start your watch, Jason.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jason laughed, told me I was too competitive, and added, “You must have received a lot of positive reinforcement as a child because you really think highly of yourself!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well,” I responded, “If I don’t think highly of myself, who else will?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was the kind of hiking I had been looking forward to doing all week, I was ready to get my heart rate up and sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I warned Jason that I was going to hike up as fast as I could and so I might just meet him at the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Jason pointed out throughout the week of vacation, I am not really capable of walking at a slow pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said he could just picture me power-walking with hand weights as a middle-aged woman one day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have learned this joy of speed walking from my parents, who even at 60 years of age, are still difficult to keep up with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember complaining about all of the walking we’d do on family vacations or even day trips to New York City, but now I appreciate the desire for mobility that then instilled in me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even in August, there was still snow on the ground which actually blocked off the trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though the orange sign said to hike no further, I ignored it, like many other hikers, and continued over the large compact snow mound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I waited for Jason there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Kate! What are you doing up there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sign says ‘Danger!’”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I urged him to follow me and we continued on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Further uphill, there was a slightly more treacherous section where the snow still clung to the side of the mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We safely and quite easily made our way to the other side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sunshine was blinding as it reflected off the white snow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The views from the top of Mt Garfield were stunning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took us just thirty minutes to get to the top!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt great; I knew we could hike it roundtrip in one hour!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We chatted with a man from North Carolina who was also savoring the view at the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After snapping dozens of photographs, we walked back down the mountain at a more leisurely pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iHzrAf94GCU/TknAJWz6U9I/AAAAAAAAB0U/JIugqzQLzFM/s1600/IMG_8696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iHzrAf94GCU/TknAJWz6U9I/AAAAAAAAB0U/JIugqzQLzFM/s320/IMG_8696.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">After refueling at lunch, we continued our drive around the Crater Lake to the trailhead for Mt Scott.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the highest peak in the park at over 8,900 feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mountain seemed huge from where we parked our car, but we could just make out a small hut on the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was our destination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This hike would be a bit longer than the last one, at 5 miles roundtrip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll see you at the top, Jason.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we were on our way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This trail was not quite as scenic as the last hike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mt Scott was set back from the lake quite a bit further than Mt Garfield had been and for most of the way up I couldn’t even see the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a steady upward grade the whole way and the afternoon sun was strong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped a few times to drink water and catch my breath, but kept on trucking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was it my imagination or was I feeling the altitude? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The trail finally opened up on a ridge and finally the small wooden look-out building was visible ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had taken only forty minutes to get up to the top, but I was ready for a break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind whipped around me as I sat on a rock with views of Crater Lake a few miles in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed about ten minutes of solitude, completely alone up there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jason arrived and we took in the view together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could barely even make out Bettina from all the way up there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was parked somewhere near a snow bank down there. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Feeling like we had a very beautiful and fulfilling day at Crater Lake, we decided to start our drive towards the coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like yesterday, our plan was to find a campground somewhere on the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After studying our map, I figured we could make it to the Oregon Dunes Park before sundown and settle in to one of the many campsites there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the drive to the coast was downhill through dense forests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drove through a number of small rural towns which seemed to have more cows and churches than actual human beings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a sunny and pretty drive, in fact there really hadn’t been much about Oregon that wasn’t aesthetically pleasing all week. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The sun was getting low in the sky when we finally reached the coast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I expected to be immediately driving along the shoreline, but we were still tucked away in the dense forest that covered the rugged coast in southern Oregon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pulled off at the first campground we found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They charged a hefty $20 per night for a spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After driving around, we laughed at how incredibly NOT outdoorsy this campsite was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was paved better than most of the roads in Houston and had bathroom and shower facilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It even looked like there were electric plug-ins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This wasn’t what we had in mind; we pressed on.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next spot was definitely prettier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One end of the campgrounds had a tree-lined small lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other end bordered on the huge sand dunes and the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked like the families that had parked their RV’s here were planning on staying awhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were sand toys, bicycles, lavishly laid-out picnic tables, and even a purple tricycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you really even call that camping?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We parked the car anyway to have a look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we climbed up a huge sand dune, we could finally see the beach below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We arrived just in time to see the orange sun slip below the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Figuring we only had about thirty more minutes until complete darkness, we decided we’d try one more campground before giving up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">A few miles up the road, we turned off again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was like the Disneyworld of campgrounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were even different “neighborhoods” with cutesy names that ended in well-paved cul-de-sacs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was landscaped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were waspy women pushing double-wide strollers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I offered up the idea of just ditching the car and lugging our tent out to the beach and spending the night there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted one last chance at camping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jason logically said that we’d probably get kicked off the beach by rangers eventually, he was probably right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was time to look for a place to stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hoping for a quirky motel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d heard that the coastal of town of Florence was pretty, so we stopped off there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tried out a few different motels until we bargained a deal at the VillaWest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been quite a long day and Jason was particularly frustrated by the experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We headed over to one of the only still open restaurants in town for a late dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jason said their food probably came from Walmart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It definitely was not the best meal we’d had all week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had some good Oregon beer though so I was happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least we both enjoyed cleaning our smelly and dirty bodies off in the hot shower before getting some much-needed sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-7803026212404960692011-08-14T22:58:00.004-05:002011-08-14T23:27:08.682-05:00The Scenic Route from Eugene to Bend<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">10 August 2011</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Scenic Route from Eugene to Bend</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZN7kQjrPjQs/TkiYLYrs4iI/AAAAAAAABzs/haZssAPdH8g/s1600/IMG_8637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZN7kQjrPjQs/TkiYLYrs4iI/AAAAAAAABzs/haZssAPdH8g/s320/IMG_8637.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The chickens were squawking when I woke up that morning. The air was cool and crisp outside the cozy little house. I threw on my running clothes and crossed the street to the trailhead. After just a few steps into the woods, it was cool and quite dark with very little light getting through the dense pine trees. Jade said this was an old growth coniferous forest. It certainly felt prehistoric with the huge ferns shooting out of the ground and the giant trees. The fragrance of pine needles and bark was soothing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The run turned into more of a hike at times, as the path got pretty steep. I cannot say that trail running is my forte these days given that there really aren’t any woods in Houston. I did my best and walked the steep ascents. I later learned that this path would actually climb over a thousand feet to a peak. I wasn’t ready for a run like that until I’d at least had some coffee and breakfast.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We reluctantly said our goodbyes to Kirk and Jade. They said we were more than welcome to stay with them again if our travels landed us in Eugene later that week. Kirk said he’d see me when I moved to Oregon. We laid out our map of Oregon in the morning sun on the roof of the car and Kirk helped us plan our route to Bend.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jason and I made a stop off at a breakfast joint called <a href="http://www.offthewaffle.com/">Off the Waffle</a> before we hit the road. We ate our local and “mostly organic” waffles with some coffee in the sun. The waffles were crispy and delicious. On top of mine there was a fried egg, spinach, tomato, red onions, feta cheese, and garlic yogurt sauce. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l9hMRghb5Uc/TkiTC-AxDOI/AAAAAAAABx0/QwP6KmcDYzE/s1600/IMG_8571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l9hMRghb5Uc/TkiTC-AxDOI/AAAAAAAABx0/QwP6KmcDYzE/s320/IMG_8571.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We followed a scenic road along the McKenzie River as we went from Eugene to Bend. It was a gorgeous drive full of evergreen lined mountains, wide valleys, raging rivers, expansive farms, and colorful wild flowers. I drove Jason crazy as I asked him to pull off the road when a photo-worthy scene pulled into view. Had I been traveling alone, I would have been stopping every few miles to take pictures and made it into Bend a week later. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was a white covered bridge over the McKenzie and we pulled into the shoulder by the McKenzie Hatchery to take pictures. We ran across the old bridge, not as old as the ones you might see in New England but still pretty. There was a man fishing with his dog under the bridge. I picked some raspberries off of a bush. I had pee before we got back in the car. Note to self: squatting in a raspberry bush is a prickly experience. Jason was kind enough to capture it on film.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JnMuCoWWERE/TkiUSOmseFI/AAAAAAAABx4/KxN_OaTELqc/s1600/IMG_8575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JnMuCoWWERE/TkiUSOmseFI/AAAAAAAABx4/KxN_OaTELqc/s320/IMG_8575.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a steep, winding road to get over the mountains into Bend. While we drove, Jason decided to name our little silver Ford Focus, Bettina. He gave Bettina much positive reinforcement and encouragement as she chugged along through the switchbacks and vertical climbs. I was impressed to see cyclists riding up the same roads that our car seemed to struggle with. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we finally got to the top of the mountains, the tree lined opened and we were in a huge lava field. Jade’s description was right; it looked like Mars. We jumped out of the car and climbed up the sharp old lava rocks. A fall on these stones would be treacherous so we took our time. It reminded me of the volcano hike I’d done with my family in Guatemala, except this time there was no molten lava nearby. Further down the road, we also stopped at the Dee Wright Observatory which offers great views of all of the surrounding snow capped mountains and the miles of lava fields. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OZF3x-aLR-4/TkiVQFncQSI/AAAAAAAAByQ/W1aTisnZ9Ow/s1600/IMG_8594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OZF3x-aLR-4/TkiVQFncQSI/AAAAAAAAByQ/W1aTisnZ9Ow/s320/IMG_8594.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before long, we started our descent from the mountains. The sun was blaring in a cerulean sky as we drove in to Sisters, the first large town we’d encountered in miles. There were vast ranches in the valley of the mountains we’d just passed through with horses frolicking. The historic downtown of Sisters looked like it could have been the scene of an old country-western film. We pressed onto Bend.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-63riZGvUjGY/TkiWTQAo_II/AAAAAAAABy8/AFhq3UTHxIQ/s1600/IMG_8630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-63riZGvUjGY/TkiWTQAo_II/AAAAAAAABy8/AFhq3UTHxIQ/s320/IMG_8630.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was lunchtime when we arrived in Bend so we made a stop for lunch as our first priority. Bend has the most breweries per capita of any town in Oregon (and probably the US). We chose to stop at the <a href="http://www.bendbrewingco.com/">Bend Brewing Company</a>, which is right on the river. We sat outside in the midday sun and chatted with the friendly waitress who had recently moved there from West Virginia. She moved here for the rock climbing. I tried the brewery’s dry Irish Stout and then got the last glass of their sour beer, which was made with pomegranate and hibiscus. It was one of the most interesting beers I’d had in a long time. I could take a growler of that home with me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5e6O1jlybd0/TkiWE324LTI/AAAAAAAAByw/wfQrhKtUOP4/s1600/IMG_8633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5e6O1jlybd0/TkiWE324LTI/AAAAAAAAByw/wfQrhKtUOP4/s320/IMG_8633.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a stroll around the quaint downtown of Bend, we took the waitresses recommendation to visit Tumalo Falls, just outside the town. It was about a twenty-minute drive to the falls and short hike up from the parking area to get a good view of the falls. It was already about four o’clock in the afternoon at this point. We wished we had more time to explore the area around Bend, but we wanted to find a campsite for the evening. After making some phone calls and talking to a ranger, we discovered that virtually all of the campsites in Bend were reserved. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k8xTF2gOMXY/TkiWmWK9p6I/AAAAAAAABzE/cGWNDkP31s8/s1600/IMG_8640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k8xTF2gOMXY/TkiWmWK9p6I/AAAAAAAABzE/cGWNDkP31s8/s320/IMG_8640.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With all the many miles of wilderness, I suggested to Jason that we just leave the car, hike into the woods with our gear, and find our own “illegal” campsite. Jason is much more a practical rue-follower than I am, and he vetoed this idea. Instead, we hopped in the car with plans to head towards Crater Lake and hope to find a place to camp at one of many of the sites that our map said would be on the way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On our way out of Bend we drove through a beautiful park full of people running, cycling, lounging, walking, and swimming or tubing in the river. I had never seen a town quite as athletic and outdoorsy as Bend. There was a farmer’s market taking place that evening. When I spotted it, I screamed, “Stop! Here! Turn! Let’s go to the farmers market!” Jason rolled his eyes, “You are ridiculous, Kate.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think he was happy about the stop, because we got some incredible food to take on the road. We had both developed quite an addiction to Oregon berries, so we picked up a few more pints. There was a fantastic bakery on site. We bought a loaf of bread made with porter and carmelized onions. I got a slice of the marionberry and rhubarb galette, and the friendly lady who worked there gave Jason a free garlic, parmesan baguette. I grabbed some goat chevre from the dairy people. I learned that we were lucky to have been in Bend that day, because this beautiful market just happened once a week. It was such a pleasant, sunny evening in the park. I could hear bongo drums in the distance. I wished there was more time!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ftpIb-C7XKA/TkiWy-tI3bI/AAAAAAAABzI/jmV08XKbjbE/s1600/IMG_8645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ftpIb-C7XKA/TkiWy-tI3bI/AAAAAAAABzI/jmV08XKbjbE/s320/IMG_8645.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">About an hour south of Bend, we pulled off the highway near a town called, La Pine. From the looks of the map, there should be about a half a dozen designated campsites in the national forest here. The first campsite we found was a paved circular drive with some RV parking spots. We pressed on. The next camp area seemed more legitimate. We had to drive down a dusty dirt road to get there. There was a river running nearby. There didn’t seem to be many other campers there. The only other sign of life we saw was a pair of motorcycles. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jason and I were filling out the campsite form and were about to pay our $10 when a 1990s Honda came tearing down the road. We watched as the blonde man inside drove donuts in the dusty road. He stared us squarely in the eyes before speeding back down the road. “Oh no, we are NOT staying here!” Jason said. “I do not want to be hacked up into little pieces by some serial killer while we sleep.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A few miles down the road we followed a sign for another campsite. It was about a 10 minute drive through the woods down a desolate road until we arrived. It seemed to be a popular site as there were quite a few other groups occupying the campsites. There was a lake and a river in the vicinity. It was not the primitive kind of camping experience I had envisioned we’d be doing in Oregon, but it would do. After we scoped out the place for any would-be murderers, Jason gave the place his seal of approval and we unloaded our gear. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was excited to use my new tent for the first time. We set it up behind a large pine tree just before the sun set. It quickly got chilly, and I put on all of the warm clothes I had. We weren’t even that hungry after all the farmer’s markets snacks we’d eaten on the drive from Bend, but Jason wanted to try out his camping cookware. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YLq4HjtDFUo/TkiXZePP9DI/AAAAAAAABzk/kqhLmDlD9jc/s1600/IMG_8659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YLq4HjtDFUo/TkiXZePP9DI/AAAAAAAABzk/kqhLmDlD9jc/s320/IMG_8659.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">While we waited for the water to boil, I walked around the campground. Even though it was August, it felt like an autumn night. The air was cool and dry and I could smell pine needles, leaves, and a campfire in the distance. I stood at the still edge of the lake and watched a flickering fire reflect off the water. If it weren’t for the bright, full moon, the evening stars would have been brilliantly visible in the clear night sky. All of these sensations took me back to childhood memories of Girl Scout camping trips in the Appalachian Mountains of northern New Jersey when we’d sleep in cabins, make smores in a bonfire, and tell ghost stories all night. It also made me miss of the wilderness New England where I’d hiked and camped with my good friend, Mike, before moving to Texas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eBPAZ5BhgeU/TkiYNGULoFI/AAAAAAAABzw/HTpkTwji6dw/s1600/IMG_8671.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eBPAZ5BhgeU/TkiYNGULoFI/AAAAAAAABzw/HTpkTwji6dw/s320/IMG_8671.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The water had just finished boiling when I returned to our campsite. Jason poured it over our freeze-dried macaroni & cheese and we waited while it soaked. It was soothing to be in the peace and quiet of the great outdoors. After we ate, there wasn’t much else to do but retire to the tent, and frankly that was the only way to keep warm. I read my book with my headlamp while Jason snored next to me. </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0Bend, OR, USA44.0581728 -121.3153095999999843.9961253 -121.38137509999997 44.1202203 -121.24924409999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-23780335785112144102011-08-12T19:04:00.001-05:002011-08-14T22:29:30.485-05:00Eden in Eugene9 August 2011<br />
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Eden in Eugene<br />
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The sky was overcast when we woke up that morning in McMinnville. We threw on some long-sleeved shirts and headed next door to the Red Fox Bakery that I had spotted yesterday. It was a quaint little bakery that, according to the sign outside, make a weekly appearance at the farmers market and had a post-market food and music party as well. Jason and I each ordered our espresso drink of choice and a delicious assortment of pastries because we could not decide on just one. <br />
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With my latte I had a blueberry braided Danish (local blueberries, of course) and also a raspberry scone. Jason drank his mocha with a pain au chocolat and mixed berry galette. We got a small loaf of golden raisin buttermilk bread to go. The pastries at this place were incredible; it was hard not to buy a few more for the road, but we held off, but it really took willpower not to buy that giant dark chocolate covered cream puff and the still warm loaves of bread.<br />
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The wimpy little hike to Erractic rock that Jason and I had done yesterday barely counted as exercise and I was feeling antsy. Over the years I have realized that I am addicted to exercise. If I go more than about 24 – 48 hours without exercise, the withdrawal symptoms start to set in: I feel irritable, antsy, my gastrointestinal system goes crazy, I can’t stop thinking about where I will get it next, and I will fight anyone who stands in my way. I was getting to my threshold so it was time to find my next fix. I set out for a run around sleeply little McMinnville while Jason hung out at a coffee shop. <br />
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The small town was just waking up. People were out walking dogs, slowly heading to cafes, or pushing strollers. The houses were modest, but each one had a colorful garden of flowers out front. It wasn’t a town where I would want to live but it was certainly a quaint place for a one-day visit. I checked my email before we headed out of Hotel Oregon. There was an email in my work mailbox that seemed to good to be true. I don’t think I have ever gotten a medical recruiting email before in my life, but here was a message from a private practice in Eugene, Oregon. They were recruiting applicants to start working after my scheduled graduation. It seemed like a good omen. I was ready to see what Eugene had to offer. <br />
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It was a sunny drive from McMinnville to Eugene. On the way we drove through wide valleys spotted with vineyards, ranches, weathered and worn barns, orchards, and cattle. We got hungry for a snack on the way so we dug into the raisin bread. Even though I choked as I accidentally inhaled some of the flour dusted on the outside of the loaf, I still agreed with Jason that this was the best raisin bread we’d ever had. The crust was crisp and crunchy but the inside was moist and chewy. The golden raisins were huge and juicy. We had to pace ourselves so we didn’t finish the entire loaf. <br />
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We pulled into Eugene at lunchtime and parked our car downtown. For a small city of about 150,000 people, there was a lot of foot traffic. There was a farmer’s market going on in one of the open plazas. There were a few crafty items for sale like jewelry and pottery. There was the usual tie-dye booth as well, at this booth we laughed when we found tie-dyed scrubs! The girl who worked there said that there was an assisted living center in her home state of Utah where everyone wore her tie-dyed scrubs. I don’t think they’d welcome them as openly in Houston.<br />
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I couldn’t get enough of the fresh local berries that were sold at all of the Oregon farmers market. I ignored the headline on the last Oregonian newspaper I’d seen that warned about an E. coli outbreak in berries. I didn’t care if these berries lead to diarrhea either from infestation or sheer high fiber content, they were worth it. For $8 I got three pints of berries: red cherries, boysenberries and raspberries. <br />
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“Do you compost?” asked a white-haired man. I unfortunately told him that we were only passing through Oregon on vacation and sadly weren’t composting on the way. He was selling some kind of compost liquid. Instead of talking more about that, we had a discussion about Texas, where he said he’d lived during his childhood in the 1940s. “Isn’t this Eden here today?” he asked. We had to agree. It was about 75F and sunny with barely a cloud in the sky. It was warm in the sun but there was also a cool breeze blowing. He said that this was a cooler summer or Eugene; in past summers it has been up to 90-100F, but of course, not humid like Houston, he admitted.<br />
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There was a plethora of amazing food for sale at this market. There were some awesome baked items, coffee drinks, healthy Mexican food, and vegetables galore. I stopped at a stand called Field to Table where they were cooking up some great lunch meals. I ordered the Sockeye Salmon, cakes which came with roasted corn and green beans, sea beans, as well as a homemade tartar sauce. I got a basil-cucumber soda that they assured me was local, organic and consciously made. For dessert, I got a bacon-sage shortbread cookie with fig jam. The staff working the tent were so cheery and friendly, they genuinely seemed to mean it when they said they hoped you enjoyed your meal. <br />
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I couldn’t resist ordering a few more desserts at a bakery tent too. I also got a ginger cookie and a homemade oreo with butter cream frosting inside. I ate all of this food, with my berries, while basking in the midday sunshine and watching the market goers pass by. There were a few gray haired hippies heatedly discussing politics. Moms with babies in slings sifted through produce. A couple of guys with dreadlocks sat on the corner strumming on guitars. A few peopled napped in People exchanged pleasantries as they bumped into old friends. Eugene seemed like a tight-knight community. I could get into this. Maybe this was the place for me!<br />
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After I thoroughly gorged myself on the delicious lunch and many desserts, Jason and I split up. He walked around while I went to the Steelhead Brewery. There was so much good craft beer to be consumed in Oregon that I needed to stop wasting time and get down to business with the drinking. Steelhead was just about a one mile walk from where we’d parked our car. Tanks of beer were visible through the glass behind the bar in the pub. They had about ten different beers on tap and I chose a porter because I can never pass up a good dark beer. The beer was nutty yet not too heavy. I drank it in their patio while reading my very thought provoking book, Sex at Dawn, and watching the world go by.<br />
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I was feeling sufficiently happy after that porter but I wasn’t ready to stop there. A friend who lives in Seattle had suggested Ninkasi Brewery. I consulted my iPhone map and found that it was also just about one mile away. It was a pleasant walk through Eugene on the way there. I can see why its referred to as the Emerald City because it really is green both literally and figuratively. I passed many a quaint colorful with flowers blooming on fence posts out front, also walked past quite a few natural food stores, cafes, and headshops. <br />
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Ninkasi is a large building painted in black and turquoise. Jason arrived there with our car just a few minutes after I did. There were a few people inside the brewery tasting room and a few others sitting outside on the sunlight patio. When we found out that a tasting of five 5-oz beers was just $5.50, we had to order one for each of us. They had about eight different beers on tap so between the two of us we got to try them all. There was a good variety of beer types including ales, stouts, IPAs, double IPAs, and a red beer. I have to say that my favorite was, not surprisingly, the oatmeal vanilla stout. I had a pretty good buzz going after my own little Eugene brewery crawl, but I still couldn’t resist going back for a full pint of the stout.<br />
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While we sat in the patio of Ninkasi, which slowly filled up with the happy hour crowd, we took advantage of the free wifi. I got an email from my cousin in San Francisco saying that I should connect with a family we’d all grown up with in New Jersey who live in Oregon now. My cousins on the west coast are still very close friends with them and we’ve all seen each other at the occasional wedding. It seemed only a few minutes later that I had received an email from Kirk, who lives with his family in Eugene, that said to call him. <br />
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I called Kirk right away. Kirk almost immediately invited us to stay at his home for the night. With their eldest daughter way in Germany, he said they had more than enough room to accommodate us. We made plans to meet for dinner a little later when he finished up working. In the meantime, we continued to drink beer and relax. All of a sudden, as if in response to my culinary dreams, a portable wood-fired oven pulled up to the patio. A man with his son of about 8 years were setting up for pizzas. I chatted with them, found out what their best pizza was, and told them to holler when the grills were ready. It took awhile to heat that large oven up, but eventually Jason and I were snacking on a delicious little pizza with mozzarella, pecorino romano, garlic and bacon.<br />
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We met Kirk at <a href="http://www.cozmicpizza.com/">Cozmic Pizza</a>, his newest business endeavor. Kirk has been out in Oregon for probably about twenty years. He started an organic ravioli company, called <a href="http://www.risingmoon.com/">Rising Moon Organics</a>, which he later sold and you can now find his ravioli in all Whole Foods and many other health food stores. Since the ravioli, Kirk did a bit of consulting and recently bought a Laundromat, an apartment building, and the pizzeria. <br />
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I introduced Jason to Kirk and we all caught up over a few beers. Before long, his partner, Jade, and their daughter, Daisy, showed up. That had been at the barn all day tending to their horses. They treated us to a great dinner with a variety of salads and pizzas. Everything was delicious, especially Daisy’s favorite pizza, which had artichokes and other veggies on it. Cozmic Pizza is in large warehouse-like space that is shared with a café and another business. The open space in the middle has bunch of chairs and tables and there is a central stage where they frequently host live music. Tonight they were showing a film on the big screen. It was the documentary about the ultra-marathon runner, Dean Karnazes. I had actually gone to see Dean speak when I lived in Hartford, Connecticut and he came through with the North Face speaker series. This guy ran fifty marathons in 50 consecutive days in all fifty states—truly awe-inspiring. It seemed like a fitting movie to watch in the very athletic state of Oregon.<br />
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After dinner, Kirk drove us past his other businesses on the way to his house. We saw the <a href="http://www.holidaylaundromat.com/">Holiday Laundromat</a>. Kirk said the place used to be totally ghetto and a regular hang out for the crackheads in town. He had revamped the place and totally cleaned it up. He had taken the center of the old washers and dryers and made them into pots for plants that now sat outside. We also got to see the apartment building they had bought and recently spruced up with a new coat of paint. <br />
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Kirk and Jade pretty much live in my dream home. Their house is not much more than a five-minute drive from downtown Eugene but it truly feels like the country there. They have five acres of land across the street from the trailhead to a dense forested park area. There is a small, old house that sits on the property that is about 700 square feet. Kirk said when the first moved out there, their family of four lived in this little house while they planned and built their new house. The old house still stands, and they now rent it out to a couple, but their new house is gorgeous. It has a very earthy feel and is painted a dark green with natural wood and dark red accents. <br />
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Kirk gave us a tour of the garden. They had sunflowers, tomatoes, peppers, squash, strawberries, lettuces, blueberries, and sunflowers, just to name a few. Jason picked a bright yellow-orange tomato that was ripe. I ate some blueberries off the plant. This was like the natural, organic, lower glycemic index version of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. The blueberries really tasted like blueberries! Jason and I were in awe of their fabulous home and garden. Kirk said that he was glad to share it with us and enjoyed seeing the garden through our eyes.<br />
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Jade chatted with us while we settled into their guesthouse. The guesthouse is a small studio apartment that they had to lift and literally straighten when they moved there. It was just enough space for a bed, some bookshelves, a small kitchen, bathroom and a little wood-burning furnace. Jason and I said we’d be happy to just stay in this cozy little house forever. Jade said sometimes she likes to go sleep out in the little guesthouse to feel like she is on a little vacation. I could imagine how cozy it would be in there on a snowy or rainy day with the wood furnace burning. <br />
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We talked more about Oregon and how Jade ended up there. She is originally from Bakersfield, California. She and Kirk met in Maine through a family they both knew and admired who owned a sheep farm there. Kirk ended up in Oregon for school and she later joined. She said that she does miss the sunshine of California. Most Oregonians seem to agree that the gloomy weather does get to be a drag after awhile. She said it was less the rain or grayness that bothered her, but more the unpredictability of the weather for about eight months out of the year; every day was different here. Jade wished us goodnight and we jumped into bed. <br />
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-68287382599520671142011-08-09T19:58:00.002-05:002011-08-14T23:25:07.693-05:00Erratic Times in Willamette Valley8 August 2011<br />
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Erratic Times in Willamette Valley<br />
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I can’t say that I awoke feeling refreshed that morning. It had nothing to do with the quality of the room or the comfort of the bed but rather the snoring of Jason. Yes, I will give him credit, he had been awake for 36 hours. The first priority was, of course, food and coffee. I decided to take Jason to a small breakfast joint called Pine State Biscuits in the Sunnyside neighborhood of Portland. I had visited this place back in 2009 when my brothers and I had explored Portland before our cousins wedding in Corvallis. <br />
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Sunnyside is a quaint neighborhood with colorfully painted homes, leafy trees, and street-side flower gardens. Good coffee takes priority and so we made a stop for some Stumptown coffee. I got my usual latte and Jason got his routine mocha. All were happy.<br />
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<a href="http://pinestatebiscuits.com/">Pine State Biscuits</a> is a tiny little breakfast nook with just a few tables and a small bar at which to eat. It is owned by three guys who grew up in North Carolina. They all coincidentally found themselves in Portland and felt that the city was lacking in southern food so they started a restaurant with the best damn biscuits in Portland. They were featured on the Food Network’s show Diners, Dives and Drive-ins which featured them hand-making their biscuits. Jason ordered The Reggie Deluxe biscuit which came with a fried chicken breast, bacon, cheddar, a fried egg and gravy. I got the Chatfield which had the fried chicken, bacon and cheddar with apple butter spread. <br />
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While we waited for our food to come out we read the Oregonian newspaper and the New York Times. We also watched the bustle in the open kitchen. There were lots of eggs being cracked onto hot cast iron skillets. There was one particular cook that Jason and I both had our eyes on. He was tall and thin with a grungy beard, lots of arm tattoos and bright blue eyes. Jason and I fought over which team this guy was batting for. Jason kept staring at him while we were there, and the cook gave him a food nods in return. But at one point he came over close to where I was sitting and looked me square in the eye with an intense stare that could only convey one thing…<br />
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The biscuits were flakey, moist and delicious. The chicken was crispy and savory on the outside and juicy on the inside. The gravy was really flavorful with hints of herbs and cream. We made a stop off in Zupan’s market to peruse through the mostly local and organic selections they offered. It was basically like a local version of a Whole Foods. I picked up some Portland baked granola and some vegan beef jerky. <br />
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The sun was still hiding behind the clouds when we checked out of our hotel. Jason went to meet up with a friend while I did a bit of shopping. The first stop was Whole Foods just located a block away. I bought a tube of natural sunblock and couldn’t resist a cute pair of hound’s-tooth Tom’s. Next I went to the famous <a href="http://www.powells.com/">Powell’s Book store</a>. This gargantuan store has every book imaginable lining shelves that go at least one story high. Books are organized not only by author or genre but also by award winners and store-worker’s favorites. This was the kind of store that Barnes & Nobles could only aspire to be like. <br />
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I picked out a few recent books that were on sale for about $9 a piece. I got Barbara Kingsolver’s recent book The Lacuna which came highly recommended by the woman ahead of me in line. I also grabbed a book called Sex at Dawn, a non-fiction book that I about “How we mate, why we stray, and what it means for modern relationships.” I could understand how Powell’s books was an institution in Portland. As I sat in the coffee shop section of the store, drinking my café au lait, I could easily picture how cozy it would be in here on a rainy fall day. There were all walks of life in that book store on that gloomy morning and I could have stayed there for hours people watching, blogging and reading my new book, but alas it was time to move on. <br />
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Jason and I navigated our way to the Willamette Valley, known for its many wineries which specialize in Pinot Noirs. Once we got out of the congestion of Portland, it was a beautiful drive through valleys surrounded by pine tree lined mountains, fields spotted with bails of hay and farms and vineyards. <br />
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About an hour later we arrived in the town of McMinnville, which is the main town in the wine region. We booked a night at another of the McMenamin establishments, called <a href="http://www.mcmenamins.com/441-hotel-oregon-home">Hotel Oregon</a>. McMinnville was a quaint 1950s style town with an inviting main street. Hotel Oregon was very centrally located. We checked in, unloaded our bags, and then went in search of lunch. A few blocks down the main street we found the <a href="http://communityplate.com/">Community Plate</a> which is a quaint eatery sourcing its food from local suppliers. The interior was made using a decommissioned barn so the walls and tables were made of worn antique wood. <br />
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Jason and I had trouble deciding what to order. We settled on sharing the baked macaroni & cheese and we both ordered a salad. My salad came with pickled beets, goat cheese and toasted filberts. It was an amazing vegetarian lunch full of flavor and nutrition (minus the massive amounts of cheese on the macaroni.) <br />
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It was already after 3 o’clock and after a quick internet search, I learned that most of the area wineries closed at 4pm and were about a 20 minute drive away. We were about to claim defeat and head to the hotel’s bar when I found Yamhill Vineyards. They were just about 5 miles out of town and were open until 5pm. We excitedly hopped in the car. <br />
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After a short drive through rolling hills, wildflower-lined fields, and rows upon rows of grape vines, we ended up at <a href="http://yamhill.com/">Yamhill Vineyards</a> We were the only visitors on site at the time and so we got immediate service. The friendly, blonde, middle-aged woman at the counter explained that it would be $5 for a flight of six wines. Since when did wine tasting become the metaphorical equivalent of boarding an airplane? Did these people really think their wine was amazing enough that it would transcend us to another plain of existence? I doubted it, but for $5 I couldn’t argue anymore.<br />
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We started our “flight” with a Pinot Gris, followed by a Pinot Blanc, a red called Erratic Rock, two Pinot Noirs and a Riesling. We liked one of the higher end Pinot Noirs the best and I also enjoyed the Pinot Gris which was not too sweet. The woman serving us was pleasant and friendly and offered an nice explanation for each wine, reminding us to pay attention to the color and clarity of the wines as well. <br />
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We tried to hit up one more winery before the day was done, but we found it to be closed already. Instead, we drove through the beautiful countryside. I hollered to Jason to stop when I noticed a sign for Erratic Rock. This is the same rock that Yamhill Vineyards named one of their wines after. We parked the car in the shoulder of the road and heade up the steep path to the top. A sign on the way explained that this famous rock had been transported from Missoula, Montana many thousands of years ago with a glacier.<br />
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On the pathway leading up, I noticed blackberries growing on the side. Most of them were still developing but I found a few purple ones. They were juicy but still a bit tart. After about a half-mile hike, we found Erratic Rock. I must say, it was overwhelmingly anticlimactic. I was expecting to find a large boulder overlooking the valley but really it was just a big rock on top of a hill. Jason and I tried to make the most of it and took some silly pictures, but really, it was kind of lame.<br />
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Back in McMinnville, we struggled to find something to do to pass the rest of the daylight hours. I did a little bit of window shopping at a hippie joint. I wanted to take a yoga class at a studio I spotted on the main street, but when we approached it, we found out that they were closed for the week. The girl who was mopping the floors to the loud sounds of Beyonce said that this was their slowest week of the year so they were shut down temporarily. <br />
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Back in McMinnville we caught a bluegrass street performance by a group of high school boys. They were surprisingly good and did some fantastic renditions of the Avett Brothers and other folksy singers. I decided to end my evening on the roof-top bar of Hotel Oregon while Jason sipped an iced coffee at one of the corner coffee shops. It was a beautiful temperature on the rooftop bar that evening. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky. I ordered a stout that was brewed on site and I drank it while looking out across the hills and trees. This was pure bliss! I sent text message to Jason to inform him that he was missing a hell of a time on the roof top bar. I indulged myself by ordering another beer, this time a hefeweizen, also brewed on site. <br />
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We had grand plans to try out a “farm to fork” restaurant in Dundee for dinner, but as we glanced at their menu online, we realized they were closing up for the night around 8pm, the hour upon which it was already encroaching. After eating all day, drinking lots of good beer and wine, Jason and I were barely hungry. Before calling it a night, we went across the street to the 3rd Street Pizzeria. It was one dollar pizza night and so we got a variety of their mini slices of pizza to try. It was warm and cozy inside the pizzeria and in fact, it reminded me of winters in the northeast, eating comfort food while the rain poured down on brightly colored fallen leaves. I could really get used to this Oregon lifestyle. Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-71987875757474755262011-08-08T23:41:00.001-05:002011-08-14T23:21:39.541-05:00Living the Single Life in Portland7 August 2011<br />
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Living the Single Life in Portland<br />
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I woke up staring Marilyn Monroe in the face. Her sultry face looked seductively over at me as I lay in bed as if enticing me to get up out of bed and come to her. I threw on my running clothes and headed outdoors. Despite the heavy metal music that was blasted across the street throughout most of the night, I got a pretty good sleep with the help of the free neon orange earplugs. <br />
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It was overcast and about 60F that morning which was incredibly refreshing. It was nice to wrap a scarf around my neck for a change. A block down the street I found Grendel’s coffee shop. It was a cozy small café with worn wooden floors and chalkboards with colorful writing. They had bagels and breakfast sandwiches but I opted for the granola bowl. While sitting outside in the crisp cool air, I had my latte and my heaping giant bowl of homemade granola, yogurt, and mixed berry and plum compote.<br />
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Sufficiently fueled and caffeinated, I ventured out for my morning run. Before leaving Jupiter Hotel, I stopped at the front desk to see if I could delay my check out time. The friendly red head at the front desk was happy to oblige. She said, “That’s totally fine but now you have to let me look at your wedding ring!” I looked down at my right hand where I was wearing an antique ring given to me by my grandmother on my recent 30th birthday. I clarified that the ring was not any sign of matrimony, just a family heirloom, and that I was definitely single. She said, “How are you single?? You are beautiful!” I laughed, thanked her and said, “I am really happy to be single.” “I totally hear you!” she responded. <br />
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Portland was clearly still asleep when I set out on my run around 9:30am. The bums were out already. I ran by a homeless older black man who told me that I looked pretty even when I was running. Thanks, buddy. There were still some homeless people sleeping at the end of the Burnside Bridge but most of them had already packed up their sleeping bags for the day. A few were smoking their morning bowl; gotta have that eye-opener!<br />
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The International Rose Test Garden seemed like a good location to head towards on my run. It was only about three and a half miles from my hotel but half of it was uphill. The latter part was quite challenging and steep for a runner who is used to training below sea level. The last part of the run was through some trails surrounded by tall fragrant pine trees and beautiful Victorian homes. It was so green, dim and peaceful in that little area that I forgot I was in the middle of a city. <br />
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Before I could even see the rose garden, I could smell it. Portland is known as the Rose City. It has the perfect rose-growing climate and so it is famous for its perfect blooms. The rose garden sits on top of a hill overlooking downtown Portland. The gardens are laid out in terraces. Each flower is labeled. Every size, color, and fragrance are on display. The dew was still glistening on the colorful petals. The only other people out there that morning were the Japanese tourists, they take their photo sessions very seriously! <br />
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After taking a quick jaunt around the garden, snapping a few photos on my iPhone, I decided to proceed with my run. I weaved my way downhill through quiet tree lined streets until I ended up in the Portland State University campus. It looked a lot different without the bustle of the farmers market going on. I was impressed to find a bike garage on site; it was a small screen enclosed building with two levels for parking bicycles. While I continued my run through the city, the sun finally broke out of the clouds and it was like the city light up in a green hue as the sun shone through the leafy trees.<br />
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Eight miles later I wound up back at my hotel. The neighborhood had finally woken up and the cafes and eateries were full of people. I cooled off in the shower and then left my backpack behind the hotel front desk. The redhead receptionist said, “Go out and enjoy the single life!” <br />
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I hopped the #6 bus up north, bound for a brunch spot three miles to the north called <a href="http://tastynsons.com/">Tasty N Sons</a>, that had been recommended to me by a few different folks I’d met. It as located on North Williams St in a warehouse type of building that housed many other Portland-esque shops including a yoga supply store, a coffee roaster, bike shop, two funky salons, a shop with cooking classes, a chiropractor, and more. <br />
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<a href="http://tastynsons.com/">Tasty N Sons</a> is a bar and restaurant with it’s own charcuterie adjacent. As I walked up to the front door, I heard a woman say that she’d been quoted a one and a half our wait time. I started to feel discouraged that I had come all the way up here to get bad news like that. I walked up to the hostess and she said that she could seat me immediately. This whole dining alone thing was really working out in my favor as I got to prompt seating at all the hot spots in town!<br />
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She sat me down at one corner of a long wooden table with shared dining. I was sandwiched between a few groups of people. The restaurant was lofty and industrial. On one wall was a huge chalkboard listing all of the local farms and purveyors where they had procured their food items. Another wall had a large bicycle painted on in black. The kitchen was completely open. The drink menu had a bunch of creative cocktails listed as well local wines and beers. Food menu consisted of small and large plates. I consulted the waitress for tips on what to order. I finally settled on a local Kolsch style brew to drink and for food I ordered three small plates and one larger plate. <br />
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The first item to come out was a chocolate potato donut hole with crème anglaise sauce followed quickly by a warm date stuffed with an almond, wrapped in griddled bacon and drizzled with maple syrup. I washed it down with my hoppy but refreshing beer. Next up was a radicchio salad with a tangy dressing, parmesan cheese and olives. I got the half portion and it was still huge! Finally came the entrée that my waitress said was the item on the menu that she was the most excited about. I always take the restaurant staff’s recommendations seriously. It was Burmese red pork stew with short grain rice & eggs two ways. The two ways were one fried egg and one hard-boiled, marinated and chopped egg. I also got to have an up-close look at the food that my table mates had also ordered. Some of the highlights included: Polenta & Sausage Ragu with mozzarella & fried egg, toast & jam with teleme cheese, glazed yams with cumin-maple. I finished every last bite of my food and was pleasantly surprised to see that the bill only amounted to $21. <br />
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I strolled through the other shops on the street and spent a little time in a funky shop full of crafty gift items like candles, artsy journals, and fresh cut flowers. Right next to that shop was <a href="http://ristrettoroasters.com/">Ristretto Roasters</a>, a hand-roasted artisanal coffee shop. As I walked in the door, I saw a small group of people being lead through a formal coffee tasting & smelling. They definitely took their coffee very seriously here in the Pacific Northwest. <br />
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I ordered and slowly drank a beautifully brewed latte. As delicious as it was, I still don’t think it topped the latte I get at my local cafe in Houston, <a href="http://catalinacoffeeshop.com/">Catalina Coffee</a>. I savored my drink while sitting outside and catching up on my writing. While taking breaks in typing I people watched. There were lesbian couples with strollers and dogs on leashes. There were middle-aged women with sleeve tattoos. There was a family who, upon further eavesdropping, was bring their teenage daughter for her college orientation. There were a few 30-somethig men reading books and catching up. The afternoon sun was warm and relaxing. It was a perfect way to pass a few hours on a Sunday.<br />
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Instead of paying the whopping $2 to take the bus back, I decided I would walk back to downtown Portland. On the way I passed some colorfully painted bike stores, funky vintage shops, and quaint and eclectic cafes that all seemed to have men with creatively coiffed facial hair sitting outside. I even saw a sign for a solar powered waffle truck...I can die a happy woman knowing that this amazing feat of culinary greenery exists. I decided that I would walk to the hotel where Jason and I would stay later that night and check in while I waited for his flight to arrive from Houston. I almost made a pit stop at the Bridgeport Brewery while walking through the Pearl District, but thought better of it when I realized what time it was. <br />
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In the heart of downtown I found our hotel, the <a href="http://www.mcmenamins.com/CrystalHotel">Crystal Hotel </a>which is part of the McMenamins corporation. This is a local Oregon franchise formed by a few brothers who have gone around the state, bought up historic properties and remade them into funky hotels. The place was built in 1911 as a hotel but on their website is described like this: “During its various incarnations, this hotel site has been a point of confluence for pioneer city builders, underworld kingpins, musicians, drag queens, head shop patrons, artists, bathhouse denizens and internment camp survivors.” Adjacent to the hotel is the Crystal Ballroom which hosts many well-known artists for concerts. <br />
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After I grabbed our keys, I made my way back to the Jupiter Hotel where Jason would pick me up. I wanted to catch the end of the every Sunday event called “Pickin on Sundays” at the bar/lounge affiliated with the Jupiter hotel, called the <a href="http://www.dougfirlounge.com/">Doug Fir.</a> As I was about to walk over the Burnside Bridge one last time, a wildly gesturing black homeless man nearly burned me with his cigarette. “Sorry!” he said, “Damn! You have a nice figure on you! Good for you, girl!!” Was it too much to ask to meet a mentally stable permanently housed man? This is not the “single life” I had always idealized!! I passed a man on the bridge who angrily said, “Faggot” under his breath as he nearly bumped my shoulder with his own. This was the first time in my life I had been the recipient of such a harsh word. As a lover of gays the world over, and a self-proclaimed “honorary gay” myself, I took serious offense to this comment. I later relayed the story to Jason and asked, “Why would he say such a thing to me?!” Jason said, “Umm, I don’t know, maybe it was your short dyke spike and your long jorts.” (read: jean shorts). Hmm, perhaps he had a point…<br />
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Back at the Doug Fir, there was a large gathering on the back patio around the band called Douver. I ordered a cocktail with Buffalo Bourbon, fresh lemon juice and a cherry. I sat out on the sunny patio in the 7pm sunlight and reveled at the wonderful life of the Portland summertime. Ah, I felt at home amongst the bearded men in flannel and short-haired women in tunics and flowery printed hipster dresses. Jason walked in to the bar and gave me a big hug. We enjoyed the last song that the mellow Duover had to play, before hopping in the car. <br />
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<a href="http://www.whiskeysodalounge.com/">Pok Pok </a>restaurant had been recommended to me by a number of people. It is a popular restaurant in the northeast of Portland. The residential neighborhood there consists of some funky old homes that have been converted to eateries, bars and shops. It reminded me a bit of the Rainey Street section of Austin. I had been warned that the wait for a table at Pok Pok could be quite lengthy, so we were not surprised when the hostess told us it would be an hour and a half til we’d get a table. <br />
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We walked across the street to the <a href="http://www.whiskeysodalounge.com/">Whisky Soda Lounge</a> where the Pok Pok appetizer menu was available as well as an array of whiskeys. I have to admit, I almost jumped ship on the way when I saw a food truck park that advertised via a chalkboard out front “One of the top five mac n cheeses in Portland.” <br />
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Jason and I moseyed up to a bar seat at the Whiskey Soda Lounge. First things first, we ordered drinks. Jason chose the Tamarind Whisky Sour and I went for the bartender recommended Hunny (fresh squeezed grapefruit juice with lime, honey, drinking vinegar, and tequila) which was served in a steel martini glass. For appetizers, we also trusted the bartenders suggestions and got the Miang Kham (chiles, ginger, peanuts, dried shrimp, lime, shallots with a coconut wrapped in betel leaves with a ginger sauce. Wow, these were flavorful, spicy and delicious. Were betel leaves from the same plant that made the highly addictive and cancer-causing betel nut that is all the rage in Asia? Who knows and who cares! Cause that stuff was off the chain.<br />
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Next on the menu was deep fried green papaya and long green beans with a spicy peanut chilli sauce. Jason wolfed it down. Finally I ordered an egg dish recommended to me by my friend, Romy. It was called Chef Chew’s Khai Luuk Khoei and consisted of deep fried hard-boiled farm eggs with sweet & spicy tamarind sauce and fried shallots. It was pretty damn amazing. I washed it down with another cocktail called the Rhubarb Blush which contained aperol, gin, fresh lime, and rhubarb bitters on the rocks. It was not at all sweet, but refreshingly tart. While we ate, Jason and I discussed that idea of getting tattoos in Oregon. Clearly we were inspired by the many tatted people in Portland. Jason said he would like to get a wave or a dolphin on his inner ankle. I said I’d like to get a leaf, a tree of life, or an earth on my hip or inner wrist. We were so predictable.<br />
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Jason and I were about to throw in the towel and eat the Mac N Cheese next door when my cell phone rang. It was the hostess of Pok Pok informing us that our table was ready. We paid our tab and got our seat at the crowded Pok Pok. At this point we were barely even still hungry, but we had to try some more food anyway. The chef of Pok Pok had recently won the James Beard Award (ie. The Oscars of Food). I ordered a corn on the cob which was grilled with coconut milk and some other amazing flavors that now escape me. Jason got the Kung Op Wun Sen which was wild caught gulf prawns (holla back, Houston!) baked in a clay pot over charcoal with pork belly, lao, jinn, soy, ginger, cilantro root, black pepper, celery root, and bean thread noodles. My main dish was called Kaeng Hung Leh and consisted of Northern Thai sweet pork belly and pork shoulder curry with ginger, palm sugar, tumeric, tamarind, Burmese curry powder and picked garlic. I got this with some coconut rice that was subtly but delicious flavored. We wash this all down with the restaurants “tap” water which was obviously spiked with some fresh coconut water. <br />
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After having worked a 24-hour shift on Labor and Delivery and flying on a connecting flight from Texas to Portland, Jason was understandably tired. We drove back to our hotel and found our room on the third floor. Each room door had painted on it a song lyric or performance from a band that had taken to the stage at the Crystal Ballroom. Each of the rooms had a unique décor. Ours was a sultry maroon; there was a guitar painted on the headboard. Jason didn’t even have time to change out of his clothes before he passed out in bed. I took a quick visit to the soaking tubs in the basement of the hotel. I found a large hot tub tempered pool in a cavernous bamboo walled room. It was quite inviting, and in fact I considered putting on one of the hotel-provided plush bathrobes to try it out. I noticed that the only other patrons heading down to the pool were a couple of pimply-faced muffin-topped teenaged boys and so I thought better of that plan. It was time for this old gal to get some sleep in bed next to her gay husband. <br />
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-11483766852865559412011-08-07T18:44:00.001-05:002011-08-14T23:16:36.458-05:00Portland: Discovering Hippie & Foodie Heaven6 August 2011<br />
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Portland: Discovering Hippie & Foodie Heaven<br />
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I was still barely finished packing with the big blue Super Shuttle rolled up to my front door. After I shoved my sleeping bag mad into my backpack and strapped the tent onto the outside of my pack I stumbled outside into the hot, dark humidity of the early Houston morning. I tried to make small talk with the driver as we pulled away from my house. His responses to my questions made no sense, and that’s when I realized he was talking to a friend his Blue Tooth headset instead of speaking to me. God, I hate those Blue Tooth earpieces and the people that live with them on every waking moment.<br />
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We had to drive all over the Galleria neighborhood of Houston picking people up. My co-passengers included a woman with really tall teased hair heading back to Dallas, a black guy who overslept and made us wait for him, and a couple with strong New York accents that made me a little bit homesick. After all the stop-offs, waiting around, waving goodbye to fluffy white dogs outside the van, and dealing with a shut down section of the highway, I got a little nervous we might not make it there in time. <br />
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After almost entering the wrong terminal, an ornery middle-aged ticket checker pointed me in the right direction. “Listen, honey, it’s either a fifteen minute walk this way or a two minute walk that way. You decide.” <br />
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I broke into a slow jog to bypass the large high school swim team group that was sure to slow down the process. They waved me towards the full-body scanner but then I hesitated. I naively walked through the scanner last time I flew somewhere and later regretted it. I am still thinking I would like to use my gonads to reproduce one of these days and frankly I do not believe the government’s claims that these x-ray scanners do not expose use to significant radiation. I know some people were up in arms about the modesty issue. The idea of some sketchy fat dudes sitting in a dark booth examining my x-ray “nude” body disturbs me less than the idea of getting a CT scan’s worth of radiation every time I want to go on vacation. I am pretty sure that one day full body scanners will be implicated in causing everything from the increasing Autism rates, to brain cancer and erectile dysfunction. <br />
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A large and jolly black woman led me past the scanner to the little yellow marks on the ground where I had to spread ‘em. She warned me that she would have to feel up my whooooole body, even my breasts and inner thigh areas. She then started to describe how she would use her hands in each area. I cut her off and told her just to go for it. “I am a gynecologist, all I do every day is touch people in appropriate places, its all good, just go for it!” She laughed as she proceeded with the rub down. While she groped me, we lamented about the foul odor of the majority of the people we have to examine these days. “Summer’s gotta be the worst,” I said. She corrected me, apparently it’s a year-round problem. She asked me if I ever tell people when they smell bad “down there.” “No,” I said, “It’s futile work. I just try to get in and out as fast as I can.” <br />
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After she cleared me through security, I made a much-needed visit to the food court for breakfast. Unfortunately the SuperShuttle driver didn’t like my idea of stopping for breakfast between picking up passengers so I was pretty starving. One thing I appreciate about Texas is the widespread availability of breakfast tacos. One thing I do not appreciate about Texas is the disturbing amount of Christian missionary groups walking around the airport in matching T-shirts. The “Methodists on a Mission” cut in front of me at the Starbucks line. You get no special benefits, in my book, for loving Jesus. Get in the back of the line with the rest of the sinners. The woman in front of me was more forgiving than I’d have been and she let the five smiley missionaries in red shirts cut in front of her. <br />
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I felt a wave of relief when I arrived at the Portland gate and saw a group of Patagonia and Birkenstock clad individuals and no noticeable religious symbols. I was home at last. In a matter of four hours, I would be in the crunchy Mecca of Oregon! I couldn’t wait to check into my hipster hotel which, according to their website, has ZipCars parked outside, bikes for rent, Eco-friendly toiletries, and encourages their guests to bring their own reusable coffee mugs to the lobby. <br />
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When we finally touched down in Portland it was truly refreshing to breath the cool, dry air and find my way to the efficient public transportation system. The light rail dropped me off less than one mile from my hotel. <a href="http://www.jupiterhotel.com/">Hotel Jupiter</a> is located on Burnside Street amongst a bunch of other funky restaurants, bars and boutiques. Clearly the building used to be a ugly motel, but they re-made it into a funky retro hotel. I found my room by walking through an outdoor sitting area lined with bamboo rods. The color scheme was black and white. One wall had a giant picture of Marilyn Monroe’s face. The toiletries were in fact eco-friendly; even the bottles were biodegradable. The door to the room was painted in chalkboard paint and sticks of chalk were provided for your decorating pleasure. There was a blue condom with the hotel’s emblem on it left on the bedside table. There would be no passing of venereal disease at this hotel!<br />
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I did not linger long in the hotel because I was starving and wanted to catch the end of the Saturday Farmer’s market. I planned to use my public transportation day pass to travel to the other part of town, but unfortunately that area of road was closed to the buses and light rail. So I walked the two and a half miles, which turned out to be a good decision. There was much to see along the way. When I walked over the Hawthorne Bridge I caught the end of the Brunch on the Bridge festival. The bridge was closed to traffic and Astroturf was laid down on the ground. There were samples of food from many of the well-known local eateries. There was live music and hippies sitting in circles on the turf. There was even a group of people playing croquet while wearing elaborate Alice in Wonderland costumes. <br />
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As I crossed over the bridge and into the heart of downtown Portland, the foot traffic was quite a bit heavier. The sun was also coming out and it was getting a little hot although still nothing as stifling as the 110F weather we’d been having in Houston. I walked through Portland past open-air cafes, rose gardens and even a Porsche car show. When I saw the group of guys jumping around doing capoeira in synch with flutes and bongo drums, I knew I was in the right place. I finally arrived at Portland State University where the weekly market is held. It definitely made my Houston farmer’s market look pretty pathetic. There were stalls filled with beautiful produce, freshly foraged mushrooms, grass-fed lamb, homemade pies, brightly colored berries, and tons of hot prepared food. <br />
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I was so starving that I immediately bought a pint of raspberries for three dollars and proceeded to inhale it. Then I noticed a portable wood-burning stove and headed in that direction because I think that anything baked in one tastes heavenly. Unfortunately they had already sold out of their wood-fired pizzas, but they still had their home-made whole wheat pita. My pita was filled with lettuce, cabbage, onions, peppers, chickpeas, wheat berries, tahini paste, and chili sauce. I think I got week’s worth of fiber in that one meal. I also got a raspberry soda made with the market’s red and yellow raspberries. I ate this fibrous, healthy, vegetarian, local meal while listening to the live band called Sambafeat. I watched a girl in overalls dance unabashedly on the sidewalk. Instead of tipping the band with cash, she gave them a bunch of kale and a tub of hummus. <br />
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After I ate all that I could manage, I composted the rest and separated out the rest of my garbage into the appropriate bins. I stopped by one of the bakers’ booths. She only had a few items left since the market was about to close but I picked up a raspberry-rhubarb crumble square that was light, tart and delicious. The woman who sold it to me excitedly told me that she hoped I loved it and that I had a wonderful and blessed day. I only wished that my stomach could hold about five meals because there was so much food to eat. The homemade pies looked incredible. There were some handmade tortillas stuffed with grilled veggies and covered in mole sauce that also seemed to have quite a following. At the end of the grassy park there was a Persian festival going on and they were selling all of their traditional food and there was another musical performance.<br />
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I strolled through downtown Portland to help my large lunch to digest. The weather was absolutely pristine and Portland was bustling. I missed my bicycle as I watched dozens of people using theirs to get around town in the designated bike lanes. Every corner also had a huge bike rack which is a huge novelty in Houston. I also found a few lots that were lined with food trucks. I still need that bigger stomach…it took all willpower for me to avoid those trucks, especially the one specializing in pork sandwiches.<br />
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My lack of sleep the night before was catching up to me so I stopped for latte. The shop was called <a href="http://cacaodrinkchocolate.com/">Cacoa</a> and they specialized in “drinking chocolate.” It seemed too heavy after my lunch, but from the looks of what the others were eating, it would have been delicious. One could even get a tasting flight and sample small mugs of all of their different drinking chocolates. <br />
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I decided I’d start heading back to the hotel and get changed for an evening run. As I was about to cross over the Burnside Bridge I stumbled along the busy Portland weekend art market. There were three different sections of tents that started under the bridge and lead out to the waterfront. There was every kind of hippie treasure that one could hope to find, from tribal print fabrics & batik tapestries to Buddhist scrolls and even Nag Champa soap. One woman offered Palm reading. Another tent had massage for $1 per hour. There was some beautiful handmade jewelry and pottery as well as clever messages silk-screened on t-shirts. A few booths specialized in tie-dyed items; one could buy pretty much anytime tie-dyed including onesies, thongs, muumuus, sports bras, and men’s briefs. Some guy had made belts out of recycled bicycle tires. There was live music there too; I saw a 70 year old lady rocking out to a bongo drum group. There were some interesting street vendors as well. An elderly woman was dressed in a bright pink belly dancing costume with slits all the way up the thighs that showed her butt cheeks. I don’t think anyone even noticed her, these kinds of sites are common place in Portland.<br />
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I went on a five-mile run to get my appetite stoked before dinner. Taking a run in Portland reminded me that yes, I actually do still enjoy running! It has been somewhat painful to run in the blistering Houston heat, even at 9 o’clock at night when I typically go. That evening in Portland it was about 75F and humidity free. I ran across the bridge and followed a path along the Willamette River. Lots of people were out on the beautiful evening, some walking dogs, others sitting outside eating. <br />
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After a quick shower I was ready for some more good eats. Right down the street from my hotel is a restaurant called Le Pigeon. I had not only read about this recently in a travel magazine but been told by recent visitors to the city that I must try it. The tiny cozy little restaurant was crowded, but fortunately as I was just one person, I scored a seat immediately. I overheard other people were waiting up to an hour and a half. I settled into my seat at the end of the bar next to a gay couple who both worked in the restaurant industry in New York City. From this vantage point, we had a perfect view of the open kitchen.<br />
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It was difficult to choose what to order at <a href="http://lepigeon.com/">Le Pigeon</a>, which was mostly a French-style restaurant. After some tips from the waitress and the guys next to me, I settled on ordering two different appetizers. I started off with grilled eel with corn, watermelon, shitake and cilantro. The eel had a smoky flavor and the corn & watermelon was really refreshing. Next I had the rabbit with salami risotto, gouda and fennel. It was amazingly delicious; so many different flavors that came together well especially with the fennel puree. I washed it all down with some Oregon white wine. I had been told by a friend who had recently visited Portland that I absolutely had to try the foie gras profiteroles for dessert, that the would change my life. She was right; they were incredible. They came with a salted caramel sauce. It was such a unique mix of sweet and savory flavors. I swear I could taste it the rest of the night. <br />
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I had wanted to have a beer at the Burnside Brewing Company after dinner, but when I walked over there, it looked pretty quiet with just a dozen or so patrons in the whole place. I figured I’d just take a stroll back over the bridge to the downtown. The homeless folks were out en masse now that the sun was down. There was a shelter of some kind at the end of the Burnside Bridge so they all congregated around there. It was interesting to note that not all of them looked like belligerent drunks. There was a guy texting on his iphone and a couple spooning. There was a girl reading a novel in her “bed” by the light of the street lamp. Some of their sidewalk beds actually looked pretty plush and comfortable. When the catcalls starting coming my way, I realized I’d better stop paying these bums so much attention.<br />
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The Old Town was crawling with drunken kids, floozy girls limping around in too-tall high heels at bachelorette parties and more intoxicated bums. The food trucks were open again and the line outside the famous <a href="http://voodoodoughnut.com/index.php">Voodoo Donut</a> was still insanely long. I still had to go there and try the maple bacon bar donut though. The hobos were getting a tad bit feisty outside the bars. One guy asked me to suck his dick. Another guy in punk attire walked up to the group of guys ahead of me and said that if they didn’t get out of his way on the sidewalk, he would beat their asses. There were two girls walking in front of me in cheesy polyester dresses that must have come from the preteen rack. The one girl was a chubby Latina who had somehow squeezed her body into a mini leopard print dress; she was all wrapped up like a fatty sausage in a tight casing. A homeless girl yelled out, “Free…your…inner…thighs!!!” That made more sense than anything I had heard all day. It was time to call it a night.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-53800943201234625332011-04-18T23:00:00.000-05:002011-04-18T23:00:05.163-05:00St Émilion to Storybook Sarlat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hAse9iC9mdc/Ta0HmmHHStI/AAAAAAAABh4/J9jGIIgPcuQ/s1600/IMG_7941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hAse9iC9mdc/Ta0HmmHHStI/AAAAAAAABh4/J9jGIIgPcuQ/s320/IMG_7941.JPG" /></a></div><br />
6 April 2011<br />
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St Émilion to Storybook Sarlat<br />
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The village of St Émilion was pretty sleepy when we woke up that morning. The sun was already shining in the blue sky. I had been hoping to start my day with a fresh buttery croissant but believe it or not, we could not find a bakery that was open. This was a slightly shocking concept in France. The only shop we discovered open was the bakery where we’d had macaron cookies the day before. They didn’t have any croissants, just sweets, but they did have espresso. We ate our breakfast on a bench outside some of the town’s medieval ruins.<br />
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This sugary breakfast was the perfect fuel for a morning run. Mike and I changed into our running gear and this time set out on foot to explore the wine country. It was a gorgeous run through the wide open country. The smell of grass and lilac was ever present. We could see the vineyard workers out tending to their grape vines. For just over eight miles we ran up and down the winding country roads. The French drivers were extremely courteous to runners, which is a pleasant change from the aggressive drivers I’m used to in the US. Hot and sweaty, we made a stop off at a church with a water spicket outside and then headed back to the village to be able to check-out of the hotel in time. <br />
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By the time we showered and returned our bicycles it was time to eat lunch before we left the beautiful sunny village of Saint Émilion. In one of the main squares in town we found a 3 course menu for €14. My started was toast with roasted eggplant and warm goat cheese, after that there was salmon with vegetables and then a crepe with sugar for dessert all of this washed down with some cool, dry white wine. After lunch we stopped in the shop across the street to purchase some wine. The handsome man told us about half a dozen wines in his thick French accent. We tasted each one, starting with the cheapest for about €10 and ending at around €70. We each chose a bottle of red to take home as souvenir and another to bring to Alain and Catherine who we’d be visiting tomorrow in Brittany. <br />
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Around one o’clock it was time to walk the mile from the village to the train station and see about getting back towards Bordeaux. As we approached the train station we passed a bunch of people who appeared to be entering town from the station. I had a bad feeling that once again we had missed our train out of town. When we read over the train schedule, we confirmed that this was true. The next trains out of town in either direction were not for another two to four hours. It was a frustrating set-back in time especially after lugging our ever-expanding bags and now three heavy bottles of wine. Mike graciously volunteered to camp out at the station with the bags so I could stroll around town unencumbered. <br />
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I had a little more than an hour to explore St Émilion by myself. I spent most of that time playing with my camera, snapping shots of wisteria vines, colorful old doors, and winding alleyways. I also had a delicious cone of cassis sorbet from a market selling sweets as well as grape vines. From a jolly man at an outside stand, I bought a small can of foie gras to bring home. I also found some beautiful and colorful scarves from Provence in a quaint shop with a friendly and smiling storeowner. She informed me that the weather is not always this summer-like and glorious in St Émilion at this time of year. We were lucky that it wasn’t wet and gray. <br />
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When I returned to the station, Mike had come up with an exit plan for us. Either we could wait another hour and return to Bordeaux and from there, figure out a train ride to Brittany, or we could head further eastwards and explore another town. He had read about a town called Sarlat which is in the Dordogne region of France. The book described this medieval town as beautiful and storybook-like. It also claimed that it is the most filmed town in all of France. It sounded worth visiting to me and the train to Sarlat would be passing through in about 20 minutes. <br />
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To get to Sarlat we had first take the train to a town called Le Buisson. To get there, we rode through some beautiful countryside. We passed old stone farmhouses set on rivers as well as quaint lakeside towns and chateaux. In Le Buisson the train stopped and we had to board a bus to go any further. The bus ride proved to be even more beautiful as we got a closer look at these lovely little villages. We passed through one amazing little town set across from a peaceful and still lake. It was a tiny little village that clung to a cliff side. At the top of the village was a perfectly preserved medieval castle. We would have gotten off the bus and stayed there for the night, but by the time we actually realized what a gem of a town it was, the bus had already blown past the stop. <br />
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Twenty minutes later we arrived in Sarlat. The sun was low in the sky and all of the buildings were painted a rosy hue. It was about a one mile walk from the station to go downhill to the old city. We stopped at one of the first hotels we found, a cozy little two-star hotel just outside of the medieval walled city. For €50 we got a spacious room and felt like we had the whole hotel to ourselves. It was already about 7 o’clock at night by that time and we knew we only had about an hour and a half to explore before the sun went down. <br />
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I can see why Sarlat is used as a movie set. It is a beautiful medieval town with hundreds of narrow alleys that crisscross and wind through the town. Hidden in these alleys one could find restaurants, boutiques, hotels and historic sites. In one alley, we found a cat and a dog sitting on stonewall basking in the sun together. Behind the cat was a bright yellow flowering bush, the wall behind was purple with wisteria. We had most of those little alleys to ourselves. These little alleys would sometimes open up suddenly into open, sunny plazas. One plaza had a statue of geese in the middle and I later learned that Sarlat is known for geese and has a celebration there every year where one can eat all kinds of delicious goose products. I felt grateful to be there during the off season as the travel guide said it was difficult to even enjoy the town with the hoards of summer tourists descended en masse. <br />
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I think we explored almost every corner of the old walled city that evening even a public garden. My stomach was grumbling as it started to get dark out now and so we stopped to pick a restaurant in one of the alleys which was busy with café tables outside. With the sun down, it was a bit chilly for outdoor seating. We took a table at a restaurant with orange table clothes. The service was slow but I enjoyed my meal. I had foie gras with toast, then a delicious duck cassoulet and finally a rich brownie-like cake made with good European dark chocolate. As we walked the few minutes back to our hotel, we barely passed another person on the street. We were ready to go to bed early for a 7am train to take us northwest to Brittany. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oJJ7Q6UTDZ8/Ta0IggYezkI/AAAAAAAABiY/0acicV3ZtBQ/s1600/IMG_7973.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oJJ7Q6UTDZ8/Ta0IggYezkI/AAAAAAAABiY/0acicV3ZtBQ/s320/IMG_7973.jpg" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8595883688838494678.post-34926715894381716712011-04-14T23:26:00.000-05:002011-04-14T23:26:53.380-05:00The sun shines on Saint Émilion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RAjp5-z-8oE/TafHwctazsI/AAAAAAAABgQ/X4dmJMzmEB4/s1600/IMG_7817.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RAjp5-z-8oE/TafHwctazsI/AAAAAAAABgQ/X4dmJMzmEB4/s320/IMG_7817.JPG" /></a></div><br />
5 Avril 2011<br />
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The sun shines on Saint Émilion<br />
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Breakfast consisted of bread, cheese and butter left over from the shopping spree at Carrefour the day before. We supplemented this with some croissants and coffee fron the boulangerie stand outside the hotel and a fresh loaf of six-grain bread for our travels. For one final time, we walked the roughly two miles back to the train station to catch the 1030 train to St. Émilion. By the time we completed our trek there we didn’t have much time to catch the train. The ticket line was quite long, so instead of joining the queue and risking missing the train, we figured we could just purchase our tickets online. <br />
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It was over an hour ride out to St Émilion which is located east of Bordeaux. The train was a local line which stopped frequently. The sun was shining on the countryside as we slowly bounced along past vineyards, farms, and green pastures. Before we knew it, we’d arrived at the tiny station of St Émilion and without ever seeing a train conductor. Our ride had been free! Karma was finally paying off!<br />
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There were no signs, maps or information at the tiny St Émilion train station so we used our common sense to find the village. Further uphill from the station we saw a bunch of stone buildings and tile roofs in the distance. Saint Émilion is famous for being one of the premiere wine subregions in Bordeaux, Bordeaux being one of the best regions for wine in France, which therefore makes St Émilion one of the most famous wine countries in the world as well. The town itself is quite small, but in the hill country around St Émilion are over 800 vineyards. <br />
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As we walked up the hill into the village of St Émilion we were surrounded by rows of grape vines, decadent houses perched on hilltops, and bright flowers in full bloom. There was a wine tasting in full swing inside one of the buildings we passed. I was so happy to be out of the cities and into the French countryside and the small villages. I always feel that the “real” Europe is experienced in the villages. <br />
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We were sweating by the time we hiked up the hill and steep cobblestone roads to arrive at the center of town. The St Émilion tourism office was located on one side of a bright and sunny square that had a few outdoor cafes and offered a beautiful view of the town and the valley below. St Émilion is a gorgeous and well-preserved medieval village that is a UNESCO world heritage site. All of the buildings are made of beige stone and are tightly packed together in winding cobblestone streets and narrow alley passageways all perched on the top of a hill overlooking the wine country below.<br />
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Inside the tourism office we inquired about getting help booking a hotel. The friendly girl informed us that they were not allowed to arrange bookings at their office but she could offer us a large brochure with a comprehensive listing of all of the nearby inns and hotels. While Mike stayed to arrange for us to rent bikes for the day, I went off to look around for a way to call some of these nearby hotels. I found free wifi access not far from the tourist office and even succeeded in calling a few of the hotels using my Skype account, however the person on the other end could not seen to hear me. I was starting to get frustrated. I turned around and saw a two star hotel behind me and figured I might as well see if they had a room at a reasonable rate. I may have forgotten the majority of the French I studied for all of those years, but I still had enough proficiency to ask the man at the front desk for a room and understand when he smiled and said that yes, he did have one room left in the hotel. We were lucky, he said, because someone had just called to cancel their reservation. He walked me upstairs, showed me the cute, clean little room with views of the city below and I immediately said we’d take it.<br />
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After settling up with the hotel manager, I headed back to find Mike and tell him the good news. Just as I stepped out of the hotel, I saw Mike rounding the corner pushing a bicycle in each hand. It seemed things were finally falling into place for us! Before taking the bikes out on a ride around wine country, it was time to fuel up with a good French lunch. We discovered a sunny cozy little square with three different restaurant options. We sat down outside right next to one of the steepest cobblestone streets in town. Below us was another restaurant shaded by a trellis covered in wisteria. My three course meal consisted of a Mediterranean salad, then boeuf bourguignon and finally crème caramel. Mike got paté on toast with a salad, the same boeuf bourguignon and then chocolate mousse. We decided to hold off on ordering any wine and wait to try the wine out at the vineyards. By looking through the book we’d been given at the tourist office, we learned that there were at least fifteen vineyards that offered free tastings. All of these vineyards were just within a few miles, easily accessible by bike. <br />
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After lunch we ran into two American girls who were studying abroad in Paris. They asked us in whiney voices if we had been able to find any vineyards to taste wine. Apparently these two had come here on a mission to get drunk for free on French wine. The girls informed us that unfortunately almost all of the wineries in St Émilion were closed for the week. Wine officials from all over France and presumably the world had descended upon St Émilion to taste all of the region’s best wine and vote. The only wine tastings that were available were open just to those in the “business.” <br />
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Further questioning back at the tourist office led us to two wineries located right within the walls of the city, in fact right next to one another and only a two minute walk from our hotel. We tried a variety of wines and toured the cellars. We ran into the whiney American girls and also met a young married couple who was just beginning a three month backpack journey around Europe. The couple were from New York City but had been living in London while the husband pursued an MBA. Now that he had graduated, they’d travel Europe before heading back to the US. This was their first stop of many including Greece, Croatia, Turkey, and Italy. I was quite envious of their upcoming adventure. <br />
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We chased down our wine with a stop to the local patisserie. We bought a dozen macaroon cookies. French macaroons are much different from the American type with coconut flakes. The French kind are an almond based fluffy and chewy cookie that can be made into a sandwich with any number of flavored fillings. Apparently the recipe for the simple macaroon cookie had been brought to St Émilion in the 1600s by a group of culinary-inclined nuns. We also tried the local canelles and some almond brittle with dark chocolate. All were delicious. I think I already need to increase the waist size of my pants. <br />
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For the next four and a half hours we biked all over the beautiful country that surrounds St Émilion. It was about 75F, the sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the blue sky; it couldn’t have been a more glorious day. We biked past vineyards with rows upon rows of grape vines. We saw castles and cathedrals, mansions and abandoned homes, farms, fields and roadside restaurants. Between the steep hills and the blazing sun, I was sweating. It was a shame that all of the vineyards were closed because it would have been so easy to ride from one wine tasting to the next before you toppled off your bike back in the village. <br />
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We entered the arched in the medieval wall of St Émilion as the sun was starting to get low in the sky. After parking our bikes in the designated parking area, I decided we should end this glorious day with wine & cheese at sunset. At the hotel, we grabbed all of our snacks and a half bottle of Bordeaux wine and headed back to a stone bench sitting along the village wall. From our vantage point, we could admire the green valley with it’s geometric lines of grapevines below as well as the many brown and red tiled roofs of the old homes in the village. <br />
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The town was much quieter at night than it had been during daylight hours. Most of the tourists had left St Émilion, probably to return to Bordeaux for the night. The streets were dark and quiet. There were a few cafes in one of the larger squares in the village. The cafes each had just a few tables with patrons so we picked the one with the best menu options. I had some shredded zuchinni with cheese, sundried tomatoes and smoked duck breast, followed by stuffed salmon with risotto and dessert was something called a floating island which was a meringue type dessert sitting in a goblet of crème anglaise. This time we were sure to order some wine and it wasn’t long until my happy stomach was ready to go to bed. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_W72jvAv5RM/TafItGFoSWI/AAAAAAAABhQ/UqhWAN3CayY/s1600/IMG_7899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="214" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_W72jvAv5RM/TafItGFoSWI/AAAAAAAABhQ/UqhWAN3CayY/s320/IMG_7899.jpg" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01877101318746896660noreply@blogger.com0