The way to Chichicastenanga

Thursday, 18 February 2010

The way to Chichicastenanga

Even though my usual wake-up time is five in the morning, it felt some how ridiculously early to have the alarm go off at 6:15. Today we had hired a van to take us up towards Lake Atitlán and some nearby towns. This area was reputed to be one of the most beautiful in Guatemala. Howard had told us that the road to get there was quite windy and mountainous and potentially treacherous at times. It was vacation, so why shouldn’t we hire a driver who knows the right way there? Aren’t we here to relax anyway? The Whitehouse family jumped aboard after having a quick breakfast in the hotel restaurant.

Our first stop would be the mountain town of Chichicastenanga. It took a solid one and a half hours to reach this busy town. We drove up and then down mountainous switchback roads only to drive up and down another mountain further on. The views were rural and rustic along the way. There were shantie towns and mountainside villages. We saw men cycling to work up steep mountain roads, women walking down the shoulder of the busy highway carrying packages wrapped in bright patterned clothes with babies strapped to their backs just to add to the challenge. Some of the hill sides were partitioned into terraced geometrical farming plots. The closest place it reminded me of was the countryside of Brazil when I drove from Rio de Janeiro to the town of Buzios.

Chichicastenanga is known for its elaborate Thursday market which veritably takes over the entire town. This area of Guatemala is known for its textile production. If you come to Guatemala and want to buy woven fabrics and blankets, this is the place to do it. The narrow alleyways of this dingy town were lined with dozens upon dozens of vendors. If you just as much as made eye contact with any of them, they pretty much dragged you into their display area. “It’s okay, lady. Just have a look!” Besides the aggressive vendors, a tourist here is also plagued by children and elderly women who walk around with arms full of items. They approach with their sweet smiles and puppy dog eyes and implore you to buy one of their magnets, bracelets, scarves. Before you know it, they are unraveling reels of colorful fabric and draping it over your shoulders in hopes that you might fall so in love with the bright pattern that you will take it home. One has to admire their persistence, but it is sad to see seven year old girls selling scarves at a market instead of sitting in a classroom. We wanted to reward their work ethic and support these hard working women and children, but one simply can not buy a bracelet or trinket from everyone. Just when you’d think you had lost one of the buggers, they should show up again, flashing you with a smile and a blowing on a Mayan flute.

The streets are crowded with all walks of life. There are tourists searching for a good deal. The tourists we’ve seen here have had a more alternative look, not your average traveler or cruise-ship-goer. This place is not for the Disneyland crowd. There were Guatemalan locals who appeared to be city folk, dressed in jeans and regular western clothing, also there to shop. I saw scores of women in their colorful traditional Guatemalan/Mayan dress shopping for food at the market, sometimes while suckling a baby at the same time and dragging another child behind them. Other Guatemalans were clearly rushing through, busily on their way to and from work. I was passed by many middle-aged men, shorter than me, carrying heavy loads on their backs. They secured these baskets with a strap that wrapped around the load and looped around to their foreheads. This looked extremely uncomfortable and awkward and forced them to walk in a hunched over manner. This was a new observance for me, in other developing countries I have seen the women carry baskets on their heads, but never had I seen the men carrying items like this.

I most enjoyed the food and produce section of the market. This is where the locals came to get their food. There was an open space that seemed to be an indoor basketball court and it was filled with produce vendors. The popular items were carrots the size of baseball bats, small white onions with long green stalks, cabbage, a variety of leafy greens, and frijoles in a rainbow of colors. In other sections of the market, one could buy freshly made corn tortillas, some blue, others white, and a few filled with black beans. There was a fried chicken vendor and buckets filled with smelly dried fish. I also spotted some live chickens, turkeys and ducks and chicks to raise also. Most of the produce was sold by groups of women, sometimes three generations of women, dressed in Mayan fabrics and speaking in an ancient tongue. Their language was unique and noticeably different from Spanish. It consisted of a lot of “shh” sounds and clicking noises. The name Chichicastenango is a Mayan name.

These indigenous people did not appreciate having their photographs taken. I am not sure if they felt they were being disrespected or exploited by tourists, if they feared it would drive off business to be surrounded by tourists, or if there was an element of superstition involved. One man actually threw a bean at William while he photographed him. The colors of the produce were so vivid and the Guatemalans so beautiful, how could one not want to capture that on film? I had to be stealth when taking pictures. There was no way I was leaving this town without documentation of what I’d seen.

One of the most memorable sights we saw that day, was that of a petit and frail elderly woman begging through the market. She was carrying her adult son, strapped to her back. He was clearly severely handicapped, his feet were curled under and one eye socket was sunken shut. This poor but strong woman had probably been carrying him on her back for the last twenty-five years, why stop now? Maybe she was exploiting him for a little money, but perhaps this was her only hope to feed the two of them. Taking care of him her whole life she probably didn’t have time to work with the other women.

At one point I was approached by this adorable old woman who was 4 foot 5 inches at maximum, her back slumped over from osteoporosis. She had stacks of bright hand-woven materials stacked on her head. She held up one of her decorative pieces to show me, she wanted be to buy it for 400 quetzels. When I bargain at these kinds of markets, I’ve found a good rule of thumb to take the seller’s asking price and cut it in half and start negotiations there. I had been using this technique all day and had been quite successful even if I had to walk away from the seller multiple times to feign disinterest. I attempted this again with the adorable tiny old woman. She wasn’t budging on the price. She said it took a few months to make this piece and she needed money to eat. The sad look on her face seemed genuine. It was hard to resist her. My dad made the mistake of snapping a picture of her next to me, and she quickly ditched me to go after him for money.

The Whitehouse family cashed out at the Chichicastenanga market. We left that place with arms full of bags containing quilts, woolen blankets, table clothes, Mayan ceremonial wooden masks, traditional clothing, woven bags, jewelry and much more. The other tourists in the streets commented on our mother load. Gordon made a stop off for some Guatemalan fast at Pollo Campero while William haggled over a pair of hippie-looking patchwork pants. It was now time to pile back in the van and head to our next destination.

Another hour’s drive took us to the town of Panajachel, the main town on Lake Atitlán. The views as we made the descent into town were gorgeous. From the high elevation of the mountainside, we looked down on the blue water of the lake and the volcanoes and hills that lined the perimeter of it. The weather in Chichicastenanga was gray and overcast, but here by the lake, the sun had come out in full force.

First order of business was to stop for lunch. Our driver tried to take us to a restaurant called Casa Blanca (how fitting) that was very touristy. We declined. I tried to suggest we eat at a Pupuseria I spotted, as I still had not had my fix of pupusas. The rest of the family was not feeling in the mood for pupusas. I was sad yet again, and the menu had looked so good! For the equivalent of one dollar, we could’ve had pupusas filled with cheese, garlic, onions, beans, or pork rinds and really anything else you could have wanted.

Panajachel is a touristy town as it is located right at the beautiful lake. There was no shortage of restaurants to choose from and most of them quite empty. They all, more or less, had the same menu if it was Guatemalan food you were after. We invited our driver to join us for lunch and sat down in the open-air restaurant. Soon after we’d put our order in, we were approached by two teenage girls selling scarves and wraps in the bright Mayan color patterns. They went right up to my mom, wrapped her shoulders in a shawl, and put a bright head scarf in the form of a wrap around her head. I was laughing away watching this spectacle, but then the girls came after me and I was wearing a similar head wrap. Three younger girls saw the spectacle at hand and decided they’d see if they could sell the American tourists some more scarves. These girls no more than seven or eight years old really drove a hard bargain, but I finally got them down on their prices and bought a few scarves. Even after I made my purchase, they continued to hover around, now trying to sell bracelets or other scarf patterns. They were relentless!

After lunch, the driver took us to the shores of Lake Atitlán where we could hire a boat to explore some of the towns. After a bit of negotiation, we had our own private motorboat which would take us across the lake, behind the main volcano to a town called Santiago. It took about twenty minutes to traverse the lake. The water was a blue-green and quite calm. It felt like we were in the base of a crater when we were in the middle of the lake as there are mountains and volcanoes surrounding the lake’s circumference. I suppose that technically we were in the middle of a crater!

The town of Santiago is a small dusty town that is essentially catering to tourists. As soon as we walked off the docks, we were approached by children asking for money, men offering to give us a ride, and women selling woven blouses. We wandered through the town, which really consisted of one main street, for about an hour. The shopping items were about the same as they were in Chichicastenanga and Antigua. The pattern of the hand-woven items did differ by town though. The fabrics in Santiago were embroidered with lots of tropical birds where as other areas had flowers and so on. William and I bought some bracelets from a street side seller. Even after buying a few, the woman literally ran down the street after us to try to sell more. We climbed aboard the boat to return to Panajachel. As the man was starting the engines, a different woman, this one selling her hand-woven blouses approached the boat. Even as we had begun to pull away from the dock she was still trying to sell us the blouse, she began negotiating a price. It was a little upsetting to see her so desperately try to make a sale. It was the end of the day and perhaps her last chance at a sale.

We enjoyed more views of the lush green mountain and volcanoes on the ride back. Men were out in rustic looking wooden canoes fishing on the lake. The sun was getting low behind the mountains and beginning to create bold silhouettes. We heard that lake Atitlán is lined with many interesting towns similar to Santiago, but we didn’t have time to explore any more than one. It was already after five o’clock and we had a two and a half hour drive ahead of us. I took the long drive back to reflect on another fascinating day in Guatemala.

Dog Lovers, Freeloaders and Coffee Growers

Wednesday 17 February 2010

Dog Lovers, Freeloaders and Coffee Growers

Since we had had a few disappointing meals in Antigua, I decided to search the internet for some recommended restaurants. I happened upon Kaffee de Fernando which seemed to be the perfect breakfast nook. Gordon and I took a fifteen minute walk to find the café and meet our parents there. William, true to usual form, was still fast asleep in bed as he did not return home from a night on the town until 5 o’clock in the morning. Fernando’s is a cute café with a shady courtyard, an inquisitive cat, and an expat following. It was reported to have the best coffee in Antigua, and we had already had some damn good coffee so far. We all ordered the plato tipico for breakfast which consisted of eggs with tomatoes and onions, plantains, black beans, and fresh corn tortillas. The coffee truly was delicious; the latte was full of rich smooth milk foam. It was so good that Dad insisted on ordering another one about five minutes after he finished his double latte. Fernando’s actually makes their own coffee, roasting the beans right in the shop. Doesn’t get much fresher than that!

On the way out, Dad spotted some chocolates for sale and decided to buy a large bag to bring home as a gift. The workers had to go into the back and prepare said package. While we waited for the return of the chocolates, an older woman started a conversation with us, she was holding a coffee in one hand and a lease which attached to 5 dogs in the other hand. We all noticed across the street there was a dog on the roof of a building. Dog lady said, “Oh yea, I know that dog. His mate was just killed recently by a car. That dog is up there on the roof because now his owners have locked him up and he wants out. I told those owners they can’t be doing that!” I commented on the five dogs she was toting with her, “Are those all yours?” I wondered if she could be a dog walker. She confirmed, that yes, they were all hers and starting describing them. “See the black one? I found her in a burlap sack right across the street from here on the corner. Do you see how she is staring at the corner now? She remembers what happened! She always stares.” The floodgates on dog information were now open and the stories kept flowing. “This dog here has a heart defect, the vet said she wouldn’t make it, wouldn’t live three months, but she runs and plays all day long with no problem! It’s been three years now, still alive!” Dad inquired about another dog, “Is that a basset hound?” Crazy dog lady answered, “Oh yes, she and I have a special relationship. She I got her, she was pregnant with puppies, and she wound up delivering two dead puppies. I gave those puppies artificial respiration and I saved one of them! Never even knew how to give artificial respiration before that either, but I just did it!” When she had exhausted the subject of her dogs, she went on to tell us about her recent cataract surgery and how she had come to Guatemala in 1994. She told me that she had been here once and loved it, always wanted to come back. For the next eleven years, she claims she continued to receive signs from god that she should return, “When I would go to the post office, the woman selling me the stamps would be from Guatemala! When I bought clothes, the tag said ‘Made in Guatemala.’” Gordon later wondered why the signs hadn’t led her to some place like China instead…but I think we all know that “signs” are what we make of them. In any case, she finally left Miami and moved to Guatemala, at first as a missionary for some sort of Bible church. She’s been here every since. “My father said I was crazy for moving down here!” I wondered if he thought she was crazy for a few other reasons…

When we returned to the hotel, Gordon and I went to our room to relax a bit and our parents entered the hotel lobby. On the way in, they ran into the Canadian Dilbert man who had helped us find a restaurant on our first night in Antigua. Since meeting him, we had decided that he resembled Theodore of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Theodore was the chunky chipmunk. Turns out his name is really Howard. My parents greeted him and asked what he was doing there at the hotel, knowing that he was staying at his Spanish language school. Howard explained that he had just come from taking a swim in the hotel pool. As any person would wonder, my parents asked how he had used the pool if he was not a guest. Howard then said that he would let them in on a little secret. Howard told them that he is a professional freeloader. He is even in the process of writing a book on how to be a professional freeloader. He explained that he has found out ways to get things for free, like hotel breakfasts and amenities and that he freeloaded his way through Japan already. His trick to the free breakfast is that he will walk through the hotel corridors and look to see which room has a “Do not disturb” sign on the door and make a mental note of that room. Then when he goes to claim “his” free breakfast, he gives that room number under the assumption that these people are still sleeping and have not yet come forward for breakfast. I am not really sure if this “skill” is something that a person should brag about. Gordon’s response, when he heard the story was, “So really, he’s a professional scumbag!” Is there anyone out there who really likes a freeloader? The funny addition to the story, is that William also bumped into Howard that morning at the hotel without knowing he’d seen our parents. William was sitting out on the moped he had just rented when Howard left the hotel. They struck up a conversation and it wasn’t long before Howard was asking William for a ride home. William was hesitant to give him a ride because he was afraid the chubby little chipmunk man wouldn’t fit on the back of the bike. In the end, William did his good deed and gave the man a ride home, in essence, facilitating his freeloading ways. My only question was, “Where did he put his hands when he rode the bike with you?”

Since we’d been enjoying the local Guatemalan coffee all week, we decided we should make a visit to one of the local coffee farms. There are half a dozen right in and around Antigua and many more in the surrounding towns. We drove about 10 minutes to one called Azotea, located in the town of Jocotenango. As we were entering the plantation, we happened to meet the owner himself, a tall handsome man about 40 years old. He told us that the farm had been in his family for five generations, making coffee in the same tradition. He told us that he would like to stay and speak more, but he must return home to start cooking a meal for guests. We took two tours at the coffee farm. One was of a Guatemalan musical and ceremonial dress museum. The tour guide demonstrated the many instruments that were used for ceremonies in Guatemala, quite a few that have been around since Mayan times. In the other portion of the museum, we saw the traditional woven fabric clothes that are worn in different parts of Guatemala.

The other tour was of the actual coffee production part of the farm. I can now say that I know a bit about the stages involved in producing coffee. First, the soft bright red beans are harvested and the bean is removed. After this, comes the fermentation process. Once that is finished, the beans sit out to dry and later the parchment covering is removed. Eventually one the inner bean is exposed, it can be roasted and ground for drinking. We also walked through the rows of coffee plants. They are shorted plants, more bush like. Some had small white blossoms on them, reminiscent in look and smell of jasmine flowers. Azotea used organic means to cultivating their coffee. To get rid of pesky bugs, they would hang little vials of alcohol inside of recycled soda bottles. The bugs were attracted to the smell of alcohol, but when they entered the bottle, they would fall to the bottom which was filled with water and soap and they’d drown. We also learned that it takes about 6 pounds of harvested coffee to create one pound of roasted, useable coffee. The average worker could pick 100 pounds of coffee beans per day, and all of their beans were hand-picked. These Guatemalan workers earned $5 per 100 pounds of coffee picked. It is amazing to think of how the standard of living can differ so much in a developing country. It should make you think twice before you complain about your measly American salary.

By the time we left Azotea plantation, it was about 3 o’clock, we were starving for lunch and jittery off of tasting their coffee on an empty stomach. We stopped at one of the first open restaurants we could find on the outskirts of Antigua in a much less touristy area. There was no menu at this restaurant, but rather some wooden boards nailed to the wall which offered a few options including chicken soup, beef steak, hamburgers, and hot dogs. All I had wanted to see was a sign for pupusas, as these delicious little hand-made tortillas with cheese or pork rinds had become my favorite food in Guatemala. There was not a pupusa in sight, and I have to say I was in a serious state of despair. My family all observed that I had gone into “hunger shut-down mode.” They ordered me a vegetarian plate of beans, rice, potatoes and guacamole. It was OK, but it was no pupusa. While we ate our lunch, the man at the next table started talking to us. His name was Carlos. He was Guatemalan but was an American citizen living in White Plains, NY. He was here visiting his family for a few weeks and from the sounds of it, spending most of his time in this very restaurant drinking beer and watching football (soccer). He was very friendly and it turns out his ex-wife is a high-risk obstetrician in Westchester. Carlos looked like he may have taken a turn for the worse since the divorce, it appeared that he’d been on a week long bender as I could smell his beer stench at least three seats away. I think he needed to take a trip to the local Alcoholicos Anonimos I had seen around the corner.

We finished off our Wednesday night in Antigua with a trip back to the center of town. Gordon and I enjoyed a coffee and a chai latte along with a tiramisu at Café Barista. Then we sat down in the park across the street and enjoyed the last thirty minutes of daylight. Gordon finished his novel, and I worked on my blog. Before we knew it, it was time to meet up with William (who was off mopeding around town) and our parents for some beer. The surprise guest of the night was the German, Christian. We continued to enjoy his stories over beers at Café Bourbon. He told his why his face was so sunburned (a 12 km walk to the outskirts of Antigua in the blazing sun) and we heard more about his other interesting world travels, including India, China, and his experience on the Trans-Siberian railway. Another fun and interesting day in Guatemala was coming to an end. With Wednesday behind us, the week would fly by until we were back home. I was already starting to feel depressed at the prospect of leaving this fascinating country with gorgeous weather and returning to the cold Northeast and my eighty hour work week. Reality bites.

Nuts in Guatemala

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

Nuts in Guatemala

Tuesday morning we returned to Cookies Etc for a quick breakfast followed by a latte and wifi at Café Bourbon. The British lad, Tom, walked by as we were sipping our coffee. Antigua is the kind of small town where you continually run into the same people, for better or worse. The original plan for the day had been to drive out to some of the nearby Mayan ruins for a bit of exploration. Mom found out that the ruins would be on the way to another one of our destinations later in the week, so we decided to postpone the visit. Instead, we decided to take a drive about fifteen minutes from town to visit a macadamia nut plantation.

The nut farm was called Valhalla, and had been run for the past thirty-some years by Larry, an expat from San Francisco. When we arrived, Larry greeted us by saying, “Welcome home!” Before getting tour of the operation, we investigated on our own. The farm was set on nine acres and was a green and lush oasis in a rather dry country, or a “dust bowl” as my father described it. The farm had been divided off into different areas with actively growing plants, and then terraced sections with tables and areas for entertaining. As I sat on the swing set, my dad noticed the aluminum trailer parked a few feet way. “That trailer is some serious hippy stuff! I don’t know about that, those hippies scare me!”

When we returned to the main meeting house on the farm, the tour before us was just ending. Larry’s workers were offering some mini-facials using the macadamia nut oil. I couldn’t pass up a free facial, so I gave it a try. Larry promised that the macadamia nut oil works wonders and told his harem to put extra on William’s sunburned face. Afterwards, we sat around and started to hear Larry’s well-rehearsed life story. He grew up in the San Francisco area, “on the corner of Haight and Ashbury! Unlike Bill Clinton, I inhaled, but I didn’t smoke!” He had worked as a fire fighter until he was 34 years old. We heard a long dramatic story about his near death experience in a burning building and how the biggest man in the department pulled him up “by the scruff of my neck, like a rag doll” before he was about to fall into the inferno. Some how, he ended up in Guatemala, where he “married his mistress” and stayed ever since.

Larry told us about all of the amazing properties of macadamia nuts. He claimed that it is the nut with the highest omega fat content. He said that the macadamia nut trees are able to take more carbon pollution out of the air than any other plant or tree. He said that it is just so healthy for the body and that many cosmetic companies contact him all the time. He said, “Did you noticed how quickly the oil was absorbed from your skin during the facial? Can you imagine how it is absorbed inside the body?!” Larry went on to say, “When I moved down here, I had bad arthritis. After eating a few nuts a day, no more arthritis!!” He proclaimed this while holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers. “I used to have pre-cancer on this bowling ball head of mine, but once I started putting macadamia nut oil on there, cancer cured!” He also pointed out that the oil was good for wrinkles, “But you need to be careful! You shouldn’t just put it on your face because the face would be so wrinkle free it wouldn’t match the rest of the body. You should put it on the breasts too!”

Larry convinced us we should try some of his amazing macadamia nut pancakes, as he had received offers of matrimony from his cooking. We were ready for a snack so we ordered up a round of pancakes and some other items off the menu. Larry moved us from inside the building to one of the shady tables outside. He said that he would like to join us for the meal and continue our conversation. While waiting for the food, he continued to tell his canned stories and quirky one-liners. He shared with us his experience with bananas. He claimed that he grew the ripest sweetest bananas here in Guatemala, then flash froze them and sent them to the US for use. Apparently the US government did not accept these bananas, because there was no way something that sweet could be natural.

Finally the pancakes and food came out. I was not about to get on one knee in front of Larry, but they were quite good. The pancake batter had ground macadamia nuts in it and the pancakes themselves were topped with macadamia nut butter and his homemade blueberry jam. We also tried some papaya, banana, and pineapple topped also with granola, nut butter and blueberry jam. I washed it down with a glass of hibiscus tea. It was a pretty delicious snack and all the while we continued to hear Larry’s crazy and slightly unbelievable tales. He told us all about his views on “mutant politicians,” his experience creating hundreds of different types of macadamia trees, and how “popcorn dry farts are the privilege of an old man.” We all got a bit worried when we noticed that his stories started to repeat themselves, as if the music had run out and CD was just on repeat. It was even more suspect when he offered up macadamia nut oil facials. We had to remind him that we’d already done that. I think Larry was growing more than just macadamia nuts on his farm….

We laughed about Larry the whole way back to Antigua and into the coming days. He was a certifiable nut himself. Crazy as he was, Larry was doing some good. You had to respect his motto, “"Lets make planet earth our church, and protecting it will be our religion." Larry would give macadamia nut seedling trees to the poor, indigenous farmers so that they could also start farms and make a livelihood. He also championed for the environment and advocated for as well as practiced organic and environmentally conscious farming. He would also spread these tools to the natives. I am still beyond skeptical that macadamia nut oil is capable of anything more than perhaps just boosting good cholesterol, but who cares!

After a crazy few hours with Larry, we all came back to Antigua where we enjoyed the last few sunny hours of daylight. On the way back, we made a short stop in the town of Jocotenango which is just outside of Antigua. We parked the car on the edge of the main town square that was facing a bright orange colonial church. The locals were out in the park eating street food from the vendors. William and mom bought some freshly peeled oranges that were sprinkled with a powder made of hot spices along with ground pepitas, or pumpkin seeds. It was a random combination but quite delicious. We also sampled a thin corn soup. It was almost the consistency of watery cream of wheat and was flavored with black beans and hot sauce. There was a sweet cinnamon version of the corn soup that was treated more like a hot drink.

For dinner that night, back in Antigua, the family took a stroll around to find a decent meal. Antigua really is a touristy town so there are restaurants offering everything from bagels, to pizza and sushi. We at least wanted something Latin or Guatemalan. As time wore on and hunger set in, we were lured into a touristy joint. It was a restaurant called Las Palmas. It looked okay on the outside, but once we sat down inside, we could see that the clientele was strictly just white tourists. This surely would not be the restaurant where we’d get authentic food. As we sat looking at the menu which included Chicken Parmesan and vegetable lasagna, a crew with video equipment came through. Clearly they were filming the place for some kind of commercial or tourist video. I questioned whether we really wanted to stay or not. My dad quickly said, “No. I think we should eject now! I don’t like how that place was filled with bouffant-y old women either!”

We all giggled while we ditched our table and filed out of the restaurant. About two blocks away, we happened upon another restaurant that looked much more “local.” Besides the shrimp ceviche, the food did leave much to be desired. Dad had ordered the cream of tomato soup, and when my mom saw the owner walk into the kitchen with a can of tomato soup in hand, we knew it would be downhill from there. You can’t win them all! Although I will say, that any meal in a third world country that doesn’t give one diarrhea should probably be considered a win regardless!

To learn more about the macadamia nut farm: http://www.exvalhalla.net/aboutus.htm

Liquid Hot Magma, Hiking at Night and German Antics

Monday, 15 February 2010

Liquid Hot Magma, Hiking at Night and German Antics

After a very unsatisfying smog-filled run the day before, Gordon and I decided to try out the hotel fitness center instead. William had promised us that he’d seen a treadmill there, but we were disappointed to find out this was not true. There were a few free weights, two stationary bikes, and one elliptical machine which was falling apart. I used the free weights and quickly realized how weak I’d become. We decided to take some laps around the football field behind our resort. At 9 o’clock it was already quite hot; we didn’t last much more than a mile. Gordon and I later discussed how running around the football field gave us bad flashbacks from high school sports practice.

For breakfast, we connected with our parents at a café called Cookies Etc. Yes, they sold cookies, but also had a decent and cheap breakfast of huevos rancheros, black beans and plantains. I simply could not leave the restaurant without getting a dozen cookies in a huge variety of flavors including ginger, snicker doodle and shortbread. My dad insisted that we go a few blocks away to a café that had “the best latte” he’d had so far. It was a hip little joint called Café Bourbon which was owned by a British expat. Free internet came with the creamy latte.

After breakfast, we managed to find William, who always seems to slip away from the group. He took us to a market he had found, located inside the ruins of an old building. The vendors sold all kinds of Guatemalan goods, but mostly textiles like woven cloth, woolen blankets, pillow covers with Mayan scenes, and colorful clothing. A patchwork quilt made of different Mayan clothes caught my eye. As soon as the vendor noticed my interest, he honed in like a shark. He pulled open the quilt along with three others in different color variations. “What you like, lady? Business is business!” As I stood there expressing doubt on my face, the price of the quilt automatically started dropping. My dad came by and joined in on the bargaining. In the end, we walked away with a queen size patchwork quilt for 250 quitzels which is about $25.

Further into the market, the rest of the family was looking at the same textiles another merchant was selling. When Dad and I approached, Mom introduced us to the smiling man selling the blankets. He said, “Ah! Very special family!” He went on to comment on each of us; to Gordon he said, “You must be military, very serious face!” To me, he said, “You are pretty.” And then he turned to William and said, “You are not pretty, you ugly!” and he laughed. In no time, we heard the life story of this smiley man, Frederico. He was 42 years old and a grandfather of one so far. He was one of eight children, his mother of Mayan heritage and so for the first two years of his life, he didn’t even speak Spanish, he only spoke his mother’s Mayan dialect. His father died when he was eight years old so he was not able to go to university as he had to work to help support the family. We met his wife, eldest daughter, and two year old grandson, Vladimir. Frederico said he wanted to have “very special family” come to his home for a Mayan meal. We made plans to eat with him on Friday. He couldn’t have looked more pleased with himself.

At 2:30 that afternoon, a small tour bus came to our hotel to pick up our family along with a young British tourist named Tom. We were going to hike up one of the active volcanoes called Pacaya. On the way through town, we picked up some more tourists including two Danes, two Dutch, one German, one Norwegian, and a French-Israeli couple. For an hour and a half, we drove through the mountainous terrain until we reached the base of Pacaya volcano. We met our tour guide, Sergio, who named our group “Falcones.” There was no gradual ascent up this volcano; we were immediately hiking up steep paths covered in black volcanic ash. “Do you think we are going all the way to the top of the volcano?” my dad asked. “No way,” we all responded, it simply looked too high and far away.

Another good hour later, we realized we truly were going to be close to the summit of the volcano. On the way, we passed through clouds hugging the side of the mountain, great views of the valley below, and craters of old lava beds. We were passed by groups of tourists on mules a few times, and I think all of us felt a little envious of them, even if for a short moment. It really was a vigorous workout to get up this mountain, even for someone in decent shape like me. Near the top, the terrain changed; there was no more vegetation, just black-gray volcanic stone. We continued our hike over the sharp and jagged pumice stones. We had all been promised that we would get to see flowing lava rivers on our hike, but as the time wore on, I grew a bit skeptical. Finally, over the horizon, I could see the red-orange flicker of moving lava. We had arrived.

As I approached the molten lava, I could feel heat emanating off of the volcanic stones. People had warned us that it was possible to melt the rubber on our shoes. There was a hoard of tourists right next to the lava rivers. Many people had brought bags of marshmallows and were toasting them over the lava. It literally took less than 5 seconds for those marshmallows to be browned over the lava. The closest I got to the lava was about two to three feet and the heat was intense. I felt like the hairs on my arm were about to be singed off; looking at it was like staring into the sun. I have to say, it was pretty impressive to witness the power and strength of our earth. It boggles the mind to imagine that the lava we were seeing was coming from the core of our planet. The mind starts to wander to all kinds of dark places when looking into that lava….what it would be like to witness a real eruption of this hot magma or how terrible it would be to fall in.

It took a little while to round up the entire Falcones group so we could head down the mountain. The sun was already beginning to set and it created a beautiful silhouette of the mountains and three other volcanoes on the horizon. The smoke emanating from Pacaya was painted a pinkish color by the low-lying sun and a small sliver of moon was now starting to be visible above the volcano spiked horizon. Apparently some of the other tourists in our group had been told to bring flashlights, or torches as the Brit called it, because we would be hiking back down the mountain in darkness. The best we had to use for lights were our iPhones, but it was better than nothing. The path down the mountain was thankfully a lot less treacherous than the route up. The stars were quite impressive at that elevation with little man-made light around. It was a good time to get to know the rest of our group. Tom, the British guy, was here in Guatemala for a week of vacation after which he would enjoy a week of skiing in France and then return to Latin America to live in Belize and help build a resort on in island there. The Dutch, Danish and Norwegian were traveling together through Latin America. They were fresh out of university and had started their travels in the US, worked their way through Mexico and would end in Buenos Aires. They had one big rule, and that was that they could only travel via bus or car, no airplanes. The German man was in his forties and had also been traveling for almost two months through Latin America, his favorite had been Panama. We did not learn much about the French-Israeli couple besides that they seemed to like kissing a lot.

When we finally returned to Antigua around 8:30 that night, we decided to continue the animated conversation we’d begun with the German man, Christian. We returned to Café Bourbon for beers and food with Christian, Tom, and the two Danish boys, Rene and Martine. Christian proved to be the real entertainment of the night. He was a loud, energetic, opinionated, straight-shooter that the Dutch guys called, “a real German.” He had the ideal Aryan look that Hitler must have dreamed about, with white blond hair and bright blue eyes. We all ordered a round of Moza beers. I asked Christian how he liked it, and he said, “It’s good, I have already ordered another.” I don’t think a minute had passed since we ordered the round! On the way down the mountain, we had already gotten on the subject of fat Americans, a topic my dad and I vent about to each other all the time. Christian said, “Why does everyone in your country cover all of their food in mayonnaise, cheese and bacon?” He said, “You go to Pizza Hut where the salad bar is just an alibi. The people eat a salad there with a few pieces of lettuce, two tomatoes and cover it in those creamy sauces like thousand island or how do you call it? Blue cheese! And they think, ‘Wow, I am healthy eater!’” He went on to tell us how his daughter works at the Marriott in Düsseldorf. Christian says that he goes there sometimes to the breakfast buffet and sees the Americans, “Ah! Stuffing themselves,” he said as he mimicked shoveling food into his mouth. He pointed out how you will see the Koreans there, eating their kimchee for breakfast. “They are all so thin,” he said, “That kimchee is like the healthiest stuff ever! And Americans are eating bacon, cheese, and hash browns…my god!”

The conversation took a nosedive to the obscene when my dad said, “Kate, tell Christian about how it is to deal with fat people in your line of work…how sometimes you need an assistant to help get through their fat rolls to reach the vagina.” Christian doubled over in laughter and disgust. He said, “Oh my god! Being a gynecologist is supposed to be a man’s dream job, but I guess not the way you see it! I want to know who is making these women pregnant!” We all agreed it was shocking, but there was clearly someone for everyone! Christian said, “I have to wonder, it must smell bad down there!” Yes, he did dare to go there. I confirmed that typically the morbidly obese don’t have the best hygiene. We were laughing up a storm.

A few beers later, Christian said that he needed to ask my opinion as a specialist. He said that he has a 19 year old daughter and wondered about the HPV vaccine for her. Christian told me that he had a friend, who’s a nurse, told him about a study done on the HPV vaccine in Israel. The nurse said they chose Israel for the study because the men are all circumcised but they are as “sexually promiscuous” as Europe or America. The conversation then turned to the subject of foreskins. “My friend said that the virus is growing in the material that comes from the foreskin of a man who is not cleaning his penis. In Germany we call it ‘cheese?’ I don’t know what you call it in English.” I confirmed that we also called it cheese along with a few other things. Christian made an announcement to all of us, “I just wanted to say, I don’t have that stuff!”

The conversation about foreskins and HPV naturally led into a conversation about foreskins and HIV. For those unaware, studies have been done in Africa and found that circumcised men there are less likely to contract HIV due to the fragile nature of the foreskin. Christian said, “Well HIV is the disease of the gay man outside of Africa.” I said I agreed with him to an extent, because HIV is more easily spread via anal intercourse, but I pointed out that the HIV population growing the most now in the US is black women. I explained that this is because so many black men are incarcerated and engage in anal intercourse, but when they leave prison they return to having heterosexual intercourse with black women. Christian made a face, cringing at the idea of engaging in anal sex with another man. He said, “I guess there is just so much testosterone in jail, they don’t really care who they have sex with! Reserved English Tom pipes in, “Any hole is a goal!”

As the night went on, we learned all about Christian. His work in Germany as a roofer (or “woofer” as it sounded with his German accent), which countries in Latin America had the prettiest women, how he lives 15 minutes walking distance from the Düsseldorf airport, “Fifteen minutes valking! Yes, valking to the airport!!” Christian also informed us that Düsseldorf basically invented Carnaval celebrations. He said, forget about New Orleans Mardi Gras or Rio de Janeiro’s Carnaval, the best party was in Düsseldorf. “It is a BIG party!! I mean a big sing!” My dad wanted to know if the girls showed their breasts like they do in New Orleans. Christian said, “Yes! There is lots of drinking and lowered morals! You will have to come to Düsseldorf and see!” Christian kept us all quite entertained that night with his wild stories and outspoken character. You didn’t have to wonder what was on Christian’s mind! This is one of the big joys of traveling, meeting the unique and interesting people along the way.

Love from Guatemala

14 February 2010

Love from Guatemala

It was glorious to sleep in without waiting for the impending sound of an alarm. It was even more glorious to wake up to sunshine, warmth, and blue skies. I left William sleeping in the king size bed we were sharing and Gordon and I decided to take a little jog around town. We were a bit curious about how easy it would be to do a run considering the roads were full of obstacles in the form of cobblestones, potholes, steep curbs and lots of traffic. We set out on a run around the perimeter of the city. Let’s just say it was not one of the best runs for either of us. Between dodging all of the motorbikes and pedestrians as well as the uneven streets, it was nearly impossible to get into a running groove. Perhaps worse, was the terrible pollution. Clearly Guatemala has no air pollution and smog laws. As the cars and buses pass by, they let out plumes of black smoke from their exhausts. I felt like I was sucking on a car tailpipe while I was running. It was probably the equivalent of smoking half a pack of cigarettes but without a fun buzz. Twenty-five minutes later we had finished the loop and we were beyond starving. We reconvened with the rest of the family to rustle up some breakfast.

Out of hunger and laziness that morning, we decided to eat at the hotel breakfast buffet, very out of character for our family as my parents have always insisted we must “go out and eat authentic food.” The buffet had a good variety of American and Latin breakfast foods. I had heuvos rancheros with refried black beans, plantains, and sour cream along with a waffle, banana bread, and a tropical fruit assortment. We stuffed ourselves quite well on that buffet while sitting outside under the warm sun.

After getting cleaned up, we walked a few blocks to explore a market. On the way, my dad and I stopped for a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice sold by a girl no more than 11 years old. She seemed to take her little business quite seriously, and on top of juice, always had two choices of newspapers for sale. Not far from her stand was the entrance to the market. It was surprisingly not very touristy, most of the shoppers were Guatemalans. In this market one could find anything from bootleg CDs to fresh watermelon slices, jelly shoes, laundry detergent, bras, and video cables. The tropical fruit stands were the most interesting to me. Most sold bananas, pineapples, watermelon, mangos and papaya but a few had some mysterious fruits. One stand even offered two selections of what I think was jackfruit…you could get them fresh or literally rotten. I could actually smell the vinegar-like aroma of rotten fruit. I can’t even imagine what a person would do with that fruit.

It was also interesting to see the people in the market. There was the odd white tourist, but mostly there were Guatemalans. There were some that were clearly city folk, and others that were clearly from the country. Those of Mayan heritage wear the colorful woven prints. There was one women, definitely under 5 feet tall, who had what was probably a two year old strapped to her back, and three more little kids scurrying around her feet. It was hard to even imagine that this tiny little woman had manage to squeeze out four kids, but then again, if I have learned nothing from my short career in obstetrics so far, it is that size means nothing! I was fascinated, and happy, to see women walking around the market in public with a baby on their hips opening breastfeeding with no shame. In the US, most women hide their nursing baby under a blanket or shirt when in public. Our puritanical culture is so fearful of breasts! And furthermore, I have been shocked to see so many new mothers in the US who refuse to even try breastfeeding. Sadly, it most commonly is the poor inner city patients who tell me they are “grossed out” by the idea of breastfeeding, and well, what incentive do they have to do it when the government subsidizes formula for them via WIC. I digress here…but I was happy to see these women doing exactly what nature intended for their infants. We “sophisticated” Americans should take a lesson from them.

We decided it was time for some coffee, and so we returned to Café Barista for a few lattes. It was awesome to find out that the coffee served in Antigua is all local. Most of it is produced right outside of the city itself, if not elsewhere in Guatemala. I have tried to embrace the local food movement as much as I can at home, but coffee and tea are not things that grow in New England. I must say, I am not a coffee connoisseur most of the time, but the coffee here really is delicious. After refueling on caffeine, we explored the town of Antigua. On one sunny corner, we ran into Dilbert, the round Canadian man from the night before. He happily stopped his conversation with a young traffic guard to say hello to us. He said, “I was just hustling this nice girl.” As we went on our way, I heard him say to her, “Esta mi amigos!” Later, we happened upon a small square outside of a church painted the happiest and brightest shade of yellow you can imagine. The church must have been affiliated with some kind of home for the disabled as there was a line of people in wheelchairs sitting outside of it. There was a mix of elderly as well as younger people too who looked to be afflicted with cerebral palsy. Not a happy bunch to look at, but at least they were out in the sunlight, something has to be said for that.

Lining the square were half a dozen food vendors. There was a man making shaved-ice drinks with fruit topping, a women making pupusas, and a few vendors grilling up a variety of meats. My parents each ordered something from a different vendor and then sat down to try the variety of food. These stands seemed to be where the locals came to eat and it was seriously cheap too. Five dollars fed all three of us. After our delicious lunch, we met up with my brothers and walked some further. A few blocks from that square, we found a large church ruins behind a wall. Besides the church, there was also a market located within the walled area. We perused through some typical tourist items that cute Guatemalans implored us to by, “What you like, lady?” There was also a good variety of local food being sold there. We sampled what we thought was meat with a mole sauce, but turned out to be bananas in a mole sauce with sesame seeds on top. It was actually a tasty dessert.

Later that afternoon, we took a short siesta by the poolside. As the sun started to dip down behind the mountains, it became cool and the wind picked up. We did not linger long there after that. At any rate, it was almost time to find some where for beer and dinner. Antigua is filled with beautiful hotels located in these colonial buildings, and tucked inside each hotel is a beautiful green courtyard. We had a round of beer at one of these beautiful hotels in town. Instead of Gallo beer, I decided to try Moza, another Guatemalan brew. It was a dark bock beer that was quite delicious. We might have stayed for another round if it were not for my narcoleptic mother falling asleep in her chair. We figured it was time we kept the party moving along. We found another Guatemalan restaurant that was decorated up for Valentines Day. It seemed that they celebrated the holiday just as much as the Americans. It is still a silly Hallmark holiday if you ask me though. After stuffing ourselves on more beans, meat, plantains and beer, I was ready to call it a night again. Love to all!

Whitehouses take on Latin America

13 February 2010

Whitehouses take on Latin America

Saturday morning the Whitehouse family piled into the car and headed for Newark Airport. This would be the first time the whole family had been on a big vacation together in quite a few years. My mom had successfully planned a vacation for all of us to celebrate her 60th birthday. We arrived at the airport and I was surprised to find it even more crowded than it had been during Christmas. Between this being Presidents Week, a popular vacation time for public schools, and the recent travel cancellations due to snowy conditions, the travelers were out in full force. Luckily there were no confrontations or quarrels while waiting to check-in, clearly people were less on edge than at Christmas. After we all made it through security, we stopped by the L’Occitane store here my dad is a favorite customer, he stops there before all of his trips to China. We all got hugs from the woman who manages the store as well as free samples to take with us. Hungry for some breakfast, I said, “To hell with a diet rich in local produce, root vegetables and whole grains…give me some Mickey D’s!” I indulged the craving by ordering an Egg McMuffin, hash brown, and even a latte from McCafe which my dad promised would be “wonderful and delicious!” and made in a very sophisticated espresso machine. I have to admit, the McDonalds breakfast was quite a treat.

On the airplane, I further indulged by shelling out the $6 to Continental Airlines so that I could watch DirectTV on the way to Guatemala. I haven’t sat down and really just flipped through channels and watched TV in probably over a year. I enjoyed the Beverly Hills 90210 re-runs on the SoapNet, but at the same time, I reaffirmed to myself that there really isn’t anything good on TV anymore. With the help of mindless television to kill time, the five hour flight to Guatemala flew by. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to see who was going to win the Food Network cake baking contest show before we were landing. It is so nice to arrive in a laidback developing country where the immigration and customs are quick and easy. At last, we walked out of the airport and onto Guatemalan soil, into the sunshine and 70 degree weather. I felt a whole universe away from the snow and ice of the Northeast.

While we wandered around the outside of the airport trying to find Dollar Rental Car, about half a dozen Guatemalan’s in traditional dress walked up to where we were standing. My dad said, “Wow! Look at the little Mayan people! I don’t know what to do, I am a little intimidated!” The women were dressed in multicolored woven skirts and tops. They had babies on their backs in slings. The men also wore bright colored clothing with rancher-style hats and cowboy boots. I’m not sure if they were, in fact, of Mayan heritage, but they certainly were a small people. Their wrinkly dark-skinned faces were fascinating. I regretted that my camera was not at the ready. We were also greeted by a legless man pushing himself around on a skateboard; this seems to be a staple in all developing countries. It always makes me feel so damn guilty to see these people, yet I never give them money either. It just seems like exploitation of a disability, something about that doesn’t feel right to me.

Finally, an excited man came running up to us, holding a Dollar rental car sign. He was here to take us to get our car; the five of us piled into his small sedan. Dollar Rental car was located in a tiny little cinderblock building at a busy intersection. Thankfully, my brother, Gordon, is fluent in Spanish from living in the Dominican Republic for a year. He did all of the talking help us secure a rental car. The Guatemalans do not work with the same speed and efficiency that you find in the US or Asia. We waited a good hour to get our car. Once they finally brought it up, there was still a long process of checking every last square inch of the car exterior and interior for damage and documentation.

After what felt like an eternity of sitting in the drab cinderblock waiting room, we finally got into the car, with Gordon as our chauffer, and found our way to the road that led to Antigua, where we would spend the week. The highway to Antigua took us past every American fast-food chain one could imagine including but not limited to: Burger King, McDonalds, Dominos, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut and even Little Cesar’s. We were passed by dozens upon dozens of school buses that were decked out in colorful paint and chrome and obviously used as public transportation in Guatemala. As we continued on the 40km drive to Antigua, we passed everything from huge car dealers, to one room shanties, mongrel dogs, women with baskets on their heads, and cows chained to doorways.

The terrain was very similar to Southern California or Baja Mexico: mountainous, dusty and dry, sparse vegetation. We traversed a few mountains until we finally ended up in the valley where Antigua is located. This town has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage site for its beautiful old colonial architecture. The city would be beautiful enough with just its historic buildings, but looming over Antigua are three active volcanoes which add to the allure. After stopping to ask for directions a few times, we finally found our hotel called Soleil La Antigua. It was really more of a resort than just a hotel; it had two pools, tennis courts, and even a couple of resident parrots. There was a bit of drama over actually finding our booking when we attempted to check in. There was no reservation listed under “Whitehouse” or “Carson” (my mom’s maiden name) and my mom had, for some reason, not successfully printed out a confirmation number. Some clever hotel employee found the reservation listed under the name of “William Garson.” It ceases to amaze me how people can screw up even the easiest of last names. I can not tell you how many times have I been called Katie Whiteside, Kathy Whitehead, Dr. Whitestone, Dr. Whitehorse, Lighthouse, Whitehill, Whorehouse (OK, that was a joke), and most recently, Whitenhouse. In any case, we were not homeless in Guatemala and we settled into our rooms.

With the sun already getting low in the sky, the family set out to explore a bit of the city and get an early dinner. We were all beyond famished as our last meal was a rubbery egg biscuit on the airplane. The evening was growing slightly chilly as the sun was leaving, but with a light jacket on, one was comfortable. We walked the one mile from our resort to the center of the city. The streets along the way were lined with brightly painted stucco buildings with tiled roofs; peeking over the stucco walls, were purple and red bougainvillea. We found our way to the central square in town which was bustling with locals and tourists alike. I stood on the corner with my mom as we waited for my dad and brothers to catch up. A white man approached us and asked if we were lost and needed directions. He was a short and round man, middle-aged, wearing an Aruba t-shirt tucked into his swim trunks, with a caricature of a face out of a Dilbert cartoon. He was a Canadian living in Washington DC and spending a month in Antigua studying Spanish. The town of Antigua is known for its many Spanish language immersion schools. The Canadian not only recommended a restaurant for us to have some decent Guatemalan food, but he actually walked us there himself.

We ate a delicious meal at the recommended restaurant, called La Fonda de la Calle Real. We sampled some of the typical local foods. I had the plato typico which had black refried beans, farmer’s cheese, plantains, chille relleno, and something called a pupusa. A pupusa is a hand-made thick corn tortilla with a few different kind of fillings inside. I tried a pupusa with pork rinds inside. It was awesome! We also had a few rounds of the local brew, a beer called Gallo with a rooster logo. During dinner, the Canadian man popped his head into the restaurant to make sure that we were enjoying ourselves before he went off to the opening of another restaurant. He was invited to come to the opening to write a review which he would then submit to an English language newspaper in Japan as well as potentially write it up in French for a paper there he contributes too.

After we finally had our fill of Guatemalan food and beer, we headed back to the streets. It was Saturday night so the streets were alive with loads of people. There were parents heading home with sleeping children in their arms, tourists walking around with travel guides in one hand and ice cream cones in the other, and couples headed out to the clubs. Back at the central square, there was a lot of action including some live street music. Across from the square, we spotted Café Barista which looked like a good place to have a dessert and a coffee. Dad and Gordon had lattes fuerte and we got a piece of cheesecake and some dessert with red berries to share. The cheesecake really hit the spot as I had been on the prowl for some good cheesecake recently. This one was not quite as rich as those I have tried at home, and it had a sugary sweet top, like the top of flan. We also took advantage of free wifi at the café, Dad, Gordon, William and I all sat there on our iPhones, getting connected back with the real world. Believe it or not, we all decided we were exhausted at around 8:30 (with the time being 9:30 on our bodies) and started walking back to the hotel. Even party animal Gordon was ready for bed. With my perpetual state of exhaustion, I was happy to actually get a decent night sleep for once! Wouldn’t be vacation if I couldn’t catch up on sleep!

Fun Times at the Flughafen

24 December 2009

Fun Times at the Flughafen

My flight was scheduled to leave Frankfurt flughafen (airport) at 1100 in the morning. I had set my mobile phone alarm to wake me at 0700. I was enjoying a nice sleep in my cozy little room when the phone went off. I picked it up, looked at the phone as I always do in the morning, and saw that my friend, Dan Morrison, had called me at 0210, obviously he had not realized that I was still in Germany. I thought to myself, “Wow! I must have been really sound asleep not to have heard that phone call! How unlike me! Usually I wake to a pin drop.” I got up and began getting ready. My stomach was grumbling already; I couldn’t wait to dig into my free hotel breakfast! After showering and getting dressed, I checked the time on my mobile phone to see if I needed to rush or could take it slowly. The time read: 0245. “That can not be possible!” I thought. It then dawned on me that when Dan had called me at 0210, half asleep, I had confused the ring with my sound of my alarm. My first thought was, “Wow, I am an idiot!” The immediate next thought I had was, “But I am so hungry!! And the breakfast doesn’t start for 4 more hours!” I changed back into my pajamas and tried to get a decent sleep until the morning came.

Hotel Concorde had the best hotel breakfast I’d had all week. When I arrived downstairs to the breakfast room at just after 0800 on Christmas eve morning, I was the only soul in the place. This is unusual for hotel breakfasts. It looked as if no one had touched the buffet all morning too. Clearly everyone was heading out of the city for the holidays. I was greeted by a friendly server, “Guten morgen!” who took my order for hot tea. Despite the disgusting amount of encased meat, sugared waffles, and sweet wine I had been consuming all week, my stomach was still ready for more food! I had a smörgåsbord of fluffy pastries, fruits, jams, and cheeses at my disposal. It was my last day in Europe for who knows how long, for god sakes, I was going to indulge myself! I had chocolate croissants, pretzel rolls, quark cheese, plain croissants, bread with pumpkin seeds, yogurt, fruit salad, jams galore, honey and butter on bread. After all of this, I even contemplated trying the apple and cream cake with vanilla bean sauce, but I knew I would regret this later.





I brought my keys up to the front desk. The man said, “Going back home to America?” I confirmed this was the case. He reassured me that the chaos at the Frankfurt flughafen was since resolved. He asked if I enjoyed my time in Germany, to which I of course responded emphatically, “Yes!” I told him I had been supporting the German economy by shopping all week at the Weihnachtsmarkt and showed him the huge duffel bag I was now dragging around with me. After wishing each other a “Frohe Weihnachten” I was on my way to the train station!

I had stashed away just enough Euros to be able to catch the S-Bahn train to the flughafen. I think the only people that were also out and about on Christmas Eve morning were the other travelers. The subway car was filled with other people dragging large suitcases. I imagined all of the places they may be heading for the holidays: catching a bit of sun in the Canary Islands, rendezvousing with a lover à Paris, back home to the English countryside to see the family. I was happy to be heading home to see my own loved ones. As much as I adore traveling and being in new places, its always a comfort to return home.

In under 15 minutes, I was already at the airport! I juggled three large bags as I tried to get out of the subway car without knocking out any of the other passengers. They were probably thinking, “What a silly American! Look how she over packed!” They didn’t understand that my dad had sent me on a mission to buy up every last tchotchke across Germany. I found the Continental check-in area with ease and was pleasantly surprised to find the Frankfurt flughafen functioning much more peacefully than the Newark flughafen had been a week ago. I expected the level of travel anxiety to be inversely proportional to the time left until Christmas. Thankfully, no one was pushing or shoving, I did not see anyone popping Xanax or breathing into a paper bag to treat hyperventilation. Travel anxiety must be an American thing!

As I made my way to the security checkpoint to enter my terminal, I was happy to also find that there were no long queues or irate airport personnel. I don’t know when I have seen a security line so short! For this being the largest airport in continental Europe, it was a breeze to navigate through. As I passed through the metal detector barefoot, the security woman asked me where I was from. I told her “New York” which is my usual response abroad as most people overseas have not heard of New Jersey, or now, Connecticut. She said, “New York!! I like your socks, they have glitter in them!”

As I walked through Frankfurt flughafen I passed not one, but two, yes, two, men on bicycles. No, they weren’t Tour de France hopefuls transporting their $20,000 bike to the check-in gate. These were airport employees who were navigating the biggest airport in Europe by bicycle. They were not delicate gentlemen either, but burly men of hearty German stock. And the bikes on which they rode were hard to take seriously as they were clearly too small for these large men with child-sized wheels. I had never seen anything like this! Not even in Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport and I thought the Dutch were really crazy for bikes. As silly as it looked, you have to hand it to the Germans for this healthy, green and economic practice. In the US, the airport employees lazily ride around on golf carts. Here, these men were getting around with the same speed but all the while burning calories and adding no additional cost to the airport! Some greedy lawyer would probably have a field day if we began doing this at home. First of all, there would have to all kinds of helmets and safety gear involved. All we’d need was one fall, one passenger getting a toe run over or some gear grease on their designer jeans and it would all end. I applaud the Germans and am jealous that our uptight country would never be able to accommodate such an idea as simple and great as using bikes to traverse large airports.

I found my gate in a fairly quiet wing of the airport. There certainly was no airport chaos today; I was pleasantly surprised at the travel conditions on Christmas Eve. Once at the gate, I overheard another American ask where the first class lounge was located. It then dawned on me that as an Elite passenger (thanks to my dad’s status), I too could spend the last hour in Germany eating fresh fruit and mixing gin & tonics in the airline’s lounge! The man at the Continental gate told me I should have no problem getting in to the Lufthansa lounge and so I wasted no time heading for it. There was a tall man in a suit playing the bouncer outside the elevators to the Lufthansa lounge. I showed him my ticket and he said, "I’m sorry, but this is Econo class. You can not come in." I went on to point out how on the ticket it said I was an "elite" passenger and was assured I was allowed in. He insisted that I must have some sort of card proving that I am truly "elite." I continued my attempt at sweet talking him. At last he said, "I let you in this time, but next time I do NOT allow it!"

Up in the Lufthansa lounge, I first helped myself to free internet connection. Next, I perused the food bar. I have to say, I have experienced better lounges, particularly with All Nippon Air and China Air, but this one was decent. I had some fruit and tea. Considered one of the breakfast paninis but decided I would just be eating for the sake of eating. I grabbed a bunch of newspapers for the flight: The International Herald Tribune (aka New York Times when abroad), The Independent (UK), and Le Monde (French paper). I had barely opened the first one when they made an overhead call for my flight back to Newark.

My elite status helped me to be able to board the plane along with the first class passengers at the beginning. As I handed by boarding card to the man at the gate, he looked at it and said, "Whitehouse!" (which sounded more like Vitehaus) and then turned to his colleague and said something in German. It could only mean one of two things, either I was being apprehended and sent back for full body cavity search, or I was being upgraded. He finally turned to me and said, "Would you like to be upgraded to business class?" Emphatically I said, "Yes!" After a few clicks on the computer keyboard, I was transformed from one of the masses to one of the privileged.

I happily settled into my oversized leather chair in the second row on the plane. I had enough leg room for two sets of legs, in fact my short little sticks couldn’t even reach the seat in front of me when fully extended! The man next to me was in the same predicament, happily upgraded. It seemed that the overbooked flight worked out in our favor. My seat companion was on his way back from Afghanistan where he works for one of those agencies that got contracts in Afghanistan. He seemed pretty exhausted, understandably. When in Afghanistan, he gets a 40 person security detail and wears a Kevlar vest. And I thought my job was stressful!

The nine hour flight back to New Jersey sailed by! I think I spent half of that time just eating! We started off with hot towels, followed by warm salted almonds. For a starter, I had a lamb kebab, a seafood puffed pastry, and a demi-tasse of cream of mushroom soup. Next up, was a salad with almonds, cherries, and cheese. For my main course, I chose halibut and shrimp with spinach, eaten with some good German butter and pretzel rolls. The cheese course came next which I had with large purple grapes, washed down with port wine. Dessert was a choice of a sundae made to order, but I went for the assortment of parfaits. It seemed as if I had barely digested my large meal when they started bringing freshly baked white chocolate chip cookies through the aisles.

I passed the hours by finishing the novel I’d been working on for weeks. Then I finished all of the magazines I’d taken from the Lufthansa lounge. I hadn’t been this up-to-date on current events in months! I love how the European papers don’t sensationalize everything as much as the American ones do. I was shocked to read about the atrocious theft of the "Arbeit macht frei" sign from the entrance to Auschwitz. The British paper, The Independent, had a fun Christmas section with some interesting bits of info from around the world, filled with British humour:
The North American Aerospace Defence Command will be tracking Santa’s journey around the globe using Google Earth; kids can get Twitter updates. (Do our tax dollars pay for this?)
In Cyprus, as is an illegal custom, people would be killing and eating migratory robins for dinner. That just seems wrong, and honestly, how much meat can you even get off of one of those tiny birds?
In Prague, anti-Santa activitists burned a Santa figurine outdoors. They said, “We hope that one day this country will be void of Santa…Santa is trivial.”
In Britian, Santa got bad publicity in the British Medical Journal; the journal reckons that Santa is a bad role model for children. After all, he is obese, doesn’t exercise, and “his red face can be attributed to all those glasses of sherry he knocks back on his journey.” Dr. Nathan Grills also “strongly suspects that as dawn approaches on Christmas Day, Santa must be drunk in charge of a sleigh. And even before the day itself, there are also those kisses he receives from children, which threaten to spread disease.” Leave it to the field of medicine to take the fun out of everything!! In Edinburgh, a reindeer called Eskimo “will be able to join in reindeer games for the first time after having a trapped testicle removed by keyhole surgery. The condition, which he had from birth, impeded his flow of testosterone. This made him very submissive and caused other reindeer to bully him. The vet who performed the surgery called it, “A great advancement in veterinary surgery.”
Back in the USA, in the classy state of Tennessee, a man robbed a bank dressed as Santa. He justified it by saying that, “Santa needs to pay his elves.” A drunk girl was arrested in Indianapolis after ripping of a Santa’s fake beard. “Had it been real, he could have joined the 300-strong Fraternal Order of Real Bearded Santas, formed last year after a splot within the Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas.” Check out their website at: http://www.forbsantas.org/ As an added treat, here is a picture of the Orange Country, California branch of the group, having fun at a beach BBQ. Only in California…



Before I knew it, I was being served my last meal in business class on fine china. The last warm hand towel was wiped across my face. Pretty soon we were hovering over Newark Airport. From above, I could see all of New Jersey covered in a thick layer of white snow. New York City glistened on the horizon. It’s fabulous to travel, but it is always great to come home, especially for the holidays! Merry Christmas!