Chic Voyage

Greece: Ladies Traveling Solo - Wear a Fake Wedding Band, Hold Your Head Up High and Lock it Up!

2010-12-01T17:21:00.000-08:00

There has truly been only one single moment in my life where I felt I was in imminent danger. Our journey to Greece via the ferry and the encounter I had on that train never came close to trying to hail a cab after a late night in a San Francisco Mission District bar or a 3:00 a.m. subway ride in New York City with my friend back to her apartment in Washington Heights New Year’s Eve. Never even a close encounter with a mugger. Wherever I traveled, I held my own. Even if I was completely lost and couldn’t find where I was on the map, I’d dodge into a café to figure it out. I never let my ulnerability show.

They say that you truly get to know someone while traveling with them; I believe in this statement. Instead of the proverbial coffee or dinner and movie as a first date, I wish I could have traveled abroad with every guy I dated. I would have gotten to know their true selves immediately. Either the best or the worst comes out of people while displaced in a foreign country. Same rings true for my sister and I. The worst in her was she played the Mother/Commander in Chief role: she always had guard of our passports, Eurail tickets, money and itinerary and never let me touch. She curbed my enthusiasm after dinners to head to the bars and meet some boys and was the bugle boy alarm clock to get up super early (we never wasted a minute of daylight) to sight see. The worst in me? My inability to shut my yapper. Whether it was mumbling along to any Spice Girl song on my walkman during long train rides (annoying, for sure) or as we moved on to southern Europe, my natural tendency to yelp back at any machismo muck who threw out comments like “Ciao Bella.”, “You lovely American yeah?” “What hotel are you staying at? I have a couch you could sleep on.”

I would jokingly scoff back with “Are you kidding me? Please.” “As if!” or “Gimme a break!” This annoyed my sister immensely. She would scold me and lecture “Erika, you’re in their country now, you must abide by their customs and culture, grow up and deal with it.”

“I’m sorry, (cough, cough) ‘culture’ did you say?” I questioned and began the heated debate “You call sexual harassment culture? I won’t stand for it!” This was the 90’s, the dawn of sexual harassment in the work place and the height of political correctness. Don’t we all remember the mandatory sexual harassment learning seminars? Male employees were told to not even comment on a female co-workers appearance or else they might get canned. Remember the movie Disclosure with Demi Moore and Michael Douglas? Didn’t that just scare the bejesus outta ya? In hindsight, far too extreme and a bit too much. I was actually flattered if some male co-worker complimented me on
how nice I looked that day, harmless stuff. Looking back, I missed out on a few opportunities to hook up with some rather handsome, male-coworkers.

With her natural mothering tendencies which were far more extreme than my own mother ever was, she warned me for the last time “Look, we’re only in Italy and on our way to Greece and then Spain, it’s only going to get worst from this point on.” Then she reprimanded me “So you better learn to
deal and lock it up.”

“No, you lock it up!” I bitched back.

“NO. YOU! Lock it up!!!”

I exhaled with frustration and I didn’t want something silly like this to ruin the rest of our trip. “OK. I’m done. I’ll deal with it.” ‘Mom’ I muttered under my breath.

We spent one day in Florence before heading down south to Brindisi to catch the ferry to Greece. After viewing the marvelous Il Duomo Cathedral, Ponte Vecchio Bridge and Campanile Bell Tower we’d browse the street stalls, looking for Versace scarves and other Italian high fashion designer
handbag rip offs.

By the time we made it to Brindisi we had the entire day to waste. Brindisi is a port town, not much there to do. We got our passports stamped for entry to Greece and meandered around. Nothing to view but signs selling tickets to Greece. Eventually we sat on some rocks near the ocean. We
grabbed some cheese, bread, green olives, pistachios and a bottle of red wine, our backpacker on a budget dinner for the late 10:00 p.m. ferry departure. The ferry just happened to be titled Erika. How auspicious I thought; surely a sign of good sailing ahead, in a cabin below the deck, the size of a closet, with no window and two tiny bunk beds.

Upon arrival in Patras, Greece the next morning, we had breakfast and coffee and made hotel arrangements for Athens. We walked to the train station en route to Athens. The hotel manager that my sister spoke to over the phone assured us the train ride was approximately 2-4 hours and we’d
arrive in Athens early evening.

We sat on the platform waiting, me enjoying an iced coffee and my sister reading a book. An eerie man kept pacing the tracks, occasionally looking at me. He didn’t appear to be Greek or Italian, Armenian I thought. During the 1990’s there was an influx of Armenians throughout Italy, Greece and
Turkey seeking escape from the violence and ethnic cleansing from the Balkan War.

Nothing against Armenians, but the guy was creepy and started to get on my nerves. He would stand right in front of me, staring, leering. Eventually, I had had enough and assumed my sister would understand that I deserved to counterattack after biting my tongue for so long. I jokingly said to him “YOU think you’re going to get with THIS?” and ran my hand up and down my body (clad in shorts and a tank) and laughed, rolling my eyes.

We boarded the train, second class carriage and stashed our backpacks on the racks above. Our ‘friend’ joined our carriage and sat opposite me. For the next four hours he sat there, head turned to me, glaring with sexually suggestive, and intensely threatening, crude look in his yes. He never, ever, once, turned his head or blinked an eye. I refused to let him get the better of me. I sat there reading my book, Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’ Diary, looking out the window or closing my eyes for a nap. Luckily for me, I never had to get up once to go to the toilet, I was afraid to move. Though I never flinched, inside this guy had a stranglehold on my confidence and my fear began to heighten. I then
truly regretted the crass remark I made to him back on the platform. I didn’t realize I had taken it that far and pissed the guy off, total regret and felt horrible that I might have gotten my sister and I in real trouble.

Our train ride had passed the 4 hour mark. He did get up about 6 or 7 times to head to the bar. He’d come back with a beer to drink, but still kept his eye on me and getting increasingly intoxicated. Or, he’d grab a smoke in between the carriages (this was allowed) but he would stand there, still staring at me through the glass window. When he was absent, my sister and I whispered about the problem and what to do. We were told this would be a 4 hour train ride max, it was nighttime and we were traveling through the countryside, nowhere close to Athens. Our particular carriage was full of Greeks and neither of us had a chance at asking for help because no one would understand English. I told my sister I was going to walk up and down the carriages to try and find a group of Americans or Canadians to sit with us; anyone actually who might speak English and could understand our problem.

After several searches up and down the train I found a group of young male and female Australians. I shared our dilemma and asked if they wouldn’t mind if we joined them. They were super outgoing and understanding and welcomed us. I came back to grab my sister and we breathed a sigh of relief and partook in the laughter and fun that only a group of Australians can provide. They are the best of both worlds, the U.S. and Britain: friendly and outgoing and a lot of fun to pub crawl with and take the piss out of (British slang for making fun of someone).

At 11:30 p.m., barely midnight our train arrived in Athens. We all gathered our backpacks and disembarked. The Australians asked us which hotel we were staying at and offered to escort us here. I looked back at the empty train, all the lights were on and the conductor was walking through. All but one passenger remained. Our ‘friend’, was passed out drunk with his head slumped against the window. ‘God let’s hurry up and get outta here’ I thought to myself.

Unfortunately, the train conductor woke him up. Dazed and for an instant, confused of his own whereabouts, he stood up and looked around the train and then outside the window and spotted us. We all began walking to our respective hotels which were both nearby. The man had the nerve to follow our group. My fear turned to anger. I couldn’t believe this guy had the nerve to continue his ridiculous hunt. I confided in one guy that this was the man who had been harassing us.

Finally, after 10 minutes of walking, this strapping, husky, Aussie guy launched back threatengly, with his fist up and shouted “Enough! Now leave us alone mate!” Yeah! YEAH!!! ‘Get a wolly dog up ya arse’ (Australian slang for fuck off!). He turned around and left us alone.

Lesson learned, I mean, I got it, I really, really got it. My sister was right, thanks ‘Mom’. That lesson was like a nail pounded in to my head with a hammer. Ignore it, don’t give them the pleasure and move on. Truthfully? All of it is in jest and mostly harmless fun and it is part of the male culture in some European countries. The wiser woman ignores it and moves on and they do too. Since then, I’ve never, ever yelped back at any European male who made such comments. Over time, I confess, they were slightly flattering. In my thirties, while traveling Italy I remember one such comment from a stranger “Hello. Where are you from? Are you a student in university?”

“No. I’m not.” I smiled and moved on. ‘Wow.’ I thought admiringly of myself. Someone thinks I’m young enough to be a college student! Hmmm, 32 years old and still rockin’ it!

London, UK: Congrats to Wills and Kate and Remembering the Late Princess Di

2010-11-28T15:42:00.000-08:00

I wrote this personal journal essay back in August 1997 while I was living and working abroad in London. The announcement of the engagement of Prince William to Kate Middleton sparked my memory of the late Princess Diana. I resurrected it because not only am I thrilled to witness what will be my second royal wedding (likely over the TV unless friend and I can gather the loot to get there) just like the memory of watching Charles and Di wed back when I was 8 years old, at 3am in the morning, glued to the television, mesmerized.I am also cautious that not all relationships stand the test of time as I’ve learned in my years. We expect the solidarity between best friends, family and spouses to endure forever…sadly, some don’t.

It’s also a warning to the media and relentless paparazzi to please, respect these two people. Now more than ever our lives, especially those of public figures and celebrities are hounded by media of all types; the respected and the disputable. I’d like to live to see my first royal coronation someday.

31 August 1997

I am absolutely gutted. I'm not a Briton, and I really don't think I'm a Royalist.

I was deep asleep in my bedsit in London and my phone rings. It was my sister. When I heard her voice an immediate shiver went through my body. I began to worry. Why is she calling me long distance at 4a.m. all the way across the Atlantic? She actually gave me a fright and my stomach became queasy. I began to worry that someone died or was in an accident. Why else would she call me in the middle of the night?

"Erika, have you heard the news?" She asked.

"No. Wait what news?" I replied.

"Erika, Princess Diana was in a car accident in Paris and Erika, she's dead."

I laughed "Come on your joking. No. That can't be true"

"Erika I woke you up at 4 a.m. I'm not joking turn on the TV there has to be news coverage over there."

"No. There’s no TV on at 4a.m.” I informed her. “It can't be true"

I turned on the television, and on all four channels, live coverage from Paris. My sister and I sat there on a long distance telephone call costing her quarters by the minute and we never spoke a word. She watched her news in the US and I watched mine. We were both silent. Finally, after 20 minutes of dead silence I said "I need to go now. I’m going to cry".

I was in a total state of shock. I was wide awake for the rest of the morning. I did my normal Sunday routine. I had a cup of coffee and took a bath, although, I really didn't know what to do with myself. I decided to walk down to Camden Town. Walking down Camden Road listening to Oasis on my Walkman ear deafeningly loud to try and shut out the sites and noises of passersby whom at a glance didn't seem to care or be affected by the tragic news of that morning. However, most people had a worn down and disconcerted appearance.

I didn't have a plan, I was just wandering aimlessly. I went and bought a double cheddar and onion chutney sandwich at Prêt-a- Manger, salt and vinegar crisps and a slice of passion cake. That was my comfort food, sort of my pathetic homage to Princess Di. On the way home I stopped by and bought a bouquet of pink roses to add to the white daisies I just happened to treat myself to the day before. I came home, sat myself down in front of the TV and turned the channel to BBC Channel 1 and cried, turned to BBC Channel 2 and sobbed, turned to ITV and finally BBC Channel 4, and moaned.

There were no other channels so I stayed tuned to Channel 4 and continued to weep. I just couldn't believe it. This is a world-wide event. I watched a tearful Prime Minister Blair, shaking while he spoke his words of condolences. President Bill Clinton expressed his regrets. Henry Kissinger stated 'The world is suffering the loss of a great humanitarian.' Nelson Mandela described her as the 'best ambassador Britain ever had'. All of them seemed to hint disgust towards the very media that interviewed them; was it the vicious invasion and fox hunt of the paparazzi that eventually killed her? I watched as every major world leader, politician, philanthropist, entertainer, and celebrity spoke of their sadness. There were people of all races, genders, economic and social backgrounds, occupations and nationalities overflowing with deep expressions of shock, sadness and real anger.

I slept for most of the afternoon and went to bed early. I woke up an hour earlier Monday morning so I could have time to walk by Buckingham Palace on my way to my temp job for that week, which happened to be nearby. I gathered my bouquet of roses and daisies. A Monday morning tube ride was more somber than usual. People appeared to look like zombies. Obviously, in grief for reasons other than the dreaded work week. People hid of behind their daily paper of choice. They all blasted the headline "DIANA IS DEAD", words that didn't make sense seen together. Occasionally, I’d lift my head up and glance at someone, anyone, male or female, and I’d catch a slight tear in their eye.

I stopped off at Green Park station and walked through the Green Park towards Buckingham Palace. I passed the TV crews set up outside the Palace. I wanted to spit at them. It was you guys who killed Diana and here you are exploiting here in her earthly absence.I felt incredibly self conscious about standing there in front of the cameras to lay down my flowers but I just felt obliged to do something. Of course I never met Princess Diana, nor did I ever catch a glimpse of her. This even isn't my homeland! I was a bit hesitant and shy about approaching the large crowd of people paying their respects, but a bobby came up to me and guided me to where I could lay my flowers down and pay my respects.

I really didn't know what to do. I just stood there for a couple of minutes and gathered in the sight and particularly the smell. Every sort of flower stacked up like a mountain against the palace gates. There were grand bouquets and simple arrangements like mine. All of them mixed with lit candles; an incense indescribable, a sort of melancholy potpourri.

I was still a bit dazed. This slime ball camera man came right up in front of me and zoomed into this teddy bear with a card, obviously from a child with a message that read 'Diana - we love you and miss you, you're in heaven now.' A blue collar, cockney-like, man stood next to me. He wasn’t exactly the type you would imagine would have such a link with a glamorous woman such as Di. He told this obnoxious camera man in his cockney accent that he might get out of the way and leave us alone. He kept on zooming around with his camera focused on these personal messages and tokens of heartfelt affection. A bobby came up to him and suggested that he should leave and let people grieve in peace. He didn’t budge, just kept buzzing around with his camera moving in and around and barging in front of other mourners. The bobby came up to him again and asked him to leave. He didn't. The cockney man behind me, in a tearful, crackled voice yelled "She told you to leave mate, now leave!"

I began to walk over to Victoria station where I was to begin a temp job for that week at a cosmetics company. Luckily it was just data entry and I could just sit there and get lost in the numbers. Of course the usual office gossip began to brew up amongst these vain, catty women. "My mother just rang. She told me that the driver of the limousine was drunk!"

"My boyfriend’s law firm says there's a conspiracy theory buzzing around his office"

"Oh God, figures! I bet Diana was snorting coke too! What a joke, I mean she really didn't do anything. People are treating her like she was some sort of a saint"

"Oh right darling. Sorry Di, but some of us have to work for a living."

"Well ladies, I suppose we were never an office full of royalists."

No I thought to myself, you’re an office full of spiteful, bitchy cows!!!

I didn't say a word all day. I came back home and continued to cry while I watched the news and decided I was not going back to that job the next day. I called the temp agency and told them I was out. I soon realized that I was in a bizarre state of mourning and depression. I just had to express this. Whether or not some people were consciously aware of it, we all shared this strangely intimate, media molded bond with her.

When the news of the state funeral was announced it was not difficult to make the decision to join the few million predicted to crowd the streets of London for her funeral procession. My friend Andy tried to dissuade me, throwing at me theories of crowd mentality gone out of control. Somehow though, I managed to persuade him and his wife to go with me. I spent the night on their living room couch, and we all got up at 2 a.m. to start our journey to downtown London.

We set up camp on the South Carriage Drive, which is a road alongside Hyde Park, right near Kensington Palace. Soon enough hundreds of people started to gather. It was a gorgeous sunny morning. The dew glistened off the grass the air smelled fresh. We fed the ducks and geese left over doughnuts. There was even a tea/coffee stand set up with complimentary cuppa's for everyone. We sat next to an older woman and her son. She offered us part of her blanket to sit on, which was kind.

We were starting to have fun. Sharing jokes and chatting with people, eating, drinking coffee. Nicola asked me if I was going to cry. And we both agreed that we had pretty much gotten it out of our system throughout the week and that we were feeling emotionally stable. Andy thought otherwise and said that he would stand in between us so when we started breaking down in sobs we would each have a shoulder to cry on.

Soon enough the already somber and hushed crowd became silent. The funeral procession was about to begin. We were right next to Kensington Palace, so we caught the very beginning of the procession and they were not to meet up with the Royal Family until they approached Buckingham Palace. It was a very surreal moment. All I managed to tune into were the bells of Westminster that chimed every minute and the clip clop sound of the horse's hooves against the pavement. Everyone kept their focus straight ahead of them. Everyone in synchronicity turned their heads to watch the carriage approach. You knew the carriage was approaching because of the domino effect of sobs that grew louder and louder. I watched as the cortege pass by me.

It was not the coffin draped with the royal flag, the lily of the valley flowers, or even the card with the word Mummy written on it that made me break out in tears and sobs. It was the one horse that I noticed had no rider; the soldier-less horse. Ceremony and symbolism usually reserved for military heroes and statesmen. So Andy was right after all. Both Nicola and I turned in towards him and sobbed. If there was any person on this earth that I dreamed of meeting, or even catching a glimpse of, it was Diana. And in a truly sick and ironic way my wish came true.

I grew up with her. I remember at age nine my mom woke me up at 2 a.m. so I could watch the wedding live on TV. As a kid, being up that early in the morning was like stepping into a different world. It was dark outside, everyone else in the house was asleep and I sat in front of the TV glued. I thought to myself ‘wow, what a strange world, they talk too funny and look so old fashioned. Those buildings look like fairy tales, not like here.’

And although her life was played out on a much grander stage than my own, I truly felt similarities and a connection to her. She was a 'girlie' girl. Like most of us women, with childhood dreams of being a ballerina, Hollywood actress or a princess. Then she was a young woman. Like me, maybe she often felt insecure about being labeled as just a 'princess' and not much more. She was stereotyped and pressured by highly influential people to play that archetypal role; marry your 'prince’ the perfect man, breed the 'heir to the throne' that will be your only contribution in your life. Oh, and keep your mouth shut too, proper ladies don’t speak unless asked to.

Although she was literally a princess, the Princess of Wales, HRH, Her Royal Highness, I believe that she saw herself as something more than just that cliché. She was a woman, like me, a real woman. She made mistakes, and she had her weaknesses. She fell to vulnerability, yet made the choice to rise above it. We women understand that and accept that. Aren't we women are so egocentric in thinking that the world revolves around us (rightly so I say) and we feel that we are the only nutty ones in the world who have locked themselves in our bedrooms with a box of cookies, a pint of chocolate fudge swirl and sobbed to ourselves that we must be the only freaky, uncontrollable, overly emotional' people on the planet who:

• didn't cut it as a ballerina
• got dumped
• devoted half her life to a man who just used her
• thought she looked incredibly frumpy and fat in that dress
• nurtured and sacrificed for her children who then they grew apart from needing her
• got divorced and found themselves in the circumstance of fending for yourself
• spent hours at the gym in pursuit of those illusive 18" thighs
• felt criticized and put down for simply speaking their mind

No doubt about it I applaud her for her humanitarian efforts. Everyone has to give her at least that. But why I felt a bond with her is because when you put aside the HRH, the Princess of Wales, The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, The Most Photographed Woman on the Planet, she allowed herself to be human. She had the courage to express herself, her truth, her foibles, weaknesses and downfalls and the message that came across to me and I assume lot of women was 'Hey, I've been there, done that. I've felt less than perfect; you're not the only one you know. You don't know how many times I've tripped over my tiara darling and I'm the bloody Princess of Wales!'

That's what she meant to me. She was my peer. She was the only woman, the only person of my generation with whom I made a connection with. I admired her and respected her. Dare I make this comparison but she is my ideal of a feminist: unique and complex, feminine and at times weak but incredibly strong. As my role model she never let me down and I in return have always stood up for her.

I remember back in November 96' drinking at the Rat & Parrot pub with my then British boyfriend Jon and all his boisterous mates. I met Jon at my first temp job in London. He was a financial headhunter and I was the office receptionist. He was a bit pudgy, ‘four eyes’ from his thick glasses. But he possessed that quintessential British charm that was like two cubes of sugar and cream that melted my cuppa tea if you catch my drift ladies. Each time he recruited an investment banker he bought himself a Thomas Pink tie. He took me to rugby games, port wine and stilton cheese tastings, walks along the River Thames and all things British. He grew up in Durham, was an Oxford choir boy and he bragged how his father was the Vicar of Durham. One morning I transferred a call to him and he asked “And what accent are we sporting this morning?”

“I’m sporting an American accent, Pacific Northwest region. It’s fluid, eloquent and not crass like a New Yorker, the perfect accessory for the winter season.”

Co-workers jokingly referred to him as the ‘dark horse’, the racehorse that you never expected to be the first to cross the line and win the affections of the young, Yankee receptionist. He later turned in to be a cad. Many weekend nights he bailed on me while being dragged to the pubs then late night members only clubs with his mates, dropped out of a weekend trip to Paris and I ended up going alone. Easter holiday weekend he bailed on me when he promised to take me to the Cambridge/Oxford boat races. Exhausted after months of endless letdowns I called and left a message on his answering machine. After minutes or ratting him out I ended with “You know, you may be the son of a vicar, but you’re a real son of a bitch to me” and slammed the phone. Done. That’s how we American girls roll!

Back at the pub that November, his mates began to grill me "So Erika come on, tell us, how do you like England?"

"I'm certainly glad I crossed the Pond!" I replied.

"What do you think of the Monarchy?" they all asked.

"God save the Queen!" I shouted and raised my pint. I gathered instant applause for that remark.

"Don't tell us you like the Spice Girlies!"

"Oh God no, they’re tacky, tacky, tacky!" OK. I confess I lied about that. How many times did I find myself in a karaoke bar singing “So tell me what you want, what you really really want, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really wanna zigazig ha.”

"What do you think of...Diana?"

With enthusiasm I said "I absolutely admire Diana, I really respect her." A unanimous uproar of ‘Oh bloody Hell, no!’ occurred.

"WHAT?! Are you insane!?” they shouted at me.

"You must be joking!'"

"She's a weeping, wailing, emotionally volatile woman."

"She's a disgrace to the monarchy; she's out to destroy it!"

I stood up for Di and stood by my opinion. I remarked "Well, that is your opinion, but however you feel about her you have to admit you respect this woman for traipsing through land mines and war torn fields of Bosnia, and cradling the crippled with AIDS and leprosy when no one would even touch them. Or simply walking down the street with 5,000 cameras shoved in your face and at all times maintaining your grace and dignity. You have to at least give her that."

An immediate and rare, dead silence rolled over the rowdy pub. With a look of disregard on his face, Jon replied "Well, whatever luv. Hey, do you want another pint?"

“Sure.” I sighed but smiled affectionately.

I guess it’s a 'girlie thing', but I’m going to miss her terribly.

Asia: Bhutan

2010-02-27T12:03:00.000-08:00

I remember the sights of Bhutan
Vibrant red poinsettias
Endless green mountainsides
Stair stepped rice terraces
Sacred golden temples and majestic Dzongs
108 white prayer flags scattered on a hill
And homes adorned with bright colorful artwork- Showing the joy and culture of this land.

I remember the sounds of Bhutan.
Quiet, Blessed Quiet.
Roosters crowing at dawn
Schoolchildren yelling “Bye, Bye!”
A Granny calling us to her temple
Chants- which open the heart
And the frantic yet harmonic music
At the Temple of the Divine Madman.

I remember the tastes of Bhutan
Spicy pumpkin curry soup
Nutty, robust red rice
Sweet apples- just picked that morning
Surprise chocolates at Tigers Nest
And mostly- chilies, red fiery chilies
Hot, hot, hot.

I remember the smells of Bhutan
Pure, fresh air
Incense in the Temples
Smoky fires ready to make tea
Sweet wildflowers sprinkled along our path
And the pungent smell of chilies
Baking on the hot tin roofs.

But Mostly…
I remember the people of Bhutan
The sweetness of the young monks
The joy in the children’s faces
The smiles and helping hands from Ongdi, Tsetn and Ugen
Sangay’s great love and knowledge of his country.
And my Bhutanese Guardian Angel- Kinley.
Showing me the heart and soul of this land
While making me feel safe every step of the way.

I remember Bhutan
With gratitude and joy.

Poet: S. Enderle

Vistas: Turban Dressing, Meharangh Fort, Jodphur, India

2010-02-22T14:55:00.001-08:00

Mangia: Peruvian Chicken

2010-02-19T22:14:00.000-08:00

So yummy. Served at a local café in Cusco, it had me coming back for more (3 times).

1 whole chicken (about 4 pounds)
4 tablespoons white vinegar
3 tablespoons white wine
3 tablespoons canola oil
2 1/2 tablespoons garlic powder
2 tablespoons paprika
1 1/2 tablespoons cumin
2 teaspoons black pepper
1 teaspoon salt
juice of 1 lemon
1 quart cold water

Preparation:

Combine vinegar, wine, oil with garlic powder, cumin, paprika, black pepper, and salt. Mix well to form a paste. Add lemon juice to cold water. Trim chicken of any excess or loose fat. Wash chicken thoroughly with lemon water. Place chicken in zip-top bag. Pour spice paste over chicken. Coat chicken completely with mixture rubbing into every surface. Try to get the paste under the skin as much as possible.
Seal bag and place chicken in refrigerator for at least 2 hours. The chicken will have more flavor the longer it "marinates" in the spice mixture. Do not refrigerator more than 24 hours however.

Preheat grill and prepare rotisserie. Place chicken on rotisserie and on the grill for approximately 1 1/2 hours at a temperature around 300 degrees F. (150 degrees C.) Test chicken for doneness by measure in the temperature in the thickest part of the thigh. Chicken is done at 165 degrees F. (75 degrees C.).

This chicken is frequently served with dipping sauce. A simple version of this sauce is made from combining 1/2 cup of mayonnaise with 2 tablespoons mustard and 2 tablespoons lime juice.

Vistas: Katch That Kandy!, Karnival, Koln, Germany

2010-02-08T19:42:00.000-08:00

Bali: I'm Gonna Wash That Funk Right Off Of My Body

2010-02-05T22:36:00.000-08:00

I’m gonna wash that funk right off of my body
I’m gonna wash that funk right off of my body
I’m gonna wash that funk right off of my body
And sent it on its way

Whenever I travel there are certain activities I like to experience around the world. They are (in no order of preference) horseback riding, wine tasting and spa indulgences. Bali is known for its spa remedies. Mind you, I travel on a budget and with a curious mind so I opted out of spa treatments at the more luxurious hotels; I wanted a more authentic experience. By chance, strolling down the street from my hotel I happened upon Body Works, a true Balinese Spa. They are an independent spa just up from Jl. Dhyana Pura.

The day before my flight out of Bali I decided to treat myself to a true Balinese spa treatment and popped in to enquire about their services. One treatment sounded particularly enticing to me, the ‘Javenese Lulur.’ The treatment begins with an hour long Balinese massage. Then, the entire body is painted in a brown, granular paste (the traditional Javanese lulur), containing turmeric, sandalwood, cinnamon, ground nuts and rice. The paste is then gently rubbed to exfoliate the skin. After a quick shower, cool, fresh, yoghurt is splashed, then smoothed over the skin. The yoghurt’s enzymes stimulate cell activity and restore PH balance of the skin, which feels as soft as silk as soon as the yoghurt is washed away. The final step involves luxuriating in a fragrant, warm, flower filled bath. For $25 USD? George Washington rocks! I walked in to Body Works and found them to be friendly and laid back. They asked me if I wanted a massage. I said “Tidak saya glee.” (No, I’m not ticklish). Body Works has a reception area at the front and 9 small private rooms located behind. Each room has a bed with a bath.

A young, very young, masseuse, guided me to one of their rooms and in a language I clearly don’t’ understand, instructed me to take it all off (she couldn’t have been older than age 19.) Take it ALL off, right in front of her (no private dressing rooms, no towel to cover up). Memories of a young girl came back to me; undressing in the girls locker room in Jr. High flooded me where I escaped to the girl’s locker room to change in to my gym shorts flooded me. I was a modest young woman growing up but I had to (and did) get over it! She wasn’t going anywhere. “When in Rome Erika…when in Rome,” so I undressed completely in front of her eyes. Completely undressed I was ready to go. “Get over yourself” I thought and I did and it was Heaven.

Body Works spas services are divided into Massages, (which include Full Body Massage, Exfoliation Massage, Thai Massage, Shiatzu Massage, Aromatherapy Massage, Back Massage, Foot Massage), Hair Treatments (which include Creambath, L'oreal Spa Creambath, Hair Coloring, Highlighting, Eyelash / Eyebrow tinting, Shaving), Facial (which includes Sari Ayu Facial, Biokos Seaweed Facial, Biokos Aloe Vera Facial, New-Bio-Lifting Facial), Waxing (which includes Bikini, Brazilian, Half Leg, Full Leg, Lip & Eyebrow, Underarm, Back Waxing, Chest Waxing), Natural Nail Care (which includes Bodyworks Manicure, French Manicure, Flower Manicure, Sports Manicure, Polish Manicure, Polish Change, Bodyworks Pedicure, French Pedicure, Flower Predicure, Sports Pedicure

A sample selection of prices are as follows: Full Body Massage (1 hour) 139,000rp), Highlighting (short hair) 309,000rp, Biokos Seaweed Facial (1 hour) 115,000rp, Bikini Waxing 55,000rp, Sports Manicure 60,000rp.

Body Works has another location on Jl. Kayu Jati, the small lane that runs between Jl. Oberoi and Jl. Petitenget. They open from 9am-10pm.

Bodyworks Jl. Seminyak (0361) 730454Bodyworks Jl. Kayu Jati (0361) 733317
Jl. Raya Seminyak No. 63, Seminyak
Kuta, Bali
Tel/Fax: (0361) 730454

Jl. Kayu Jati No. 2, Petitenget
Kuta, Bali
Tel/Fax: (0361) 733317

Buenos Aires: Tango Forever

2010-02-05T21:05:00.001-08:00

Passion. Passion is just not fire, ambition and fireworks, passion can be so subtle it can be found in everyday life. Passion has such an intensity to the definition, an exuberance, however, I think it is really simple. Passion doesn’t only exist when times are high and the feast is huge and the wine is flowing. Passion is a feeling for life, whatever the circumstances; the conflicts, despair, loss, wants. It’s about finding the beauty, sensuality and the electricitiy to reignite your spirit in the everday life. I discovered passion during my trip to Argentina, a country that’s been burgeoning with passion since it’s very existence, in good times and bad. Like stopping by a gas station you can refuel your passion (for less dollars these days I'm sure) through the dance of tango. In a bar, on the dancefloor, in the living room or on the street. Tango. Tango forever.

Photo: Couple dancing the Tango on the streets of Buenos Aires.

Peru: The Power Of Now (Part I)

2010-02-01T23:11:00.000-08:00

Before embarking on a trip I always wonder what the outcome may bring. What might I learn, experience or discover? When under a different tilt of the earth’s axis what will the sun shed light on? When I return home will I view myself and the world differently? I discovered I did indeed possess an outdoorsy side after Australia and New Zealand. India made me appreciate my female right to speak my mind and freedom to walk in front, side by side or without a man. London ignited the power of a dapper Saville Row suit with matching handbag and shoes.

To aid in these discoveries I’d bring along a book to read on long flights, train rides, lay-overs and T.V.-less hotel rooms. For France, I read Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary. In India, Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure by Sarah McDonald and in Costa Rica, Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. For Peru, I brought along a book titled The Power of Now: A Guide To Spiritual Enlightenment by Eckhart Tolle. Perhaps I could enlighten myself spiritually (much needed) while enduring the cross country bus journeys and the week-long camping and horse trek through the Peruvian Andes, sleeping under the stars in a tent.

Months prior to my trip I visited my family and during Saturday morning coffee my Dad confronted me. “I’m really worried about you” he said. I resisted rolling my eyes back. I’ve had these dialogues many times before and expected a parental sermon on the state of my 401K, who’s doing my taxes this year or how diversified my mutual funds are.

“I’m fine Dad. I am putting the max I’m allowed per paycheck in to my 401K and the company matches dollar per dollar.”

“No that’s not what I’m talking about. Are you really going to take this trip?”

“Of course I am! It’s all planned out, flight is booked. I’m ready to go.” I chuckled.

“No, Erika, I’m being very serious here. I’m worried about you because you’re acting out of character and when someone you love is acting out of character, talking about doing things out of the ordinary, you begin to worry about them.”

“Dad! Come on! I’m not on drugs or pregnant! I’m talking about taking a horseback riding trip! Nothing could be more in character. You know me. I’ve loved horses since I was 5 years old. You were there when I first rode a horse. In fact, you were right behind my horse teasing it to go faster while I was yelling for dear life! And I’ve loved it ever since.”

“Yes, I appreciate that. I’m talking about the camping aspect of this trip. This is so out of character for you. You’ve never camped a day in your life. Do you realize what you’re getting yourself in to? Where are you going to go to the bathroom at night?”

“Well, they didn’t exactly highlight bathroom needs in the brochure but I assume I’ll just head off somewhere in private, out in nature.” I chuckled again, in vain, because a part of me knew my Dad had a strong argument. If he was a betting man he would have pooled his entire retirement savings on me not surviving this camping trip. For him, the odds were too damn good that I would bail at the thought of a squat and potty amidst nature. If I were a betting woman, I would have known that a warm chicken salad sandwich (heavy on the mayo) bought from a street side café and consumed on a hot, Sunday afternoon in the town of Cusco, Peru, is a bet NOT to take a chance on.

Story to be continued in Part II...

Vistas: Horse n' Buggy, Seville, Spain

2010-01-30T23:21:00.000-08:00

Mangia! Florentine Frittelles

2010-01-27T15:07:00.000-08:00

The Italians have a way of making anything sound sexy. Toilets to us are ‘tolettas’ to them. Holy crap to us is ‘schifezza santa’ to them. And doughnuts to us are ‘frittelles’ to them. Frittelles is a traditional Florentine pastry specially made for Carnival. They’re a perfect nourishment to keep your energy up and appetite curbed while you navigate the maddening crowds of party goers in the canal city of Venice. They taste quite yummy (or ‘squisito’) with a Bellini cocktail as well!

To feed a multitude, you will need:

1 3/4 cup rice (cheap rice is best here)
1 quart milk
The zest of one lemon
3-4 Tablespoons sugar
A walnut-sized chunk of sweet butter
3 eggs
1 jigger of rum or sweet wine (the recipe calls for rum, but try Vinsanto)
4/5 cup flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
Oil for frying
Confectioner's sugar
Simmer the rice in the milk until it's quite done, then stir in the sugar, lemon zest, and butter and let the mixture cool.

Separate the eggs and whip the whites to soft peaks. Stir the yolks and the rum or wine into the rice mixture, then fold in the egg whites, flour and baking powder. Drop the batter a teaspoon at a time into hot oil and fry the frittelle until they are a rich golden brown. Drain them on absorbent paper, and when they have cooled dust them with confectioner's sugar.

Vistas: Candi Dasa Footprints, Bali, Indonesia

2010-01-25T14:33:00.001-08:00

Par Avion: Florence, Italy

2010-01-24T22:07:00.000-08:00

Postcards with an edge sent from around the world. "Ciao! Acceta la carte di credito (do you accept credit cards?) These have been the only words to come out of our mouths since we have been in this outstandingly STUNNING city of Firenze! We're downing our third cappucino of the day. Payed homage to the espresso nirvana of the universe. We are not worthy of Italy! Took a long siesta after shopping, a bottle of chianti, gorgeous pasta, espresso with biscotti (dipped in desert wine). If we ever got ran over by a moped you would see handbags, scarves, jewelry all flying out of our hands! We are not worthy of Tuscanny. Love, your bambino"

Postcard of: Brunelleschi's Dome, Cathedral of Florence, Italy

Casa e Città: Cheerful Window Shutters, Arles, France

2010-01-18T13:59:00.000-08:00

Vistas: Elephant's Watering Hole, Tarangire, Tanzania

2010-01-17T21:09:00.000-08:00

Take Action: Haiti Earthquake

2010-01-15T22:35:00.000-08:00

There are two different types of tragedies one might face in this world. Ones that are beyond our control (acts of God, forces of nature) and ones that are completely within our control (ignorance, hate) if we choose to change them.

The 7.3 earthquake that struck Haiti on January 12, 2010, resulted in the loss of an estimated 50-100,000 lives and the potential for more loss due to the logistic challenges posed from such a catastrophic event (water supplies, sanitation, and supplies distribution). It’s a tragedy beyond our control that no on one on this earth could have ever foreseen. The other tragedy is the disgustingly dim-witted remark that ‘televangelist’ Pat Robertson made on the 700 Club http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/01/13/pat-robertson-haiti-curse_n_422099.html in stating that Haiti has been “cursed” by a “pact to the devil.” That a long time ago, while under the heel of the French (Napoleon III, he presumes) the Haitians gathered together and swore a pact to the devil if Beelzebub released them from the oppression of the French. True story (so Pat says). For any of us who have lost or witnessed the suffering of a loved one from any tragedy statements like that must feel like an evil curse. No one deserves this.

I am more than aware of the predicaments that many of us find ourselves in (unemployment, ill health, disability, financial shortcomings, emotional upsets) and the reasons we might make to forgo on helping out with aid of any kind (aid isn’t just dollars it can be clothes, volunteerism, blankets, shoes). I received a bit of a shock myself in that this week my property agent sent out a notice saying that if any tenants chose to make a donation to the Red Cross towards Haiti earthquake relief efforts that they would match any donation made. So no excuses, if the landlord can cough up than so can I.

Here are ways you can help...

• Donate $10 by texting “HAITI” to 9-0-9-9-9
• Visit http://www.redcross.org/ or call 1-800-RED-CROSS
• Volunteer for the American Red Cross, please contact your local chapter
• Check with your employer, church, property management to enquire about matching donations

Some tragedies we can turn around so when the rubble begins to clear in Haiti then perhaps, God willing of course, we can band together again and purchase Saint Robertson a first class airplane ticket to the 21st century.

Vistas: Play Me a Song, You're the Accordion Man, San Telmo, Buenos Aires, Argentina

2010-01-11T23:50:00.000-08:00

Mangia: English Brekky

2010-01-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

My cooking skills remain debatable within some circles but there’s one meal I can easily whip up and that is an authentic English breakfast. I won’t bother rehashing what you can find on the Internet. Instead, I’ll recite the recipe from memories of helping make this simple, quick and hearty dish every morning while in lock up over the New Year weekend in a cottage outside Oxford. Don’t worry about measurements and specifications; the beauty in this brekky is that any tosser can make it while emerging out of their late Saturday night pub crawl coma.

Ingredients:
2-3 cups mushrooms
1 tin of baked beans
2 tomatoes
½ cup orange juice
3-4 rashers (i.e.: Canadian bacon)
2 bangers (i.e.: sausage)
2 eggs
4 slices bread
cooking oil
butter

1.) Turn the oven on to broil.
2.) Slice a cup or two of mushrooms, set aside for now.
3.) Pour a couple tbs. of cooking oil in frying pan and place under low to medium heat on the stovetop, place the rashers in the pan.
4.) In a separate stirring pan pour the baked beans and simmer on low heat.
5.) In yet another stirring pan, drop in 2 tbs. butter and simmer on low to medium heat. Toss the sliced mushrooms in, periodically stirring until they’re light brown.
6.) Slice tomatoes in half, place on an oven dish and lightly drizzle cooking oil over the tops. Place the tomatoes in the oven under the broiler. Not sure for how long but keep an eye on them! You want them to be grilled, juicy and the skin slightly crisp.
7.) Pop bread in the toaster; get the kettle going.
8.) Flip the rashers over and crack two eggs to fry sunny side up.
9.) Toss in a half cup of orange juice in to the mushroom pan (yes, OJ!). Stir and sprinkle in some salt and pepper.

A cup of Earl Grey or English Breakfast tea goes great, steep and drop in a few cubes sugar and milk. Throw it all on a plate and slop on whatever condiments you like (HP sauce, mmm!)

Venice: Hey, if I Like It, Why Should I Put a Ring On It?

2010-01-08T23:59:00.000-08:00

It’s the oldest trick in the women traveling solo guidebook; wear a fake wedding band on your left ring finger to avoid unnecessary passes from men. That is if they spot a wedding band on your hand (signaling you are spoken for) then out of respect they won’t harass you. But, hey, if I actually like it, why should I put a ring on it (exception made for the 14K white gold, green amethyst and diamond accent ring that now dons my left ring finger).

There was a time long ago that any mention of me traveling solo to a lust filled, machismo driven country like, say, Italy, would heed loved ones warning me to wear a fake wedding band on my left hand. Years ago I was driven to return to Italy, on my own, to fulfill my desire to visit Venice, the city of canals. “Are you still thinking of going to Italy, alone?” Overly concerned, loved ones would ask.
“Definitely!” I replied.

“Oh…are you sure? It might be quite dangerous to go alone. The men can be quite persistent and we worry about you being harassed all the time. You should buy a fake wedding ring to wear on your finger. We just want you to be safe.”

Prior to my trip I stopped by Nordstrom’s to purchase a cubic zirconium ring. Stashed it in my suitcase and upon arrival in Italy donned it on my finger. I wandered the canal, watery city on my own, day and night. One chillingly cold evening in late December I found myself as on a crowded vaporetto. Vaporettos are basically the public transportation system for Venice. These boats navigate this water locked city as there are no cars, buses, taxis, not even a street light. I sat there nudged in between older women donning their furs, well dressed professionals and well, a boatload (no pun intended) of young, dark, chiseled, handsome Northern Italian sailors. I glanced down at the imposter ring on my finger, halfheartedly reassuring myself that I was OK because I was taken.

I recalled earlier memories of traveling Southern Italy with my sister where we were bombarded by the minute by men constantly courting “Ciao bella” smack smack, kiss kiss they’d leer. We got in some pretty contentious arguments the two of us. I was appalled and more so, annoyed by their lack of manners. I’d quip back “Please, give me a break!” “Oh brother” “As if!” rolling my eyes. My sister would bark at me, “Look, you’re traveling in their country now. You have to respect their culture, stop getting in to such a huff about it. When in Rome…do as the Romans” she’d scold me.

“Yeah, when in Rome do as the Romans but that doesn’t mean I have to DO a Roman! They’re being rude and disrespectful!”

I peeked up again to see if any lonely sailors lost at sea were checking me out for some possible maritime good times. Nothing. Not one single sailor glanced my way that evening.

I disembarked the vaporetto and returned to my hotel. Standing in front of the mirror in my room I did a once over. I reassured myself that albeit I was no Sophia Loren I was still young and fairly attractive but my God, if I can’t get one nod from a boatload of Italian sailors then something might be terribly wrong. I removed the fake wedding ring from my finger and stored it back in my suitcase reassured that I had kept the receipt to return it once I got back home.

The following day young, handsome male passersby remarked “Ciao, bella…where are you from?” “Are you a university student?” “Where are you going?” “Are you lost” “Would you like to share a cup of coffee?” I breathed a small sigh of relief. Everything is right in the world again.

Par Avion: Khajuraho, India

2010-01-05T21:53:00.000-08:00

Postcards with an edge sent from around the world.
"There's an old Hindu saying that wherever there is woman, God is worshipped and I find that sooooo groovy!!! What a great ending to my trip. 15 temples dedicated to the power of women!!! Beautiful, smart, creative, voluptous, playful, women! Loved it."

Postcard of: The Khajuraho Temples, Khajuraho, India, Devi Jagadamb Temple, 10th Century

Inspiration: Seek Your Joy

2010-01-04T23:10:00.001-08:00

"One cannot divine nore forecast the conditions that will make happiness; one only stumbles upon them by chance, in a lucky hour, at the world's end somewhere."

Will Cather

Photo: Zanzibar, Tanzania

Vistas: Path to Basilica San Biago, Montepulciano, Italy

2010-01-01T14:02:00.000-08:00

New Decade, New Year, New Paths...

Vistas: Lone Llama, Peruvian Andes

2009-12-28T00:10:00.001-08:00

I Left My Heart...in San Francisco

2009-12-27T17:26:00.000-08:00

‘…high on a hill, it calls to me. To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars and the morning fog will chill the air’

With an opening like that I assume you know where I'm going with this. I left my heart in San Francisco. No I didn't. I never really have to be quite honest. I Left My Heart my mother would croon along with Tony Bennett. Barefooted, I stood on top of her feet my arms clinging around her waist as she led me in a waltz around the kitchen floor. She would be the man and lead, I the Lady and if I held her close enough she would teach me how to dance properly. Dinner was already made, the table set, my older siblings watching TV, we were just waiting for Dad to come home. The meal preheating in the oven ruminated warmth not only around the house but between my mother and myself. The two of us waltzing, swinging and bossanova-ing to whatever hit was currently playing on the oldies station. The dial was always tuned to the oldies and when I say oldies I mean the Golden Oldies! Doris Day's Que sera, sera! Whatever will be will be!', Judy Garland's 'Clang clang clang went the trolley, ding ding ding went the bell, zing zing zing went my heartstrings for the moment I saw him I fell' and Petula Clark's 'When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go...Downtown.'

My mother would sentimentally reminisce about how she once lived in San Francisco. She moved there after college at the ripe young age of twenty. Originally from Colorado, her military family parents thought it the best opportunity if she left Travis Air Base where they were currently residing in California and move to Tiburon with her grandparents. Tiburon back in the late 1950's was desolate, nothing but a railroad pier and the small white church, St. Hilary’s that stood alone on the hill. She soon crossed the bay for the city and moved into a women-only residence hotel atop Nob Hill, kitty corner to the Fairmount and Mark Hopkins hotels. She met my father at a church youth group at St. Mark's Lutheran (still standing on the corner of Geary and Franklin); a church that not only survived the great quake of 1906 but the 1988 one as well. This church social group was just a cover though, this young gang spent more time at wacky Luau parties in Pac Heights, cruising Chinatown’s Grant Street in topless convertibles and swinging it Tiki style around the floating band at the Tonga Room than faithfully studying the pages of the Bible. She was employed as a telephone operator and rode the trolley to work every morning to the Pacific Bell building. Her wardrobe consisted of a few skirt suits, all machine sewn and tailored herself. She swore to me that no woman ever dare step out in public without her white gloves, pearls, pillbox hat and 3" heels. As we swayed and hummed together to the music she'd occasionally break out of her trance to gaze down at me and with a sigh full whisper remark "How drastically different times are for you today in comparison."

Many rainy Saturday afternoons I spent parked on the couch mesmerized watching such flicks as Funny Face, April in Paris and My Fair Lady. If by chance left alone (and strictly forbidden to!) I'd sneak into my parent’s bedroom to dig through my mom's attic to try on her skirt suits, hats, gloves and pearls. I'd prop myself on the dresser and pose in front of the mirror practicing my glamour look; a saucy smile, toss of the head and sideways glance. Now, if I spent my early childhood waltzing to the golden oldies, watching Doris Day flicks and playing dress up you can only imagine the fantastical image I dreamed up in my head of what my adult life would be. What would it be like? Well, it would be city sophistication of course darling! Soon enough, I would embark on a 'Roman Holiday' of my own and escape the clutches of suburbia, off to the big city!

Yet the confines of home and suburbia were harder to un-cling myself from than imagined. Lying down on the backyard lawn, my eyes closed to the partially hidden Oregon sun, I daydreamed that somewhere the grass is surely greener than the perfectly manicured turf I was lofting upon. Growing up I was the youngest of four, ridiculously shy and very dependent upon my parents. This baby bird had an incredibly difficult time flying the nest. Whether it was an overnight grade school slumber party or living in a college dormitory, leaving home was emotionally, very difficult for me. Reflecting back I knew I had lived a safe and sheltered adolescence but it proved to be a stumbling block later in my life. It would take much courage and strength for me to one day hit the pavement of the big city.

Regardless of my fears of the unknown world, baby steps grew in to adulthood bounds. Soon after college I caught a chronic case of the travel bug. The disease had me in its grips for over a decade. I’m healthy now but go into remission once a year for three weeks. It all started out with a nine month backpacking jaunt through Europe. My first destination across the pond was to live with my brother in Germany who was working on his doctorate at the time. His air mattress became my home. Dortmund, this quaint Northern German town was my big city training ground and unbeknownst to me my brother was a mad professor who only encouraged my illness. He taught me to study train tables, decipher subway maps, change currency, taste wine, hold my knife and fork properly, order a cup of coffee in any language and navigate myself through muddled, twisting, medieval streets. Soon, those worn and faded maps ended up stuffed in my backpack as I actually willed myself to get lost (it’s the best way to find yourself). I spent the next year and a half working in London and traveling all around Europe having the best time of my life, city sophistication ‘luv’. The following years my sickness lured me to any country whose customs authorities would stamp me in despite my debilitating disease: Asia, Australia, New Zealand, South and Central America, Africa and India.

I chose to settle down in San Francisco because I had to. I wanted to move to New York but was petrified of living with five others in a rat infested studio apartment dining on canned spaghetti! Los Angeles was out of the question knowing I could never pass the tanning and silicon requirements required for entry. My time spent traveling and working abroad had not even satiated that big city, chic, worldly sophisticate fantasy of mine and I wasn’t going to let go of it! I learned a lot from experiencing cultures different from my own, like an appreciation for the simple things in life; shared meals and meaningful conversation, afternoon strolls down the boulevard greeting your neighbors, the beauty of sprawling about the park watching the world slowly go by. I could return home to Portland or...? I chose San Francisco.

On paper, San Francisco had everything I supposedly needed. Big city sophistication compacted into a 14 sq. mile radius: funky beatnik coffee shops, quaint boutiques, art nouveau newsstands, hip bars, restaurants, wine country, a hilly, Mediterranean landscape of sun washed pastel buildings and a diverse and forward minded group of people. However, for some reason my heart just wasn’t in to it. A lot of times, it seemed like the only green grass that people really cared about in San Francisco was the weed. I came to San Francisco wearing a flower in my hair that soon wilted. Instead of peace, love and happiness what I discovered was extraordinarily overpriced rentals and the infiltration of smug, materialistic dot comers who all prophesized they were leading the world into the new e-conomy. Turf wars between Pac Heights elite, Marina snobs, Mission Hipsters and Castro Partiers who refused to let anyone crash in on the fun. I shuddered at the thought of ever bridge and tunneling it to the East Bay, oh the horror! The only spot that reassured me that I belonged here was whenever I passed Vesuvio Café in Northbeach. The Beatnik haunt with a gaudily painted bar sign that reads ‘We’re itching to get away from Portland, Oregon.’ I knew exactly what they meant. For far too many years I always reassured myself that in times of boredom, indecision or unhappiness the grass is always greener so I spent the next few years living half-heartedly in San Francisco, with one foot out the door and a suitcase always packed.

Tony Bennett’s poignant ode I Left My Heart doesn’t resonate with me as it does so romantically with others as I’ve left my heart scattered about in so many countries, couches, bedrooms, bed-sits, hotels, hostels, houses, studios, apartments, attics and airports. After spending most of my adult life in geographical angst I just settled on San Francisco. How horrible of me to say that I settled for such a world class beaut of a city. However, I had finally reached a point of rooting in my life, whether I liked it or not. I forced myself to realize that the greenest grass is the lawn in my mind, because wherever you are, there you are.

Sure, my heart has not always been in it but I have learned to open up my heart up. Celebrating Chinese New Year buying insanely cheap orchids, $3 dim sum, dipping into divey bars with Buddhist altars lit with incense. Or, what I thought was my first maiden voyage around the bay ending up laboriously helping sail a boat around Alcatraz Island in pouring rain and 40 mph winds. Try spending a Saturday afternoon in the Western Addition giggling with the girls while taking a pole and lap dancing class instructed by a former stripper. Lastly, packing a picnic of bread, cheese and Chardonnay and sprawling about Huntington Park in front of Grace Cathedral. If I use my imagination it is just like being at Notre Dame in Paris!

My experience living here in San Francisco is not that unsimiliar to my Mother's over fifty years ago. I live in a tiny, Victorian apartment in Nob Hill only a few blocks away from the women’s hotel my mother used to live in (now a residence for the elderly). My apartment building used to be a hotel back in the Barbary Coast days and survived the 1906 earthquake as well as St. Mark's did. I don’t own a car and ride the California Street trolley to and from my work every day. Most women go without dressing up these days but I love to! Be it my favorite hot pink, snakeskin, 3" stiletto heels, a French toile, empire, pleated dress or my favorite hat, a gaucho beret I brought back from Buenos Aires.

Spring and spring cleaning came early this year. I went through all my storage and pulled out the few vintage garments my mother managed to hold on to. She passed them along to me last Christmas in Portland where we spent a cold and blurry afternoon indoors browsing through photos of her back in the day, back in San Francisco. Inspired by the nostalgia she pulled out of the attic closet a few items to pass onto me. I was giddy. I chose her pair of white, wrist length, navy-polka dotted gloves and wore them all weekend long. My siblings, niece and nephews all thought I was a loon but I felt like I had been transported back in to a time of grace, style and fun! I told my Mom that come Spring I was going to wear these gloves and bring back the trend of being a lady. She laughed at me, rolled her eyes and said “Not even old ladies like me wear gloves... that time has gone and past. It will never be again.”

I kept my promise. Last February, running the usual 12 minutes late to work I threw on my classic trench coat, grabbed my purse and ran out the door. Skillfully skidding down California Street in 3” heels I gracefully jumped onto the ledge of the passing cable car, clutching the rails with my white, navy-polka dotted gloves. The morning fog hazed my view of the financial district and bay beyond. I live where I live because San Francisco is the mediator city for me. It feeds my fantasy of city sophistication whilst only being an hour and twenty minute plane ride away from my true home and family in Portland, Oregon.

Vacaciones? Nicaragua

2009-12-26T17:05:00.000-08:00

A Caribbean queen's hidden treasure: Nicaragua. If you feel your gold coins have been looted by Wall Street pirates, have no fear, Nicaragua is the X mark on the world map of where to find treasure in blissful beaches, tiny islands, and a pleasing exchange rate for these rough economic times. The Eastern Coast boasts of white, sandy beaches and turquoise waters while Northern Nicaragua offers lowlands dotted with volcanoes (some still active).
Managua International Airport is the country’s major hub served by the following airlines: Aerocaribbean, American Airlines and Atlantic Airways. Both Big and Little Corn Islands on the Caribbean coast offer the most spectacular, unspoiled and isolated beaches fringed with coconut palms and blazing orange and violet sunsets. To get there you’ll want to catch a puddle flight off the mainland. There are no roads on the islands and the pace is unhurried and peaceful. Sip a refreshing cerveza and drift off to the wind bristling through the palm trees and the gentle waves lapping up to shore.

Where to stay:
Casa Canada http://www.casa-canada.com/.
Hotel Los Delfines http://www.hotellosdelfines.com/

Where to eat:
Anastasia’s on the Sea http://www.cornislandsparadise.com/
Ensueños http://www.ensuenos-littlecornisland/

If sun and surf starts to tire you or you see a buccaneer’s ship on the ocean’s horizon you can flee north to the lush, tropical mountains of Matagalpa where a cool climate and great hospitality awaits you. It even boasts the countries best cup of coffee, the Matagalpa roast. Matagalpa’s most luxurious lodge, the Selva Negra Mountain Resort welcomes you with private porches and spectacular views. The lodge offers nearly 1,500 acres of hiking trails filled with howler monkeys, ocelots, 125 species of birds and an array of 85 species of orchids.

Selva Negra Mountain Resort http://www.selvanegra.com/.
Nicaragua isn’t sprawling with five star resorts or boutiques (not as of yet) but you will find fantastic meals and beachfront rooms to fit your travel budget. If you’re looking to escape from the city crowds to a private destination undiscovered by most savvy travelers then your treasure awaits you.