Kate's Travel Bug

Clinic Day in Bilaspur

2012-02-10T21:48:00.001-06:00

4 February 2012

Clinic Day in Bilaspur

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

28 Hours to Himachal Pradesh

2012-02-05T10:19:00.001-06:00

1-3 February 2012

28 Hours to Himachal Pradesh

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The many neighborhoods of San Francisco

2011-12-27T23:22:00.000-06:00

20-21 December 2011

The many neighborhoods of San Francisco

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

East Bay Eats by Day, Cocktails & Characters by Night

2011-12-22T23:35:00.000-06:00

19 December 2011

East Bay Eats by Day, Cocktails & Characters by Night

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.

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.

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.

Sara took us to one of the main streets, Shattuck, to find a brunch spot. We landed at Guerrilla cafe. 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.

After we finished brunch, we stopped by Phillz 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.

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 organic berbere ice-cream 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cantina 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.

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.

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.

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!

A Cozy Weekend in San Francisco

2011-12-20T15:11:00.001-06:00

17-18 December 2011

A Cozy Weekend in San Francisco

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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Social Kitchen & Brewery. 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.

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.

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.

Jessica was raving about a bakery across the street from the farmers market called Arizmendi, 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.

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.

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.

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.

On the way back to Jessica's place, I decided to stop in at Zuni Cafe 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.

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.

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.

Beware of Snow Globes this Holiday Season

2011-12-17T22:01:00.002-06:00

17 December 2011

Beware of Snow Globes this Holiday Season

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

Crater Lake: The most beautiful blue water

2011-08-15T20:13:00.000-05:00

11 August 2011

Crater Lake: The most beautiful blue water

The cold morning air rushed into the tent as I unzipped the door. It was hard to peel my body out of the warm sleeping bag. I had actually gotten quite a good night sleep thanks to my new sleeping bag mat. After deconstructing the dew-covered tent, we ate breakfast. The farmer’s market bread was delicious with the goat cheese, blackberries and granola; better yet, all were locally made. We made a pit-stop for some coffee, before continuing on to Crater Lake National Park.

About three hours later, we arrived via the north entrance to the park. Bettina climbed up a few more steep inclines, and finally, we were on the rim of Crater Lake. It is hard to do justice to the awesome beauty of this lake. Crater Lake is referred to as a caldera lake that was formed about 7,700 years ago when the volcanic Mount Mazama collapsed. 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. There are no rivers feeding it, just rainwater and melting snow. It is one of the most pollutant free natural water sources in the US.

To me, the most striking aspect of Crater Lake is the clear sapphire blue water. 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. This clear blue was mirrored above the lake in the cloudless sky. The water’s color is truly unreal, and Crater Lake, in general, feels otherworldly. I felt like I was on a computer-generated set of a beautiful alien planet.

There is a 33-mile drive around the rim of the lake. We followed this road until it took us to the lodge and visitor’s center. 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. The trail guide said the hike was a strenuous 3+ mile hike round-trip. It said to expect to take 2-3 hours to do the hike. “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. Start your watch, Jason.” 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!” “Well,” I responded, “If I don’t think highly of myself, who else will?”

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. 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. As Jason pointed out throughout the week of vacation, I am not really capable of walking at a slow pace. He said he could just picture me power-walking with hand weights as a middle-aged woman one day. 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. 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.

Even in August, there was still snow on the ground which actually blocked off the trail. 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. I waited for Jason there. “Kate! What are you doing up there? The sign says ‘Danger!’” I urged him to follow me and we continued on. Further uphill, there was a slightly more treacherous section where the snow still clung to the side of the mountain. We safely and quite easily made our way to the other side. The sunshine was blinding as it reflected off the white snow.

The views from the top of Mt Garfield were stunning. It took us just thirty minutes to get to the top! I felt great; I knew we could hike it roundtrip in one hour! We chatted with a man from North Carolina who was also savoring the view at the top. After snapping dozens of photographs, we walked back down the mountain at a more leisurely pace.

After refueling at lunch, we continued our drive around the Crater Lake to the trailhead for Mt Scott. This is the highest peak in the park at over 8,900 feet. The mountain seemed huge from where we parked our car, but we could just make out a small hut on the top. That was our destination. This hike would be a bit longer than the last one, at 5 miles roundtrip. “I’ll see you at the top, Jason.” And we were on our way.

This trail was not quite as scenic as the last hike. 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. It was a steady upward grade the whole way and the afternoon sun was strong. I stopped a few times to drink water and catch my breath, but kept on trucking. Was it my imagination or was I feeling the altitude?

The trail finally opened up on a ridge and finally the small wooden look-out building was visible ahead. It had taken only forty minutes to get up to the top, but I was ready for a break. The wind whipped around me as I sat on a rock with views of Crater Lake a few miles in the distance. I enjoyed about ten minutes of solitude, completely alone up there. Jason arrived and we took in the view together. We could barely even make out Bettina from all the way up there. She was parked somewhere near a snow bank down there.

Feeling like we had a very beautiful and fulfilling day at Crater Lake, we decided to start our drive towards the coast. Just like yesterday, our plan was to find a campground somewhere on the way. 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. Most of the drive to the coast was downhill through dense forests. We drove through a number of small rural towns which seemed to have more cows and churches than actual human beings. It was a sunny and pretty drive, in fact there really hadn’t been much about Oregon that wasn’t aesthetically pleasing all week.

The sun was getting low in the sky when we finally reached the coast. 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. We pulled off at the first campground we found. They charged a hefty $20 per night for a spot. After driving around, we laughed at how incredibly NOT outdoorsy this campsite was. It was paved better than most of the roads in Houston and had bathroom and shower facilities. It even looked like there were electric plug-ins. This wasn’t what we had in mind; we pressed on.

The next spot was definitely prettier. One end of the campgrounds had a tree-lined small lake. The other end bordered on the huge sand dunes and the beach. It looked like the families that had parked their RV’s here were planning on staying awhile. There were sand toys, bicycles, lavishly laid-out picnic tables, and even a purple tricycle. Can you really even call that camping? We parked the car anyway to have a look. Once we climbed up a huge sand dune, we could finally see the beach below. We arrived just in time to see the orange sun slip below the horizon. Figuring we only had about thirty more minutes until complete darkness, we decided we’d try one more campground before giving up.

A few miles up the road, we turned off again. This was like the Disneyworld of campgrounds. There were even different “neighborhoods” with cutesy names that ended in well-paved cul-de-sacs. It was landscaped. There were waspy women pushing double-wide strollers. I offered up the idea of just ditching the car and lugging our tent out to the beach and spending the night there. I wanted one last chance at camping. Jason logically said that we’d probably get kicked off the beach by rangers eventually, he was probably right. It was time to look for a place to stay. I was hoping for a quirky motel.

I’d heard that the coastal of town of Florence was pretty, so we stopped off there. We tried out a few different motels until we bargained a deal at the VillaWest. It had been quite a long day and Jason was particularly frustrated by the experience. We headed over to one of the only still open restaurants in town for a late dinner. Jason said their food probably came from Walmart. It definitely was not the best meal we’d had all week. They had some good Oregon beer though so I was happy. At least we both enjoyed cleaning our smelly and dirty bodies off in the hot shower before getting some much-needed sleep.

The Scenic Route from Eugene to Bend

2011-08-14T22:58:00.004-05:00

10 August 2011

The Scenic Route from Eugene to Bend

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.

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.

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.

Jason and I made a stop off at a breakfast joint called Off the Waffle 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Bend Brewing Company, 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.

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.

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.

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.”

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!

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Eden in Eugene

2011-08-12T19:04:00.001-05:00

9 August 2011

Eden in Eugene

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We met Kirk at Cozmic Pizza, his newest business endeavor. Kirk has been out in Oregon for probably about twenty years. He started an organic ravioli company, called Rising Moon Organics, 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.

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.

After dinner, Kirk drove us past his other businesses on the way to his house. We saw the Holiday Laundromat. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Erratic Times in Willamette Valley

2011-08-09T19:58:00.002-05:00

8 August 2011

Erratic Times in Willamette Valley

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.

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.

Pine State Biscuits 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.

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…

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.

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 Powell’s Book store. 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.

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.

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.

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 Hotel Oregon. 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 Community Plate 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.

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.)

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.

After a short drive through rolling hills, wildflower-lined fields, and rows upon rows of grape vines, we ended up at Yamhill Vineyards 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Living the Single Life in Portland

2011-08-08T23:41:00.001-05:00

7 August 2011

Living the Single Life in Portland

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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!”

I hopped the #6 bus up north, bound for a brunch spot three miles to the north called Tasty N Sons, 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.

Tasty N Sons 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!

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.

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.

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 Ristretto Roasters, 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.

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, Catalina Coffee. 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.

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.

In the heart of downtown I found our hotel, the Crystal Hotel 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.

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 Doug Fir. 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…

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.

Pok Pok 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.

We walked across the street to the Whisky Soda Lounge 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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Portland: Discovering Hippie & Foodie Heaven

2011-08-07T18:44:00.001-05:00

6 August 2011

Portland: Discovering Hippie & Foodie Heaven

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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. Hotel Jupiter 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My lack of sleep the night before was catching up to me so I stopped for latte. The shop was called Cacoa 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.

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.

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.

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.

It was difficult to choose what to order at Le Pigeon, 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.

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.

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 Voodoo Donut 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.

St Émilion to Storybook Sarlat

2011-04-18T23:00:00.000-05:00

6 April 2011

St Émilion to Storybook Sarlat

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The sun shines on Saint Émilion

2011-04-14T23:26:00.000-05:00

5 Avril 2011

The sun shines on Saint Émilion

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Trouble with Transportation in Bordeaux

2011-04-13T20:37:00.000-05:00

4 Avril 2011

Trouble with Transportation in Bordeaux

It was an early wake up that morning to get to the train station in time for the 0700 train to Bordeaux. We arrived at the station with papers that had confirmation that we had purchased our tickets to Bordeaux. To get to Bordeaux we would have to first take a train to Poiters and from there we’d get a TGV (high-speed train) to Bordeaux. The only places that were open in the station that early was the café and the information desk. I approached the information desk with our paperwork to try to get the tickets, however that particular office is just for information, not for tickets. The woman told me that I would just have to speak with the conductor on the train.

About twenty minutes into the train ride, the conductor walked through the car checking tickets. I used my best possible French to explain our situation to him. I handed him the paperwork for the tickets we had purchased online and he shook his head in disapproval. He asked me if we had tickets. I once again explained that our stupid American credit cards will not work in French machines. He made some frustrated sounds and continued to shake his head. I offered up my apology and he responded, “No, I am sorry for you because you are going to have to purchase another ticket.” Luckily my credit card worked on his handheld machine and after forking over €36, we officially had tickets. The conductor assured me that we would be able to get reimbursed for the redundant tickets at any station in France. He scribbled an explanatory note out on a little piece of paper as proof.

Once we arrived in Poitiers we knew we’d have less than fifteen minutes before our train to Bordeaux departed. Having finally learned our lesson, we went to fetch our train tickets from the sales window. The last thing we wanted was to be overcharged again, and this time for expensive TGV tickets. We had just enough time to grab our tickets and make it to the correct train platform. I had hoped I’d be able to get a coffee and croissant but there just wasn’t enough time.

When one rides the TGV train one is given assigned seats in a certain car. We found our spot in the crowded train which was practically full. Since we hadn’t had time to get our breakfast in the station, we were forced to pay top Euro for overpriced and underwhelming pastries and coffee, but it got the job done.

As the train sped southwest through France I read my book and listened to music. Before long, we were disembarking the train in Bordeaux. It was a big and busy station with high glass ceilings. Reading the travel book on the way had provided information about a hostel in Bordeaux that was cheap and close to the train station. We had to walk through the sketchy part of town past strip bars, tobacco stores, porn shops and kebab restaurants before we found the hostel. It was located close to a university and seemed to be filled with highschool to college-aged travelers. We quickly learned that all the beds were booked for the night. So far it had been easy to stumble across hotels so we decided to press on. Most of the hotels mentioned in the travel guide seemed to be in one certain area of town but unfortunately our tiny little map didn’t even include the train station so we had no idea where we were in reference to the hotels.

We headed on in the direction we presumed to be the hotels. It was about 1000 in the morning and the town of Bordeaux was pretty busy. We couldn’t seem to get out of the sketchy area though and all we ran into were hair weave salons, cell phone vendors, and shops selling cheap and slutty clothes made of polyester. Eventually we stumbled upon a Carrefour grocery store and decided we’d eat. I had fun looking at all of the different French cheeses and yogurts that are plentiful and affordable. We filled up our shopping basket with bread, cheese, butter with sea salt crystals, sheep’s milk yogurt, cured pork sausage, apples, and half bottles of red Bordeaux wine.

Not far from the Carrefour we found a flea market in a pedestrian only square around an old tower. We sat down on the steps of this landmark and devoured the French treats. After being sufficiently satisfied on carbs and milk fat, we walked through the market. This market sold everything from bras to mattresses to fabric for sewing. We eventually realized that we had walked in a giant loop and ended up back at the same square we’d stood in about an hour ago. We re-grouped and decided that since we had not successfully found the hotels in the book, that we’d head back to the area around the train station; as sketchy as it was, we had seen a few two star hotels.

Another twenty minutes later we were back in the land of lap dances and falafel, this area was quite the contradictory neighborhood with it’s mix of Islam and sex industry. I spotted a sign for a two-star hotel down a side road and we approached. It was confusing as to where the entrance to this place was and it looked as though it might be shut down but I noticed a small sign above a doorbell that said “hotel.” I pushed the button and a few moments later a Middle Eastern man answered the door. Behind him in the hall way I could see the rumble of some crushed wood and sheet rock on the floor. I asked him if there were any available rooms and he told me this was not a hotel. Clearly the sign on the door disagreed. We figured it was just as well considering we’d probably wake up from a night in a hotel like this and find that Mike’s kidneys had been harvested and I had been traded into the Eastern European sex slavery.

We circled back to the large town square for the third time now, only this time I spotted a large map near the light-rail stop. By consulting this map next to my tour book map, I was able to finally realize what direction we’d need to head in to get to the hotels. We just hadn’t gone far enough before. The bags were starting to feel heavy on my back and in my hands but we continued on.

Thirty minutes later we arrived into the nicer part of town. There was a wide pedestrian only street with shops, restaurants and finally, hotels! The first three places were visited were full but luckily offered tips on where else we could try to find a room. Eventually we found a room in a clean and quaint two-star hotel right near the city’s cathedral and the busy pedestrian street. Our luck was turning around.

It felt so good to ditch the heavy backpack and change into some warmer weather clothes as the sun had finally come back out to shine. A block from our hotel was an open-air coffee and gelato shop. I tried some mango, raspberry and chocolate gelato along with a delicious milky latte. We wandered around the sunny and bustling streets of Bordeaux. It was actually a very pretty city with granite buildings similar to the beautiful ones seen in Paris. The cafes were full of people sitting outside smoking their cigarettes and drinking beer in the sunshine.

Most of the towns we had visited in Paris offered a bike service. At various locations around town one can rent a bike by the hour or day and use it as much as one wants and when finished, drop it off at another designated spot. All one has to do is put a credit card in a machine and create an account. This plan to ride around Bordeaux was foiled by our stupid chip-less American credit cards once again. While discussing what we wanted to do for the next few days, we both felt like we’d get the most out of our time if we could rent a car and explore the wine country that makes Bordeaux famous. The receptionist at the hotel told us that we could find all of the rental car agencies around the train station. For the third time that day, we walked another few miles back to the train station. The first half a dozen places we tried were all sold out of cars. Just when we were ready to claim defeat, I noticed one last rental agency. The woman was happy to inform us that there was a car available and we could have it for about €80 for the day. Just as I handed over my credit card to secure the reservation, she informed me that we’d need an international driving permit. I’d traveled to Europe many times with my family and they’d always rented a car and as far as I was aware, this special permit was never necessary. The woman made a call to another person, presumably the boss, and still confirmed that we couldn’t get the car without the permit.

After striking out with all of our other transportation options, we checked the train schedule times and headed back to the hotel for an evening run. From our hotel we headed down to the wide river that runs through the city. It seemed to be the popular exercise spot in town as we passed lots of other joggers. It was a beautiful sunny evening. People were sitting out in riverside cafes and dinner cruise ships. By the time we finished our four mile run, the sun was finally starting to set. It was hard to believe how late the sun was setting in Europe compared to home, but it makes sense when you realize that Bordeaux sits at about the same latitude as Nova Scotia.

It was officially dark when we set out to find a good dinner. We felt like we deserved a delicious meal after all of our bad transportation luck earlier in the day. I was drawn to a crowded brasserie a few blocks from our hotel. One of the things I liked about Bordeaux was that it was not a touristy town, in fact I hadn’t remembered seeing any foreign tourists all day. We were seated at the only free table in the place, handed menus, and told that we could go up to a wine case and choose our bottle.

I consulted the menu and decided I was going to order the prix fix menu which included foie gras as a started and duck confit as the main course. I had one of the guys at the restaurant help me pick out an appropriate red wine. My foie gras was silky, buttery and delicious. Mike enjoyed his starter of warm goat cheese on toast. The duck confit was one of the best I’ve ever. Mike had a steak in the bordelaise style, which is the sauce of that region that has wine, shallots and bone marrow. The wine was from nearby St Emilion and it was cheap and good. For dessert, Mike had a crème brulee which was light but flavorful and I had cognac with canelles, which are tiny bite-sized eggy cakes made just in Bordeaux. This kind of food is the reason people visit France! Everything was delicious and not a bad deal at three courses for €16. Needless to say, we slept well after that meal.

Castles with Coralie

2011-04-12T21:45:00.000-05:00

3 Avril 2011

Castles with Coralie

I woke up Sunday morning feeling so well rested. I hadn’t had a sleep that deep in weeks; I even started dreaming again. The heat and sunshine from the day before had left, and it was gray and drizzling outside. Mike and I decided to go out for a morning run. Running along the Loire river seemed like the best idea. That section of the river has a parallel running canal so we ran along this canal 3 miles from the city and 3 miles back. There were a few other runners up early in the gloomy weather but we mostly had the place to ourselves. As we finished our run, we encountered a flea market and small food market setting up and decided to come back for breakfast after cleaning up.

My cousin, Coralie, just happened to be on vacation in France for the same week as I was. She was mainly in the Paris area visiting with her French relatives, but they were all staying in the Loire valley over the weekend so this was the reason I decided to start my weekend off in that region. After I called Coralie to make plans for meeting up later that day, we checked out of the hotel. We strapped on our backpacks and walked back to the riverside area. The morning market was actually running a fundraiser for AIDS, or “Sidaction” as the organization was called in France. My breakfast of coffee, croissants and a crepe all went to a good cause. I even managed to pick up a sandwich for lunch later as well; a delicious baguette filled with cured ham, cheese, lettuce and butter.

Mike and I made our way to the train station to catch the next train to Chenonceau, one of the most famous chateaus in the Loire valley. The town was quiet and sleepy that morning and the train station was nearly deserted. My travel book had said that there were trains departing from Orléans every hour to Chenonceau. We quickly learned that this was not the case on a Sunday however. The next train would not be leaving for almost three hours. I felt bad as I already knew that this would have the subsequent effect of altering my cousin’s plans. I called to let her know we would be delayed and we set out to kill some time.

Sundays in Europe are very quiet. Most of the shops are closed or do not open until late in the day. As we walked through the damp cobblestone streets, we finally found an open-air café where we could spend some time. We ordered cappuccinos and watched a few of the earlier risers walk by while listening to the latest in European pop stream in over the radio.

It was a short hour and half ride to Chenonceau through the countryside. The weather was still a bit grey, but the rain had stoppped. The train practically dropped us off at the front door of the chateau. After purchasing entrance tickets and dropping our bags in a luggage locker, we found Coralie, her husband, Greg, their two kids Wyatt & Eliot, and her aunt and uncle, Marie-Pierre and Jean-Noel. They had gotten there quite a while before us and had already toured the chateau. Little Eliot was napping in Marie-Pierre’s arms when we arrived.

Coralie lives in North Carolina and I hadn’t seen her since last May when my grandmother died. It was the first time I got to meet her new baby, Eliot as well. It was great to catch up together and play with the kids while being in such a beautiful setting. Marie-Pierre looked as though she hadn’t aged at all since I had seen her last. She told me that I better come visit her in Paris before she dies. I don’t think she will be going anywhere anytime soon!

Unfortunately the visit with my family was all too short. They little ones had to get back to their hotel for a nap so we said our “au revoirs.” After they left, Mike and I walked through the Chenonceau chateau. I had visited this very place thirteen years ago, the first time I ever visited Europe, on a school trip with my French class. It was still quite familiar. The castle is impressively built across a river. The water runs under the arches that support the castle from below. The castle rooms were adorned with huge beautiful bouquets of fresh-cut flowers from the castle grounds. After we had thoroughly explored each room and warmed our damp bodies next to the fire burning in the massive fireplace, we left.

On the way back to the train station we explored some stone buildings that made up the castle farm. There were rows upon rows of vibrantly colored tulips outside the farmhouse as well as purple wisteria that clung to the stone walls. As we got back to the luggage lockers, we heard the train pass through the village again. I had a bad feeling that we had just missed our train back to town.

After reading the train schedule, we got confirmation that we had, in fact, missed our train out of town. Luckily there was another train passing through again in just over an hour. We took some time to walk through the cozy little village of Chenonceaux which had just a few inns and restaurants along with the required boulangerie and patisserie that every French village must have. This village even had a small vineyard. While we looked at the vines, a motorcade of antique cars drove through the town.

Our next train ride would take us to the town of Tours, just about an hour southwest of where we currently where. It seemed like this would be a convenient place to spend the night before taking an early train to Bordeaux. Tours and Orléans are the two main cities of the Loire valley.

Tours was a bit busier than Orléans when we arrived, however we still found most shops and restaurants to be closed for Sunday. We set out in search of a place to crash for the night. I was beginning to feel surprised at how few hostels I was encountering in France. During most of my travels to Europe I have stayed in hostels and always found them plentiful. The travel guide only listed a handful of places and none in Tours. Luckily the search for a hotel in Tours was not as epically long as the search had been in Orléans. After about fifteen minutes we walked by a sign advertising a two-star hotel. It was a modest place filled with eclectic old furniture, which reminded me of a grandma’s house. There was an Asian woman working at the front desk; we spoke in French. She offered us the cheapest room in the house for about €50. I immediately said we’d take it. The room was four flights up a winding spiral staircase. It was a tiny room in the attic with sloping ceilings and a hideously pink walls. The bathroom was about the size of an airline bathroom, even with a shower included.

After abandoning our bags, we decided it was time for dinner and to sort out our train tickets to Bordeaux. We stopped by the train station which was just a five minute walk from the hotel. We found the ticket office closed and the machines still unaccepting of our credit cards. Our focus turned to dinner. Tours looked like it would be a bustling little city on any day but Sunday. We didn’t get much of a tour of the city as it was already dusky and we were hungry. There were some typical pretty French buidings lining wide avenues. Unfortunately ninety percent of the restaurants were closed that evening. The remaining options were as follows: quickie mart, Dominoes pizza, Chinese hole-in-the-wall, brasserie, Italian restaurant, McDonalds, or the equivalent of a French diner. After actually sitting down at the brasserie and realizing that the menu was horrible, we ended up at the Italian restaurant next door. We each got a glass of the house wine and some decent Italian food. I was barely halfway through dinner before I felt the effects of jetlag and alcohol setting in. Back at the hotel we finally realized we could book our train tickets online with our American credit cards and pick them up the next morning. The Asian French woman at the front desk was kind enough to print out the paperwork for us while I slept on the ugly 1970s grandma couch.

Fourteen Hours: Texas to the Loire Valley

2011-04-11T19:52:00.000-05:00

2 Avril 2011

Fourteen Hours: Texas to the Loire Valley

A rubbery croissant straight out of the microwave was my official welcome to France from Continental Airlines. The tired-appearing flight attendants hurriedly served up breakfast as we started to make our descent into Paris. Fortunately my massively sleep deprived body was able to get some sleep on the ride over, but I was already fantasizing about my first coffee.

After landing, going through customs, and collecting my small backpack from the luggage claim, I found my good friend, Mike, waiting for me. He had arrived an hour before me on a series of stand-by flights that luckily aligned to get him from Connecticut to Paris. I was glad he was there to lend his brain power because I felt as if I had about three brain cells left after finishing up an exhausting month working 80 hours a week on the night shift.

We squeezed into a crowded elevator with a dozen other travelers and their big suitcases to get from the terminal to the train station. The goal was to eventually end up in the Loire valley where my cousin, Coralie, and her family just happened to be visiting that weekend.

When Mike and I arrived at the train station to attempt to buy tickets to a town called Orléans, we had a few unfortunate realizations. The first was that the train station was closed. Apparently they would be doing repairs for the next few weeks on the Charles de Gaulle airport train station. The second realization was that the train ticket machines do not accept the traditional American credit cards. The only accept European credit cards with electronic “chips” in them or they accept coins only. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t often carry around $20 worth of change.

The ticket booth line was quite lengthy however we had no choice but to queue up. Twenty minutes later when we reached the front of the line, I was pleased to know that my French language skills were still proficient enough to ask for directions however the woman was not able to help us, and sent us to yet another window for help. When I approached the next woman and told her that I needed to go to Orléans. She gave me a confused look and said she did not know this town. Orléans is not some tiny village but a small French city that isn’t even all that far from France. She had to reference a map to know what I was talking about. I would’ve thought a transportation employee would be a bit better educated in geography but how wrong I was.

We finally realized that to get to Orléans we would need to take a bus from the airport station to the next closet RER train station that was open. From there we would take the RER (rapid transit train) to one of the Parisian train stations called Gare d’Austerlitz and from there we would be able to get a train to Orléans. About an hour later after the slowest bus ride known to man, we arrived at Gare d’Austerlitz. After another failed attempt at using the automated ticket system, I stood in a long line behind a group of African women in colorful robes and headdresses. While I did this, Mike somehow met a French guy who tried to help him get the proper tickets to Orléans. When Mike came to find me again, he had two Metro tickets in his hand that this man had helped buy for him. Apparently the guy thought we were trying to go to a site in Paris by that same name and not the actually city of Orléans. That was another €20 down the drain. Finally we succeeded at buying our train tickets from the ticket counter.

The train to Orléans would not be leaving for at least another hour so we set out in search of lunch. We grabbed some ham and cheese on butter-slathered baguettes from a nearby shop and headed to a park across the street from the station. It was a beautiful spring Saturday afternoon in Paris. The sun was out and it was almost 70 degrees. We ate our sandwiches on a bench of a tree-lined path. The park was in full bloom with bright poppies, fragrant flowering trees, and vivid tulips. I guess this is the reason they talk about “April in Paris.”

After an hour and a half train ride, we arrived in Orléans. We had not arranged any place to sleep so we wandered around the city in search of a hotel. The first one we found had a sign in the glass door stating that they would be away on lunch break from 12pm to 4pm; we moved along. Orléans is a small city that is famous for being the home of Jean d’Arc. The old town was made of up typical French-style buildings as well as half-timbered houses. After we had no luck in stumbling upon a hotel, we consulted the travel book which made a few recommendations. Without the help of a map, it was difficult to actually find the place and so we wandered through the narrow streets until some kind soul finally pointed us in the right direction.

It was a modest hotel right off of a square that was towered over by a cathedral. I was more than ready to ditch my heavy backpack after a few hours of toting it. We didn’t linger too long in the room, but set out to explore a bit more. Not far from the hotel we found a patisserie that had just opened. It was hard to decide which of the many delicious pastries I would order. I chose a croissant with almond, pear and chocolate as well as a strawberry custard tart. We took these treats down to the banks of the Loire river which runs through the city. It was a gorgeous sunny late afternoon. After eating the delicious pastries, my jetlagged body fell asleep in the sun.

When it was time for dinner, we found a cobblestone road lined with restaurants and bars a few blocks from our hotel. For a small city, the variety of cuisine was impressive. They had everything from standard French cuisine to pizza to Chinese, Japanese, Indian and even Cambodian and Pakistani. The outdoor café chairs along the road were filled with the locals sitting outside drinking and enjoying the weather. We decided to eat at the Cambodian restaurant since it was so unique. I don’t think I have actually ever seen a Cambodian restaurant outside of Cambodia! The food was great and we tried some Angkor beer. After my stomach was full, I was more than ready for bed. The combination of food, alcohol, jet-lag and residency sleep deprivation had rendered me all but comatose. Bon soir!

Bus, Ferry, Taxi and Airplane: The long journey back home

2010-12-27T19:55:00.003-06:00

23 December 2010

Bus, Ferry, Taxi and Airplane: The long journey back home

I found the bus stop in a dusty lot on the edge of town. There were about forty people sitting on the ground and benches, waiting for the buses to arrive. There were Ticos and their families. There were tourists, many looking sunburned and wind swept. The hippies looked like their last bath had been in the ocean. There were those with backpacks and those with oversized rolling suitcases. It was a diverse bunch. Papa Gringo made one last appearance. He walked through the lot, picking up garbage and examining the items in the garbage can with that absent look in his eyes.

Finally two buses showed up. One was large and the other small. The large one looked familiar from the ride there at the beginning of my trip. I lined up with the many other tourists and waited to get on. When I got to the bus driver I asked for confirmation that this was, in fact, the bus to San Jose. He shook his head and pointed to the bus on the other side of the lot, the small one. There was one last seat on the sweaty little bus next to some British girls of college age.

About twenty minutes later we arrived again to the town of Cobano; the very same town where I’d spent an hour and a half waiting for the bus to Montezuma. The driver had us all get off the bus and wait at a stop. A few minutes later, the larger bus that I had almost boarded earlier in Montezuma pulled off on the curb down the street. The sign on the bus said “San Jose” so I started to approach it. A Tico man sitting on a bench nearby corrected me, telling me that the bus was not ready yet and I should go back to the stop and wait. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, the bus drove up the thirty feet to the bus stop and now it was ready to be boarded.

While I was standing there waiting for the bus, I met another traveler, Greg. (Interesting that I met both a Greg and a Christy while on my trip as these are the names of my parents…) He was obviously Canadian from his accent. He was a tall, brawny guy from British Columbia. He’d been in Costa Rica for three weeks where he’d created his own yoga and surf retreat. He agreed that Costa Rica had been a bit more touristy than he’d have liked and wondered if he should have gone to South East Asia instead. By the time Greg and I got on the bus, it turned out we were some of the last passengers on and there was only standing room left. The bus driver tried to alleviate the situation and told us that more seats would probably open up after we unloaded at the ferry. The ride would be about an hour and a half. The British girls sat down on the floor in the bus aisle. There wasn’t much room left on the floor and I was wearing a dress, so I decided to stand. Greg was ingenious enough notice that a couple sitting right near us had a small cooler at their feet. He asked the couple if he could borrow it to sit on.

It was a bumpy ride through the rough dirt roads and winding mountain switchbacks. I had to hold on to the sides of the chairs with a strong grip so I didn’t fall over. Not long into the ride, Greg chivalrously offered to share the cooler seat with me. We took shifts sitting there throughout the remainder of the ride. An hour and a half later we were in Paquera to board the ferry.

It was dusk as we all lined up for the next leg of our journey. I commented to Greg on how absurd the whole transportation situation was, the bus, ferry and bus ride. He said, “It’s all part of the experience.” Greg was right, sometimes the most memorable parts of traveling are in the mundane events like riding a bus.

Greg and I found a seat on a bench located on the upper deck of the ferry. It was comfortable pleasant tropical night. The sun was setting; the bay we were crossing was light up in purple and pinks as the sun set behind the mountains. We shared stories from our Costa Rica travels and talked about our favorite travels in the past; mine was Cambodia, his was Bolivia. I was grateful that Greg shared his plantain chips and Canadian beef jerky with me, as I was getting hungry and had run out of colones, the Costa Rican currency.

About an hour and a half later, the ferry started to approach the town of Puntarenas. Greg and I both said that there was no way we were standing for the upcoming two and a half hour bus ride to San Jose. I said that there must be some kind of karmic rule that one should not have to stand on the bus twice in one day. We planned our exit from the ferry and very fortunately ended up being some of the first people on the bus. There were a few unlucky passengers who had to stand the entire ride again.

Greg and I sat together on the bus and entertained each other over the ensuing hours. We actually had a lot in common. We talked about our displeasure with the state of health and food in North America these days. He also loved unpasteurized dairy products. Like me, he boycotted television. We both shared a mutual dream of living on a little self-sufficient farm some where in the Pacific Northwest. Greg would probably be more successful at this endeavor than me, the girl that can barely keep a houseplant alive. His parents were in the farming industry and he himself worked for the Canadian government in some kind of environmental planning or engineering. He wanted to save up some money to buy land in British Columbia and live off the grid, power the house with wind and solar, maybe even raise some goats. I always wanted goats! When the conversation changed to music, we swapped iPods and shared new music with each other. We both liked folksy mellow country-ish music. I told him about Prairie Home Companion, he shared a Canadian Broadcast radio show with me. I now had a whole list of new artists to explore when I get home.

Greg was getting off the bus near the airport for an early morning flight to another part of Costa Rica before he headed home on Christmas day. He asked why I didn’t just stay in the area where he was going. It would have been a lovely idea, if only my backpack weren’t still at the downtown San Jose hostel. All of a sudden Greg’s stop arrived and there was the usual scramble to get off the bus. We said goodbye. I thanked him for entertaining me over the last four hours or more. It had been great meeting a like-minded person. By the time he was off the bus, it occurred to me that I hadn’t even gotten his contact information. With all that we’d had in common, it would have been fun to stay in touch. I wanted to know how his quest for self-sustainability ended up. Greg, if you are out there somewhere in cyberspace, email me! I still want to come deliver goat babies on the farm.

It was at least another thirty minutes after Greg left until I reached the Coca Cola bus depot and my final destination. The temperature in San Jose was much cooler when I stepped off the bus. I wrapped by scarf around my shoulders and looked for a cab driver take me back to my downtown hostel. I found a short and stout driver named David who brought me over to his red taxi along with a very amorous French couple who’d also just gotten off the bus. Luckily my Spanish is decent enough to understand the gist of a conversation. David explained that there was some sort of Navidad celebration going on in downtown San Jose and therefore he would have to take me on a roundabout drive to get to the hostel and would drop the French couple off on the way.

As we drove, he let us know that there would be a road closure starting tonight at 11pm and continuing until 11am tomorrow. There was some kind of bridge in the process of collapsing over a highway that led to the airport and therefore the road would be closed for repairs. David said that this closure would result in a big detour of an additional 20km in distance and double the time and cab fare. This was a big concern for me as I had a 7am flight back to New Jersey which I’d hate to miss given the fact that it would be Christmas Eve.

After David dropped the French couple off at their apartment, I told him in the best Spanish I could muster, that I thought I’d like to ditch my hostel in downtown San Jose and find a place close to the airport tonight so I could avoid the whole mess. David assured me that this would not be a problem; he would drive me there, and knew of plenty of clean, safe hotels 5 minutes drive from the airport in the same neighborhood that Greg had mentioned he’d be staying. He went on a whole rampage about how much it irritated him that these downtown hotels wouldn’t let the tourists know about road closures and inconveniences that would affect their travels; he clearly believed they were only interested in making money.

I knew my hostel wouldn’t be pleased with the fact that I was ditching the reservation at 10:30 at night, but what choice did I have? Luckily the man at the front desk spoke English well and I explained the situation. He informed me that the road closures would not start until the night of December 26th, not December 23rd. He said the driver didn’t know what he was talking about and he probably just wanted to get my additional cab fare. He insisted that I could get a quick and cheap ride to the airport in the morning. He also told me that the owner of the hostel would not be happy that I wasn’t keeping my reservation there and he wants to have 24 hour notice for cancellations. He shrugged his shoulders and said that I could do whatever I wanted, he didn’t care, but the roads were not closed.

I didn’t know who to believe! Was I being taken advantage of? I went back outside to David in his taxi and tried to explain to him what the hostel worker had told me. David seemed frustrated; he insisted that he had heard over the police radio that the road was closed tonight. He said he was just trying to help me out, that I could do whatever I wanted as well, it made no difference for him.

I went back inside the hostel and asked the man to get my big backpack out of the storage while I thought for a moment. While I stood in the lobby with my big backpack, a Taiwanese couple I’d noticed earlier in the week walked in with their two young kids. When the woman saw me with my backpack she light up. “Oooh! You are backpacker, yes?” I confirmed that it was true; I was technically a backpacker. She responded, “How many countries you visiting on your journey?” Clearly she thought that all backpackers were on some epic journey around the world. I felt bad disappointing her when I told her that Costa Rica was the only stop on my voyage this time around.

A moment later, David walked up to the hostel to discuss the situation with the hostel man. They had a heated discussion in Spanish where both insisted that they were right about the dates of the road closure. The hostel man insisted that David just wanted my cab fare. David insisted that the hotel owners downtown were taking advantage of tourists. Both reiterated that they didn’t care what I did, it was all the same to them. David left the building, and I followed him. I apologized to the man at the hostel but said that I’d rather err on the safe side than have a disaster tomorrow morning on the way to the airport and miss my flight home.

Back in the cab, David vented about the hostel guy. He said that these guys just stayed inside their hotels all day and they didn’t know what was going on in the streets like he did. I still didn’t know what to think, but I my gut told me that heading to the airport tonight was just a smarter idea. I informed David, though, that if I was to be able to pay the cab fare, we’d need to stop at an ATM. We took a detour to a bank which involved David driving backwards in the wrong direction down a one-way street. He apologized before he did this, explaining that it was much easier this way.

We had a broken conversation on the way about my travels and the Costa Rican Christmas traditions. About twenty minutes later, we got off the highway into a quiet city neighborhood and pulled up next to a hotel. The front was made of glass and fortressed with iron bars. We had to ring a bell to be let inside. David carried my heavy pack on his back while I checked in to this very basic hotel. David said the price was usually $40 but I was getting it for $30 since he knew the guy. I am sure that was all a load of bullshit, but at this point I was tired and didn’t care. Once I was assigned a room, David delivered my bags to the door. He then shook my hand and said goodbye.

The hotel was one of the sketchier places in which I’d stayed. To get to my room I walked through an open area that was probably used for a driveway. There were clothes hanging out to dry in the open area adjacent to the driveway, and if looked like someone might live in a shack back there. My room had a single and double bed inside of it and even a TV. The guy at the front desk had handed me a plastic bag, which had towels, soap, and a TV remote inside of it. After I dropped my bags on the bed, I noticed that someone already inhabited the room; it was a hefty sized cockroach. This probably would have fazed me in the past, but I was used to these palmetto bugs from living in subtropical Houston. I halfheartedly tried to kill it with my shoe, but my tired reflexes were too slow for the highly evolved creature. He ran under my bed. I just hoped he wouldn’t crawl over me in my sleep.

It was after 11pm by now and I hadn’t had a proper meal since the tacos back in Montezuma at around 1pm. I had noticed a restaurant next door to the hotel and decided I’d check it out. It was the only place in the area open besides a KFC down the road. This corner restaurant was the Costa Rica equivalent of a 24 hour dinner. There were only two other men, both sitting alone at tables, eating big plates of food. A friendly couple was running the place. I was impressed the menu was bilingual and I inquired about a rice dish to the woman. She excitedly proclaimed it was “muy, muy, muy bueno!” How could I say no to that?

I took advantage of free wifi while I sat there. Ten minutes later, the man brought me a huge plate of steaming out fried rice. I had literally ordered the Costa Rican equivalent of Chinese fried rice. There were bits of chicken, ham, egg and vegetables in the rice. It was greasy and delicious. I could have eaten the entire plate, in fact I wanted to, but I stopped myself two thirds of the way through. I’d surely already consumed a day’s worth of calories in this dish. I did not linger long, anxious to get off to bed. I paid them about $4 for the meal and returned to my hotel.

Back in the room, I took a look around at my sketchy little room. There was no lock to secure the door from inside. I hoped that I didn’t wake up in the morning to realize I had a kidney missing or find out in nine months that I was carrying a Costa Rican child. There was something resembling a bed bug or body mite crawling on the comforter. I contemplated a shower, but opted for sleep instead. I’d clean up back in the comfort of home. I would be a bit smelly but my family would love me anyway. Despite the surroundings, I had no trouble falling asleep for the next four hours until it was time to catch my flight.

The next morning I realized I had survived the night unscathed and complete with all of my organs. There were no obvious bug bites on my skin either. I quickly gathered my bags and went out front the desk. I had to wake up the guy who was working there as he had laid down in his adjacent bedroom since I’d last seen him. The taxi arrived minutes after he called it and it truly was only a five-minute ride to the airport.

I swiftly moved through check-in and security in the airport. This was clearly a much easier holiday traveling experience in Costa Rica than it would have been in any American airport. I have never seen a plane be boarded so fast and when I got on board, I realized why. At most, the plane was about one third full. Most of the rows in the back of the airplane were completely empty. It was hard to imagine that the airline even made money off that flight.

As the plane sped down the runway, I reflected on my time in Costa Rica. I had met so many people who seemed to be in search of change, self-betterment and clarity on life. I had shared some of their personal quests and so I figured it was only fair to consider my own. As 2010 draws to an end, I look back and feel great satisfaction my personal growth this year. At this very same time in 2009, I was working hard as a first year resident in Connecticut, still struggling with my lifestyle as a resident and grappling with the life decision I’d made that led to me living in Connecticut instead of Southern California. It was at the changing of the New Year one year ago, that I made the decision to leave my residency program and transfer to another. Transferring was not the simplest endeavor, and I certainly hadn’t taken the path of least resistance, but I couldn’t have been happier today with my decision.

In the past six months that I’d lived in Texas, I was happier than I’d ever been. I was putting in long hours at the hospital, but felt really satisfied with the work I was doing and the memorable patients from all over the world that I’d been able to help. Having been in the suburbs of CT last year, I loved living in Houston and exploring all that a big city had to offer. I was at home in the friendly and hospitable Southwestern US. I didn’t miss the harsh winter or cold personalities of the Northeast. I loved wearing my cowboy boots and listening to country music. I was back into running and in the best physical shape of my life. I’d made diverse, fun and wonderful new friends in Texas, most notably, a new best friend, Jason. More importantly, I felt like I had regained my independence and identity by making a leap into a big life change. I felt like I was sending out positive vibes and getting it back in return. I was living life more as an extrovert than an introvert

As happy as I felt, I realize there is always room for growth and betterment. Some of my goals for the New Year are simple: start taking pottery classes again, pay my bills on time, join a cycling group, get more sleep, and begin my resident research project. Others aspirations are more elusive: stop collecting so many material possessions, be optimistic, expand my circle of friends, live in the present moment, and find the best in all people and situations. Life is always a work in progress so I plan to take 2011 one day at a time because after all, we have no choice but to do just that. Happy New Year.

Greckles and Mariana: Last Day in Montezuma

2010-12-26T09:48:00.001-06:00

23 December 2010

Greckles and Mariana: Last Day in Montezuma

I actually felt well rested when my alarm went off at 5:45 that morning. The sun was not quite up yet, but it was still light enough and the air was cool and clammy. I threw on my smelly and damp running gear, ate some energy Gu, and was on my way for a 14km run to the town of Cabuya and back. As I got to the stretch of the road that hugged the coastline, I had an amazing view of the sun rising over the horizon of the ocean. It was a fiery orange orb hovering just midway between ocean and sky. The air was still and colorful. It was starting to get hot though.

It was a challenging run along the dirt road. There were steep hills and it felt that even the flatter areas were a steady incline. The humid was palpable even early in the day and my skin was beginning to chafe as I went on. I saw a tree sloth on the side of the road; he didn’t pay me much attention. Most of the surrounding area was rural with farms and emaciated cows chomping away on grass. The locals were beginning to wake up and heading off to work. Hotel owners stood on the side of the road and watered the dirt road in front of their place. I am not quite sure of the purpose of this act, perhaps to counteract dust clouds later in the day, but it seemed like a waste of water to me.

The town of Cabuya was not much more than a few colorful buildings at a crossroad intersection. The road I’d taken ended in a nature preserve that was supposed to be one of the most pristine in Costa Rica that hadn’t even been open to tourists until recent years. It was time to head back to Montezuma though, before it became unbearably hot. Two other runners passed by me as I tiredly made my way down the road, they barely seemed to be sweating. How was that possible??

I was actually looking forward to the cold shower back at the hostel after the hot run. I met my new neighbors when I returned. They were a couple from Lake Placid with their teenaged daughter and her friend, who were practicing yoga on the landing outside our rooms. They seemed like mature and mellow teenaged girls and they couldn’t believe it was only 7am when they asked me for the time. They were sure it was already 11am in the morning.

I looked for Christy before I headed to breakfast but she was not around. Perhaps her night with Brad had been eventful. I ate at a small café painted bright yellow and serving typical Costa Rican food. I ordered one last gallo pinto for breakfast and enjoyed it with coffee while reading a book. There was an American couple eating next to me and struggling at communicating with the waiter. The woman clearly needed to spend a good few months unwinding in Costa Rica as she was a nervous wreck. She was stressing out to her husband about ordering a vegetarian meal, of which there were many on the bilingual menu. Even after ordering her meal, and repeatedly saying “vegetarian” to the waiter, she still complained to her husband. “God, its just so difficult for these people to communicate!” they fussed. I chuckled at her terrible American accent; when she said “por favor” it sounded like “pour fay-vour.”

I was walking down towards the beach when I saw Christy at the same café where we’d eaten together the day before. She was eating breakfast with three people she’d met on her snorkel trip the prior day. There was a young married couple traveling with another male friend. They were all originally from Arizona but lived in Humboldt, California now. I was admiring the wedding rings that the couple wore because they were very unique. I think people have gotten ridiculous these days with the exorbitantly priced wedding and engagement rings. It seems like the focus of engagements now is almost more on the “ring” than the act or the commitment. They were wearing gold rings with greenish turquoise rocks set in them; the turquoise was significant in that it had come from Arizona where they’d grown up together.

Christy was going to hitch a ride to Santa Teresa with them later that day, but first they had plans to hike up to the waterfall with Brad. I said goodbye to Christy and wished her luck on her journey. I told her that I thought that what she was doing was really brave. So many people stay complacently in a relationship where they aren’t happy or in love because they are too fearful of change. I hoped she could make peace with her decision.

I found a piece of driftwood down the beach that was in the shade of a tree. I sat there and read my book with my toes in the sand. It couldn’t have been a more relaxing way to spend my last morning in Montezuma. I checked out the jewelry stands on the way back from the beach. The Rastafarian guys were out there selling their jewelry like every other morning. They smoked weed while working on more pieces. Most were made from semiprecious stones and woven threads. Some were made from hemp and natural items that can be found on the beach. One guy was selling some interesting jewelry he made with silver and stones. I bought a ring.

Every Saturday in Montezuma there is an artisan market. This week they were holding it on a Thursday because of the upcoming Christmas holidays. I found the market located in the middle of a park that had a jungle feeling to it. It wasn’t a big gathering, but there was a decent crowd of local expats and tourists. I was starting to feel like I knew everyone in town as I continually bumped into the same people everywhere I went.

I saw the Scottish woman, she was selling calendars she’d made with her photos of the Nicoya peninsula. I saw Papa Gringo using a machete to crack open coconuts. I met a woman who was originally from New Hampshire but had been living in Costa Rica for at least half a decade. She was openly breastfeeding her two month old half Costa Rican daughter while she talked to me. She explained that stand was a “hands on” experience and that I should try her coconut oil based toiletries. There were other people selling tie-dyed clothing, colorful handbags, more woven jewelry, and artwork. There was also a small farmers market with fresh fruits and vegetables.

Just as I was finishing my circuit through the market, I ran into Sebastian. He was chatting with a guy from Eugene, Oregon who was a drummer by profession, but grew medical marijuana legally at home. It was endearing to hear how Sebastian pronounced marijuana; it sounded like “Mariana,” it made the drug sound so classy. Sebastian and this guy from Oregon were going to play a gig later that night at one of the bars in town.

When the Oregonian walked away, Sebastian and I had an interesting conversation comparing the puritanical sexuality of Americans with the looser values of the Europeans. He told me a story about an American girl he’d been with in Germany. She was originally from a small, conservative town in Texas. Sebastian said she’d only had one sexual partner her entire life up until the age of 25. At that time, she traveled to Berlin to visit an American friend living there. That is where she met Sebastian, who was friends with her pal from home. Sebastian said he could tell how rigid and uptight she was from her Christian upbringing. But all of a sudden, he said, it was like something switched on. She started doing research, watching pornography, reading about sex. She finally approached Sebastian; she was ready to experiment. He was happy to oblige. For the next week, they were holed up in his apartment. He said there was a party on her last night in Germany, but early into the night she tapped him on the shoulder, pointed to her watch and said, “We have six hours until my flight back home and still a long list of things to try, let’s go.”

I looked at my watch and realized it was thirty minutes past time to check out of my hostel. I told Sebastian I had to run. He said he couldn’t believe I was leaving for the US so soon. We decided to meet for lunch in an hour before my bus ride back to San Jose. I went back to Hotel Luna Llena and reluctantly packed up my belongings. Up in the lobby area, I set up my laptop and checked into my flight back home. The view behind the computer screen was of the hibiscus flowers and ocean below. I contemplated whether or not I really wanted to go through with this flight back to the cold of New Jersey, but my family was waiting there. It was Christmas, after all.

I carried my bags back to the town square of Montezuma and found Sebastian at Dorado’s Tacos, eating yucca fries while he waited for me. Dorado’s is owned by a guy from Boston who also took the plunge to leave normal life and live in paradise. I ordered some fish tacos and fueled up for the long ride back to San Jose. Sebastian said that the sun had really made my “grackles” come out. “You mean freckles?” I said.

I heard more about Sebastian’s travels. He had lived in Ohio for a year while in high school as part of an exchanged. He said that he wasn’t very cool until the football coach approached him and asked him to be the kicker on the team. Popularity ensued thereafter. In Germany, he said, sports were not the epicenter of coolness as they are in American high schools. He enjoyed his experience in the US though and as a result, has flawless English. Sebastian had also gotten to live in Portugal for a time, the called him Sebastiao there. He’d been lucky to actually make a career out of playing the saxophone and had traveled through Europe and Asia thanks to his band. I told him that when he decided to do his American tour, he’d better stop in Texas. We exchanged emails and said, who knows, maybe we’d cross paths again in Berlin or Texas.

As I walked through Montezuma town one last time, I happened to bump into Christy. She was getting ready to pile into a beat up looking SUV with the Humboldt California group. They were on their way to Santa Teresa but wondered if the car would even make it there as it was making some odd klunking sounds as it idled in the street. We said goodbye once more and I wished her luck and peace in her life. I said I’d drop her a line soon and see how things worked out for her and her marriage. It was time to start the long journey back to San Jose and ultimately New Jersey.

Waterfalls, Yoga & New Beginnings in Montezuma

2010-12-24T13:35:00.003-06:00

22 December 2010

Waterfalls, Yoga & New Beginnings in Montezuma

The other residents of my hostel told me that the howler monkeys woke them up that morning, but I didn’t hear them. I had slept so well again. Now that I was becoming better rested, I was even starting to have dreams again! I have all but stopped dreaming since residency started, and I really enjoyed the vivid dreams I used to have. I was so glad that I forfeited salsa dancing for sleep the night before.

Christy and I had made plans to meet for breakfast at a place called The Bakery Café in town. By the time I got myself ready, I realized that I’d probably be a bit late arriving, but who can be in a rush when visiting a town like this? I found Christy sitting in the café, located a few meters from the beach, eating tropical fruit and granola and drinking a coffee. Christy, Sam and Danny were all taking a tour boat out to Tortuga Island to snorkel and were leaving the hotel at 9am. I had all the time in the world, so I ordered another round of gallo pinto with fried eggs and a latte and savored it. I watched the white-faced monkeys jump from tree to tree next to the restaurant.

I learned more about Christy’s difficult situation as we ate breakfast. She is married to a wonderful guy who treats her like gold, she said, but she started to realize that he was more like her best friend than her lover. She was taking some time to figure out what she wanted. She had moved out of their house together three months ago. Part of her reason for coming to Costa Rica was to have space to think. That, and the fact that she said she really hated Christmas. She also wanted to come to Costa Rica to reevaluate with Christmas meant. Back home, she felt it was all so contrived and materialistic. She didn’t know how her husband’s family would take 6 hours to open presents and “ooh and aah” over them when she just wanted to get drunk and be cynical.

I made no rush in getting to the yoga studio. It was located not even half a mile down the road from where I ate breakfast. Montezuma Yoga studio was located on the grounds of a hotel called Los Mangos. The yoga studio itself was an open-air gazebo draped with batiked tapestries and pictures of Buddha and lotus flowers. Hibiscus bushes surrounded the gazebo and one could see views of the pristine ocean further down the hill. Dagma, the German woman I had met the day before, greeted me warmly and told me to help myself to a yoga mat.

Dagma was an attractive, middle-aged woman. She was tall and lean with an angular face and piercing blue eyes. She led us through a challenging but enjoyable hour and a half long Vinyasa flow yoga class. It was definitely the most beautiful and peaceful setting in which I have ever practiced yoga. The clientele at the studio were actually mostly locals and expats, not tourists. It was a fabulous way to start another day in paradise.

It was about 90F by the time I left the yoga studio. I decided to head back to my favorite little hippie hang-out, Organico café, for a snack. It felt kind of strange to me that I was having such a slow-paced vacation. I was accustomed to the kind of vacation where I’d get up early, cram in as many museums or sites into one day as possible, or hike the biggest mountain I could find. Then inevitably I would come home from vacation with laryngitis and bronchitis or just be more sleep-deprived than I was before I’d left. I had decided when I arrived in Costa Rica that this was going to be a different kind of vacation. I didn’t plan to park my ass on the beach and cook myself the whole week, but it was going to be an active but relaxed affair.

Back at Café Organico, they were having free guitar lessons. A smiley and bubbly Costa Rican man was teaching a little boy and one of the expat cooks how to play some cords of a Costa Rican song. I sat there and listened while sipping a smoothie made of coffee, rice milk, banana, caramom and cinnamon, deemed Turkish Delight. I took advantage of the free wifi while I sat there and watched the world go by. A bit later a Swedish couple sat down on the floor cushions in front of me with their two small children. The woman actually looked like she could have been Costa Rican, she was some breed of Latin-Swede. They sat and ate a rice noodle salad with vegetables while the little girl played drew on their legs and feet with chalk and the mother breastfed the baby. It looked delicious, the salad, not the breastfeeding, so I ordered one for myself. Just because I was on vacation, I ended the meal with some kind of vegan “chocolate” coconut dessert.

The heat of the day was subsiding now and I decided it was time to visit Montezuma falls. There are multiple waterfalls located in and around the town, but Montezuma falls were the main attraction. It was a 10-minute walk to the trailhead and from there one just follows the river up hill. I criss-crossed back and for over the river by hopping over rocks. Hemp flip-flops turned out to be a poor choice for hiking, but again, I was traveling light so I had to make do. As I teetered on the rocks at the edge of the river, a couple returning from the falls suggested that I take the trail through the jungle instead, as it was much safer. It was certainly easier to walk on the dirt path. I also got good views of the waterfall from above. It eventually became steep and narrow and followed a series of water pipes that were jerry-rigged throughout the woods. Someone was clearly taking advantage of this fresh water below.

My dress fully drenched in sweat and feet covered in dirt, I finally made the final descent down the mountain to the basin of the waterfall. A dozen people were sprawled out on the rocks around the waterfall, enjoying the mist, cool breezes, and drying off. The water was chilly but refreshing after the hike. After a quick dip, I too lounged on the rocks. When I was dried off enough to put some clothes back on, I started the walk back to the road. I walked for a bit with a couple from Toronto. When I said I was from Houston, they said they’d been stranded there for four days on the way down to Costa Rica, but with a month of travel time, it didn’t effect their vacation too much. When they asked how long my stay in Costa Rica was, they, like everyone else, said that 6 days was just not enough time. I conceded that this was true but that six days were better than nothing, and plus I wanted to see my family for Christmas. The Canadian couple told me that they had made a practice of just being together as a couple, away from family, for their Christmases. They said it took awhile to trail their families on this tradition, but they enjoyed that it was just “their time.”

The sun was getting lower in the sky as I returned to Montezuma town from the waterfalls. It was that beautiful time of day when everything is colored in a warm red hue. I decided I’d take another walk down the beach. I didn’t make it far before I found Sebastian laying in the sun and reading his book. We caught up for a bit and said we’d try to meet for dinner later. Christy had been interested in the same. I took a walk down the beach until the next bend in the shoreline, just to get the view of the next beach. The surfers were still catching waves, hippies smoking joints, kids digging holes in the sand, and countless people worshipping the sun; it was a real tropical paradise.

I relaxed at the lounge area in the hostel, waiting to see if Christy or Sebastian would show up for dinner. It was almost 7pm and I was starving so I decided it was time to go in search of food alone. I had read about a sushi place right on the beach and thought that sounded healthy and delicious. As I walked through town, I spotted Christy drinking beers with a man, Brad, whom she’d met the night before where I salsa-danced. I thought of saying hello, but figured they were better left alone. She needed to do some exploration on this trip, and I didn’t want to interfere.

The sushi restaurant was located on the northern end of town right next to a hippie beachside campsite. It was a small operation, really just a hut for making food and a tent with tables in the sand. There were only two other couples there. While I waited for my food, I also got to walk on the beach at night. I wish my camera could have gone justice to the beautiful scene. The full moon was large and yellowish and hung low over horizon casting long beams of light on the still ocean below it. A campfire burned further down the beach. The sky was clear and all of the constellations were easily viewable.

I was a bit curious to see what sushi from Costa Rica would be like, but it was as delicious as anything an Asian person could make. While I ate, I watched an older white man, probably in his 60s, putter around the beach. He picked up coconuts and odd trash items off the beach. He approached the Costa Rican couple behind me and tried to offer to cook or prepare something for them on the beach campsite. When he walked away, the girl giggled and referred to him as “Papa Gringo.” The guy had clearly dropped one too many acid tabs and killed a lot of brain cells; he had a vacant look to his eyes. His skin was tanned and leathered and dotted with multiple tattoos. He seemed like someone who had probably run away from something at home many years ago and never returned, getting by on odd jobs, fondling young girls, and living in a tent on the beach.

I headed back to the hostel around 8pm, planning to make an early night of it and get up at dawn to go running. I had a craving for something sweet and bought a sleeve of vanilla crème cookies at the convenience store for about 80 cents. Christy and Brad were still sitting at the same restaurant and chatting outside while indoors the movie, The Hangover, was being projected on a large screen for all to enjoy. Christy waved me over to them and I sat down for a bit while I devoured the entire sleeve of cookies. I inquired more about Brad’s story. He said that he technically lived down here in Costa Rica now. He was and soft-spoken man in his early 40s from Minneapolis originally which was easily evident from his Midwestern accent. He had some kind of high-powered job in the internet business and traveled continuously. He felt burned out and unhappy, and subsequently laid off, and decided he was going to re-evaluate his life in Costa Rica. He wasn’t sure how long he’d stay, but it was a start and he was happier already. It seemed that a lot of the people I’d met this week were in Costa Rica to do some serious self-reflection.

I asked Brad if he thought he’d get bored in Montezuma. I said that I could probably only last a month before I’d be itching to leave. He agreed that it could get boring, but he liked the slower way of life right now. He could always move on to some other beach town. I think he’d like it if Christy would stay down there with him, in his quest for fulfillment. He was clearly smitten with her. The two of them were planning to move on to another bar for more beers, I figured I’d leave them to their own devices and get myself to bed. I was really enjoying this whole “sleep” thing that had become so foreign to me.

Eating and salsa-dancing my way through hippie town

2010-12-22T18:42:00.005-06:00

21 December 2010

Eating and salsa-dancing my way through hippie town

It was wonderful to sleep in with no alarm to wake me up that morning, and it was the first time in two weeks I had been able to do that. Of course, there was the 5am wake-up call from the rooster down the street, but I was able to fall back asleep. I slipped quietly out of the room while the Norwegians continued to sleep.

It was 8:30 in the morning and already about 80F and humid. I walked to the café directly next door; a place called Zwart café. The café was a monotone of white with colorful art pieces hung around. I ordered a latte and the gallo pinto breakfast, which is the typical Costa Rican breakfast. Gallo pinto is a rice dish mixed with black beans, onions and peppers. Mine came with scrambled eggs, toast and bacon. My latte was delicious, as it should be, considering coffee is grown in Costa Rica. It was good enough that my dad would have approved, and probably ordered a second right after finishing his first.

I took a long stroll back to the hostel by walking down the beach. It was sweltering already with little to no breeze coming from the ocean. I felt the sun baking my pale Anglo-Saxon skin. It dawned on me at that time that I had completely forgotten to bring sunblock on my trip to Costa Rica! The scenery was still gorgeous though. The surfers were already out in droves. It was time for me to head on to my next destination though.

I planned to spend the next few days of my vacation in the hippie beach down of Montezuma which was about 15km from Santa Teresa. Jonnie told me that if I stood on the side of the street outside the hostel, the bus to Montezuma by way of Cobano, would pick me up around 11:30. I was still standing in the heat and sun at 12:00. I was quickly realizing that schedules are only a suggestion in Costa Rica.

Finally I saw the green bus bouncing down the road. It was moving at a speed about as fast as an easy jog. You don’t rush to get places when you life in the tropics. I plopped down the first seat in the bus and patiently waited while the bus crawled down the dirt roads. The bus made frequent stops to pick up locals. The girls would kiss or shake hands with the middle-aged driver. The bus also seemed to function as a mail delivery system. People would flag down the bus, hand the driver a package and some money, and off we’d go. A few miles later, someone else would flag down the bus and receive their package and also hand the man some money. Between the female attention and the extra change he received, I’d say that this driver had a great job!

About thirty minutes and 7 km later, we had finally arrived at the town of Cobano. From here, I would catch a bus to Montezuma which was only another 7 km distance. The town of Cobano is nothing special, it’s really just a town to pass through on route to another destination. Unfortunately, I spent an hour and a half there standing on the curb, waiting for the bus to Montezuma which was 40 minutes late. When all was said and done, it would take me two and a half hours to travel the 14km from Santa Teresa to Montezuma. I guess this is why the travel guide said that once you arrived in these towns, you were loathe to be in any rush to leave.

I called out to my bus driver to stop the bus when I saw the sign for my hostel, Luna Llena, on the side of the road. The hostel was a bunch of bamboo bungalows perched on the side of a steep hill which overlooked the ocean and town below. A Dutch woman told me that my room was ready, except it had no mattress. Apparently the owner was out shopping for a new mattress. The room was small, just enough space for a single bed with a mosquito net and a shelf for belongings. Shower and bathroom were open-air and located at the end of my bungalow.

I ditched my stuff in the room and walked the remainder of the way down the hill to the small town of Montezuma. The town itself was only about 2 blocks in length. It was densely concentrated with restaurants, bars, cafes, tourism offices, taco shops, and hippie hang-outs. Rastafarian men and women were making jewelry out of shells and threads and selling them on the side of the road. Buddhist prayer flags and hammocks hung from the fronts of the buildings.

I spotted the sign for a place called, Organico, with a slogan that said, “Pure food with love.” Outside the café was a chalkboard listing different events, all free, that would go on at the café throughout the week. Earlier today there had been salsa dancing and tribal dance classes. Later on there was as Christmas cookie baking class. Other highlights included Hypnosis positive thinking class, Buddhist meditation, Tibetan meditation (was there really a difference between the two?), chakra balancing yoga, and free drawing class with live model.

It was already late for lunch at 3pm, so I ordered a light meal of a fruit shake called Super Sexy which was made of mango, avocado, banana, spirulina, and wheat grass and ate this with a vegan raspberry banana bread. I enjoyed this while sitting on cushions on bamboo floor mats. When I was done with my meal, woman with an obvious Scottish accent approached me and offered me an Indian head and upper body massage; 40 minutes for $20. When I found a good place in my book to stop reading, I took her up on the offer.

We moved to another part of the café for the massage next to an American woman about my age who was reading a book and sipping a drink. Her name was Christie and she was also traveling alone and happened to be staying at my hostel. I invited her to come come to dinner with me later that night. The Scottish woman sat me up in a chair with cushions and proceeded to give me a wonderfully relaxing massage during which I couldn’t help but fall asleep; luckily she was holding my head up.

When the massage was finished, she brought me a cold glass of water and we talked. I asked her how she had ended up in Costa Rica all the way from Scotland. She had taken a visit to Montezuma and fell in love. At first I thought she meant she fell in love with the town, but turns out it was a Costa Rican man who had smitten her. They stayed in touch, and she started to plan how she could move her life to Costa Rica. She was a travel agent in the UK. When she decided to make the move to the tropics, she started learning how to do massages, manicures and pedicures. After practicing her new skills on friends at home, she finally relocated to Costa Rica for good. She admitted that it was a big adjustment at first, but she now had learned to live life in the slow lane.

I walked a bit more around the town of Montezuma as well as the closest beach and snapped a few pictures. On the way back I realized that it was time for the Christmas cookie baking class at Organico. There was a small gathering of some of the expat locals who had brought recipes. Some of the cookies were already out of the oven and ready for eating. I met Czech woman who lived between Prague, Los Angeles, and Costa Rica with her American husband. She had made some delicious Czech almond butter cookies. There was another woman named Dagma, who was a German from Hamburg, who’d lived in Montezuma for 10 years now. She invited me to her yoga studio the next morning. Then there was a young Australian guy named Noah, who was a chef at what was considered the best restaurant in town. This is, coincidentally, where I had invited Christie to join me later that night.

The Scottish woman had given me a recommendation of where I could go on an evening run. I returned to the hotel and put my running clothes on. They were still a bit damp from the massive amount of sweating I had done the prior day on the beach. That is one drawback of traveling very lightly in a tropical country; one resigns oneself to being a bit smelly. But I figured I’d fit right in at this hippie town where the women don’t shave their armpits, let alone wear deodorant!

It was actually a challenging run along the dirt road. I had to dodge potholes and loose rocks as well as climb up and down steep hills and be wary of all passing cars, trucks, ATVs and motorbikes. The views were beautiful though as the road hugged the side of the coast. I turned around again when the sunlight was dwindling. As I ran back to the hostel, bats flew out of trees, swooping over my head.

After a shower, I headed up to the lobby area of the hostel. It was really more like an open air balcony with cozy chairs, hanging chair baskets, views of the ocean, jazz music and all alight with candles and Christmas lights. It was an extremely relaxing hang-out spot. Christie was already up there on the couch, reading a book. She told me that she had invited an English couple to join us for dinner. While we waited for them, we started a conversation with the guy sitting in the couch near us. He was a German from Berlin named Sebastian, also traveling solo. We now had a dinner group of five people.

We all got to know each other a bit more as we walked down the road to Playa de los Artistas. Sam and Danny were from the Midlands area of England. They had moved to New York City four years ago when Sam, a medical editor, had been offered a job. Danny worked in international aide, fundraising for war torn countries. Sebastian was originally from the north of Germany, from small town famous for making the world’s best marzipan. He plays the flute and the saxophone in an electronica band that toured around Europe and Asia. Christie is a therapist from Ashville, North Carolina. She had recently separated from her husband and was taking time to decide whether or not she still wanted to be married to him. Her two-week trip to Costa Rica was part of her soul-searching. We realized that all five of us were all exactly one year apart with our each of our ages ranging from 29 to 33

Playa de los Artistas was a very romantic restaurant set right on the edge of the beach. There were many candle light tables scattered around the palm trees. The restaurant’s menu changed daily depending on what fresh fish they had or what the chefs decided to make. We ordered a round of beers while we waited for the waitress to present the menu. Finally a tall thin woman in a microskirt and midriff bearing shirt walked over, she looked like some kind of Brazilian model. “You will order food,” she said. It sounded more like an order than a question.

She then went on to present us with the menu of the night which was hand written on two pieces of paper inside of a book cover made of the bark from a tropical tree. We decided to share some appetizers, which included a tuna tartare with passion fruit, tuna carpaccio, and a mahi mahi ceviche. For dinner, we also all ordered fish dishes. Christie and I both had what was basically a fish lasagne. Instead of noodles, there was polenta stained black with squid ink and instead of meat there was mahi mahi. Sam had a whole grilled barracuda. Danny ordered mahi mahi filet covered in nuts and raisins. Sebastian had fried tuna balls. Everything was fresh and delicious and the company was equally as enjoyable.

We decided to continue the evening at the main bar in town called Chicos. We ordered another round of Costa Rica beer and chatted. I spotted my Scottish masseuse out on the dance floor salsa dancing with her Costa Rican boyfriend. Before long, a guy who looked like a Costa Rican approached me. He asked me if knew how to salsa dance. I said not really, but I’d try. I stumbled around like an idiot for a little bit while he tried to explain the footwork to me. Once we actually started to dance, he was so good at leading that it didn’t really matter that I had no idea what I was doing. His English was as good as mine, and it turned out he wasn’t technically Costa Rican. He said his father was from Florida and of Italian-American descent and his mother was Dutch. He said that he is Costa Rican though, because he was born here. His parents own two hotels in Montezuma and he helps to manage one of them. He wanted me to stay out for more salsa dancing, but I declined in favor of sleep. He asked me if I wanted to go running down the beach with him at 6am, but I knew he couldn’t keep up with me. Finally he said that if I wanted to come by his hotel tomorrow night, he might be able to hang out. I know how these vacation guys operate. First you have pina coladas by the beach. They tell you how pretty you are and how the ocean brings out the blue in your eyes. Next thing you know, they get you to quit your conventional job and move down to paradise to weave friendship bracelets and whittle jewelry out of coconut shells. Either that, or you just get drunk, end up with sand and crevices of your body you never knew existed, and taking home the souvenir that keeps on giving, herpes. Oh no, I knew better than to mess around with “Latin” lover wannabes. But I’m just hypothesizing here; I don’t speak from experience!

The Long Quest for Love, Surf and Yoga in Santa Teresa

2010-12-22T08:06:00.002-06:00

20 December 2010

The Long Quest for Love, Surf and Yoga in Santa Teresa

I quickly dressed and gathered my belongings together after my 4:45am alarm went off. The sleeping man at the front desk got up and called me a cab to get me to the bus station. About 10 minutes later I was arriving at the Coca Cola station where I would board the 6am bus to Santa Teresa or Montezuma…I hadn’t quite decided yet where I would land.

I found the bus station quietly busy at that early hour. The city was not as loudly humming as it had been last night, but there was a good amount of food traffic outside. It wasn’t really much of a station, more like a bus depot. I knew I must have found the bus to the hippie surf area when I spotted a white girl with blonde dreadlocks standing nearby. She confirmed that this would be the area where the bus would arrive in about 45 minutes. I decided that food was in order now that I had time to spare.

Across the street from the bus depot I spotted a basic café filled with Costa Rican travelers. I sat down at the table closest to the open kitchen and was quickly approached by an older man hunched over with osteoporosis. He asked me what I wanted. I said, “Heuevos and café.” He seemed to ask me what I wanted to go with that, but unfortunately most of the Spanish vocabulary I know pertains mainly to vaginas. I nodded my head and figured I wouldn’t have much issue eating whatever the man brought me. The coffee was served immediately. He plopped a spoonful of powdered milk into it before giving it to me. Following coffee came a plate full of buttery scrambled eggs and slices of dry bread. I hungrily ate it up.

By the time I had finished my breakfast and gotten over to the bus stop, I realized that the line was already very long. It seemed that half of San Jose and all the tourists were heading where I was. As I got in the back of this line at least 60 people deep, I started to feel frustrated that I had arrived at the bus station so early but yet might not even get on the bus at all. The man in front of me was clearly not Costa Rica with his long blonde hair and enormous surfboard bag. “So are we getting on this bus or not?” I asked him. He said that he wasn’t sure either and if we did miss the bus, the next one wasn’t until 2pm. Turns out that this guy lives in Costa Rica so I trusted his words.

The bus drivers cut the line off about 4 people before I was finally about to board the bus. There was a lot of discussion between the bus drivers in Spanish and they eventually pointed us to the next bus over, luckily for us, they had a second bus.

It was a two and a half hour bus ride from San Jose to the town of Paquera. When we arrived, we all disembarked from the bus and waited about 20 minutes to board a ferry boat across the bay which would take another hour. I sat with the long blonde haired man on the ferry ride over and we talked to pass the time. His name was Alex and he was an artist. When I asked where he was from, he said, “All over.” He had grown up in Florida, Houston and Southern California and lived and traveled other places. His mother was Cuban and his dad was French. He had moved to Costa Rica to do his art and surf the good waves. He currently resided in a border down just north of Panama but was headed to the town of Mal Paìs for some Christmas surfing.

As the ferryboat chugged along, we talked about our travels. He showed me pictures of his artwork, which were very colorful beach inspired murals and paintings. Recently, he had been traveling to different cities around the US to paint his art on Ugg boots in stores. Alex gave me his recommendations about places to visit in the southern Nicoya peninsula. He suggested I try out Santa Teresa and stay at a place called Casa Zen. The man had lived here for nearly a decade, so I figured I would follow his lead and the specific directions he gave.

When the ferry finally docked, we found our bus waiting for us on the other side. The journey wasn’t over yet; we still had another hour and a half to reach the town of Cobana, which was the entry point to the nearby surf towns. The buses don’t move very fast on these mountainous and trench-filled dirt roads. I took my final bus ride of the day from Cobana to Santa Teresa just as the rain started falling. It was the shortest ride of all: only about 15 minutes. I saw the blonde, dreadlocked haired Canadian girl on the bus again, and she described where I would find Casa Zen. When I spotted the painted sign of a Buddha, I knew I had arrived.

The rain was falling hard when I left the bus so I jogged the rest of the way down the soupy road to the entrance of Casa Zen. Nestled under thatched roofed huts and open-air buildings, I found the hippie enclave of Casa Zen. I asked the woman at the bar if there were any available rooms. She looked through her books and then unfortunately informed me that the only room they had was an apartment meant for 4 people with a price of $85 a night. Now this is not really an expensive room by American standards, but I was in Costa Rica and I knew I could find a better deal. I told her that I would think about it while I ate lunch at their restaurant.

Before I said anything else, she was on the phone with another hostel in town, trying to find me a spare room. When she got off the phone, she happily informed me that her friend Jonnie, who she just “looooved,” had a free bed in a dorm room. I decided that for $12, I would take it and I settled in to eat my lunch of brown rice, beans, avocado and pico de gallo.

This woman, Tiff, working the bar and managing the hostel turned out to be great lunchtime entertainment. She was a thin and fast moving woman with sleeve tattoos on both arms as well as most other places on her body. She flitted around the kitchen in tiny shorts, taking food orders, delivering food, all while playing with the boom box and fixing her hair and makeup. She turned the music up when a particular song came on, “Oh my god! This is my favorite Tears for Fears song! I love it!” she said, before rocking out to the music.

A woman approached her at the bar, and they had a very excited conversation in Spanish. There was hugging and squealing in high-pitched voices. When Tiff returned to the bar she told me, “Oh my god! I think I am going to cry! I am so happy!” “Yes,” I said, “it looked like you got some good news.” To which she replied, while wiping tears out of her eyes, “Yes! That woman I was talking to makes the best bikinis in town! They don’t fall of while you are surfing and the actually make me look like I have an ass…and she is going to make a bikini for me! Oh my god, I am going to cry! I need to start making some earrings to give her back as a gift.” I never saw anyone get so excited about a bikini.

I soon realized that Tiff was one big ball of manic energy. Everyone and everything she talked about was “awesome” and she just “looooved” it. Everyone was also like her family or her best friend, the men at the tattoo parlor were her family. The cab driver was her favorite person ever. She wanted me to tell Jonnie, the hostel owner where I’d later stay, that she “loves him sooooooo much.” I asked her if she ever hated anyone. She giggled and said, “No! Oh wait…there are some ex-boyfriends in this town actually…”

I stuck around Casa Zen for an hour and a half yoga class for $8. It was located in an open-air room on the second story above Tiff’s bar. There were hammocks hanging overt the yoga floor. The teacher was clearly an American expat. She did a good job teaching a class to about five of us, however I could still hear Tiff yapping away downstairs throughout.

When class was over, I walked about half a mile down the main road in Santa Teresa to meet Jonnie and check into the Don Jon hostel. The road was a mess of puddles and slimy mud. As I walked down the road I was passed by countless ATVs carrying bikini clad women and shirtless men with surfboards on the back. I walked by surf supply stores and many a tattoo parlor.

Finally I found Don Jon hostel and was welcomed with the sounds of Bob Marley playing overhead. I met Tiff’s Jonnie, who seemed like he’d smoked so much marijuana in his day that he had lost his ability to make and quick or sudden movements. There were a cat and dog lazily lounged in the reception area that looked as if they had profited from years of second hand smoke and so were equally as lethargic. Jonnie took my $12 and showed me to my room. On the way, he told me to be careful with my belongings at the beach, “There has been some delinquency,” he said. I asked him if it was safe to leave my stuff unattended in the room. To that he replied, “Yes! Your roommates are Norwegian.” Oh, the trust worthy Scandinavians.

The room was basic but clean. Jonnie showed me to one of the lower bunk beds and handed me some sheets. I didn’t linger in the room very long. It was already after 4pm and I wanted to take a run on the beach since it wasn’t too hot that day. If I didn’t get going, it would be dark before I got very far. It took me about 10 minutes to find a path down to the beach. The views were pretty amazing when I stepped out of the jungle path and onto the sand. The beach seemed to stretch on for miles in either direction. I would find out just how many miles, as I intended to run about 10 miles if I could. Running on sand is definitely more exhausting then the dirt paths and paved roads to which I am accustomed. I was able to find packed sand in most areas, but my legs were feeling the extra work. It was also about 75F and humid out, which I should be used to from living in Texas, but nonetheless I was not moving at my normal pace.

It was certainly one of the most scenic runs I had ever taken. I watched the waves break along the beach. Crabs scampered out from holes in the sand. Surfers bobbed up and down in the ocean. Mist rose from the jungle along the shore. Beach goers walked along the coast with children splashing through tide pools. The scents and smells along the way were also amazing. The aromas of tropical flowers were intoxicating; some smelled of citrus, others were like gardenia or jasmine. In one area there was a fire burning. Every so often I would smell another kind of smoke, from the surfer guys smoking marijuana along the beach. And of course there was the smell of sea air.

I ran on for about 3.5 miles and the sun was getting pretty low in the sky. The beach was also getting narrower and more rugged. I had run out of beach and sunlight a bit earlier than I’d have liked, so I turned back. When I had retraced those 3.5 miles, the sun had completely set. If it weren’t for the full moon in the sky, I would have been in complete darkness. There were a few others late to leave the beach as well, but it was pretty deserted. I had a feeling it might be difficult to find the same path I had taken out to the beach in darkness. Everything sort of looked the same during the day, let alone at night. I kept on walking down the beach, looking for some landmarks I’d remembered. I had gone quite a ways and nothing looked familiar anymore so I knew I had gone too far. Luckily I found a well-light hotel beach area and cut through their property to get back to the street. When I reached the street, I realized that I had definitely walked well past my hostel, but at least I knew where I was.

After a refreshingly cold shower, as hot water is not offered at many hostels, I was ready for dinner. I invited my Norwegian roommates to join me at a café called Rendez Vous just a few meters down the road. The café was run by a young French couple and I had a delicious crepe filled with cheese and spinach and some kind of tropical fruit drink. It was a relaxed and cozy café where some people sat on laptops, and others practiced their musical instruments. I heard more about the Norwegians. They had been traveling for about 6 weeks in Costa Rica, and clearly the girl was ready to go home. She said that it had been raining too much and it was making her depressed. I reminded her that in Norway it was dark and freezing. She said, “Yes, but I love the snow!” She was a chef and worked on the ships the left out of Bergen. She’d cook for the men on the ship for about 4 weeks and then return to home for a 4 week break. It sounded liked a pretty good gig. Her companion, Ivan, was some kind of mechanic in Norway.

We also met a young married couple in the café from Texas who had just moved down to Santa Teresa. The guy said that he had a job in security which allowed him to travel a lot and work from anywhere in the world. I asked him why they moved to Costa Rica. He said there were a few reasons. For starters, he wanted his wife to go back to school to get some kind of masters in education. She wasn’t as keen on this idea. So he suggested that they could move to another country and she could work on her degree there. She agreed. So they looked into some different places in Central America. He said they liked Costa Rica because many people spoke English, there were direct flights back to Texas, and a good education and high literacy rate and, at least for Latin America. They had just arrived to their new home in Santa Teresa. They were renting a two bedroom house, just off the main street, for about $800 a month. He said that eventually they would move inland, closer to the beautiful volcano, Mt Aranal, where they could have an even bigger house for only $400 per month. I was starting to understand why so many expats have settled in Costa Rica. I was enjoying the company of all of these friendly travelers, but I was ready for bed. I had decided that catching up on sleep was going to high on my list of priorities while on vacation and my bed was calling.

The noise of San Jose

2010-12-20T22:23:00.000-06:00

19 December 2010

The noise of San Jose

The glass at the San Jose airport arrivals may have been dirty and smudged, but I had no trouble spotting Jonas’ smiling face when I walked out. It’s always wonderful to arrive in a foreign country and have a friend waiting there. After working an exhausting two weeks straight in the hospital, squeezing in a visit to San Antonio the day before, and getting up at 5am to catch my flight, I was beyond tired. It made it that much nicer than Jonas had met me at the airport so I didn’t have to try to use my sleep deprived brain to navigate downtown.

For one dollar, we took a 20 minute local bus ride from the airport to the bustling center of San Jose. I had booked a hostel, at Jonas’ recommendation, at the end of a long shopping promenade in San Jose. It was Sunday afternoon, and the locals were out in hordes. The women had stuffed their bodies like sausages into skin-tight jeans and mini skirts but with muffin tops hanging out the top. The men had heavily gelled slick hair. And it seemed that every other woman was pregnant.

Hostel la Cuesta was located on a quiet street just off the main drag. It was a colorful house with basic but clean rooms. I had a private double room for about $25. As soon as we dropped off the bags, I insisted on getting some food to eat. All I had eaten all day was a tasteless egg pita on the airplane and I was starving. Jonas and I stopped at one of the first decent looking restaurant that wasn’t a McDonalds or a KFC. One had to all but tackle the waitress to get her attention. Finally she brought us some menus. I looked at what the family at the table next to us was eating, and decided I wanted that. I ordered a tropical fruit smoothie containing fruits of which I’d never heard and to go with that, the classic Costa Rica cosada meal which consists of a meat of your choice (pork in my case), rice, beans, plantains, yucca, and some other vegetables. Fortunately the food arrived with speed and soon my blood was flooded with happy little glucose molecules. I felt good!

After Jonas and I finished lunching and catching up, we went back to the crowded promenade for a post-meal stroll. There were all kinds of performers in the street including a Peruvian style band complete with Native American headdresses, a lone guitarist playing and singing classic rock hits, and I even spotted a fat & round lady dressed in a full clown costume. She wasn’t performing, just eating, or maybe that itself was her special act.

Just after I commented on how San Jose was not a very festively decorated for Christmas, we stumbled upon a holiday craft market. Vendors were selling all kinds of artsy items, but most were made out of recycled items. Costa Ricans do pride themselves on trying to be ecological. I met a cute, bubbly girl with perfect English who was selling her barrettes and headbands which were decorated with leaves and tree bark. She told me of her dream to help the planet through her work. I couldn’t resist but buy a few of her crafts.

After I had shopped enough and indulged in a latte and very rich dessert, called torta chilena, that must have contained at least one stick of butter, we started heading back towards my hostel. On the way, we visited another market which sold the typical Latin American souvenirs like coffee beans, woven hammocks, paintings of tropical scenes, and Hawaiian print sundresses. After that, we followed our ears to a performance in the middle of a square. There was some kind of celebration underway, commemorating the 165th anniversary of an agency of justice. There was an orchestra playing mostly Latin but also some Caribbean and Calypso music. The locals seemed to be enjoying it, some even partner dancing in front of the performers.

When the show ended, Jonas and I headed back to the hostel. He tried to help me figure out how I might best spend my short five day visit to Costa Rica. There were so many interesting places to see but so little time, especially since the buses in the country are slow moving. I decided that the Nicoya peninsula, in the northwestern corner of the country, might be my best option. There was a 6am bus to the southern beach towns on the peninsula and I decided I’d give it a try.

After Jonas left to meet his girlfriend at a play, I went out for another stroll down the promenade for a dinner snack. As I walked out of my hostel, I could hear the sounds of drums and chanting coming from the Hare Krishna temple across the street. They had been going strong in there, chanting, for the last 4 hours minimum. The streets were still bustling with locals. Men were yelling and cheering as they poured out of bars in football jerseys, clearly after the victory of a Costa Rica match. I grabbed a pastry stuffed with jamon and queso to eat and headed back to the hostel. I still had some travel research to do before I could get to bed.

When I finally decided to go to sleep, the hostel and area around seemed to erupt into nose. What earlier seemed like a quiet hostel, turned out to be very loud. There was a very inconsiderate British woman staying in the adjacent room with a 2 year old girl. She incessantly chattered away loudly to her daughter, banging on the walls of the room to play with her, and singing her loud songs while they showered together. The TV blared down the hall. A loud American girl arrived late to the room across the hall. And as a culmination to this cacophony, there was a fireworks show being set off about a block away followed by a loud performance of Christmas songs. I was so thankful for my earplugs which fortunately allowed me to get some rest before my 4:45 alarm went off.