Jet Vignettes

Le Cercueil (“The Coffin”) Bar, Brussels, Belgium

2012-10-31T11:09:00.000-07:00

Drinking beer out of skulls and setting your beer down on a glass-topped coffin with a skeleton inside. Fluorescent lights that turn white to purple and sinister bathroom doors. A small, almost obscure doorway opening to a dark, narrow hallway leading you inside - this bar was made for Halloween.

Le Cercueil (“The Coffin”) in Brussels, Belgium has been parked on a side street off the Grand Place for eons, and it is definitely the tourist trap you read about. But, one beer couldn’t hurt, just for the experience of it all. My flight attendant friend and I ordered up some Belgian Barbãr beers - “The Warrior’s Reward” beer - which were promptly poured into skulls. Tiny place, so we made friends, some Brits out celebrating.

The bathroom door, with a big headed, minatory skull vacantly staring back at me, made me miss the universal placard of June Cleaver (with devil horns, no less), but I did notice the pink ribbon on the hat and was pretty sure that meant the women’s restroom. I guess I wasn’t the only one confused since a woman came out of the men’s restroom as I exited the women’s, all flustered when she saw me, which just as well could be chalked up to those potent Belgian beers.

Kyoko and the Sushi Master Tokyo, Japan

2012-10-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

When you have to make your way anywhere in downtown Tokyo, by yourself, and do not speak or read Japanese, it feels in that moment that nothing greater will ever test your independent travel mettle the same way. That was exactly my overwhelming feeling trying to find the restaurant Funibashiya, prefecture Shinjuku, downtown Tokyo.

On my way to the well-known Tsunahachi restaurant, housed in a building pre-WWII, I had my subway map, the name of the restaurant and address in Western and Japanese characters, and had to only travel two subway stops. How hard could it be? Very hard from the get go I discovered as I tried to buy my subway ticket at the machine for the Manarouchi line. Even in English, I could not find Manarouchi. As I struggled to explain this to the subway station attendant, I heard the utmost angelic voice say in flawless English, “May I help you?” I turned around to see eye for eye the absolute largest brown eyes I have ever seen in my lifetime literally inches away from me, staring straight at me. “Hmm, yes...” was all I could muster. I stumbled for a moment, looking at this creature with the saucer sized eyes framed by pigtails and realized this beautiful young Japanese girl would help me get my ticket for the Manarouchi line. Her two years of living in Toronto as a teenager was paying off for me now.

Kyoko & me in the Tokyo subway station

As I showed this Japanese beauty named Kyoko where I was going, she asked the station attendant to purchase my ticket for me, and since she was going the same way on the same subway line, she would make sure I got off at the right stop. I told her I was venturing out on my own for dinner, away from my crew, and going to Tsunahachi restaurant since I had read it served fantastic tempura. She offered her favorite place for tempura, a place she and her mother went to often, and had eaten at just a few days before that was near Tsunahachi. Kyoko believed Funibashiya was a better, more local, restaurant and felt sure I would enjoy it. She gave me directions, and as easy as it sounded at the time, the nano-second I exited the subway stop, I knew finding Funibashiya was going to be nothing short of a challenge. It took me asking the police, many strangers, a re-tracing of my steps, and a heavy dose of feeling overwhelmed and helpless among the shoulder-to-shoulder rush-hour crowds and neon lights flashing everywhere to find this restaurant. At one point, I just stood on the street corner, feeling utterly at a loss, thinking at least I know how to get back to the subway.

When I finally found Funibashiya, the hostess motioned for me to sit in the back room. I took one look and motioned to her I didn’t want to be relegated to the back room of tourists and the like. I wanted to sit up front, near the Sushi Master, and be a part of the Japanese crowd eating dinner. With a pause she relented, and I sat to the left of an older couple who I intently followed through dinner, doing everything they did. The Sushi Master scowled at me and made sure I knew he didn’t like having me seated anywhere near him.

The older man watched me struggle to figure out the correct protocol for chopsticks, table seasonings, sides for my tempura, pots of broth, and hand towels. Even though this was far from my first time eating in a Japanese sushi restaurant (okay, first time in Tokyo) and I am near deft at eating with chopsticks, I have never sat at the elbow of the Sushi Master. My older gentleman friend explained to me in passable English my accompanying side dishes and sauces, saying “...and you mix here, with this (pointing to one of the sauces he had poured into my dish). I pointed to his plate and said, “But you didn’t mix yours!” which made him and his wife roar with laughter. Even the Sushi Master cracked a smile.

When my eight piece tempura dinner of shrimp, pumpkin, onion, Chinese eggplant, mixed vegetable/shrimp, and fish, was finished, the Sushi Master motioned to me; the elderly couple next to me said, “Sushi Master say your tempura over.” I finished my Kirin beer, and as I stood up to leave, I thanked the older gentleman and his wife for their graciousness, and I thanked the Sushi Master with a slight bow and arigatou gozaimasu. This time he smiled.

Stealing Beauty from Bellagio - Varrena, Italy

2012-10-15T13:05:00.000-07:00

Quaint and romantic, Vernna sits on a point on perennially beautiful Lake Como, across from the lovely, larger town of Bellagio, with ferries running daily in the high season to and from. Easy to enjoy, this is the perfect day trip from Milan. Varenna is a romantic, old city, which steps up the hillside it fronts, starting at the water’s edge. Less crowded, touristy, and expansive as the better known Bellagio, it’s breathtaking even more so for this reason.

My crew members Martha, Gail and I took an afternoon train from Milan’s Centrale station for the 53 minute train ride, passing small coastal towns of Lake Como, having a picnic of Italian wine, cheeses, prosciutto, olives, with a fresh baguette. We got more than one wary glance over from the family sitting across from us. We walked along La Passerella (The Lover’s Walk), a promenade along the water bordered by cypress trees, privacy stone walls of villas overgrown with flowers and ivy, and the lushest hydrangea bushes I have ever seen, outshining those on Cape Cod, Massachusetts and the 6 foot tall bushes that grow wild all over Brittany, France. I really regretted not having my swimsuit as I watched locals swim in the water at the small rocky beach along the promenade. At least my feet went in, and if I had not had to make my way back to Milan in the same clothes, I would have dived in.

My dinner entrée at Il Molo of “creamy cheese pasta with ruccula” wasn’t exactly notable, but our waitress made up for that deficit. There were baby blue fleece blankets rolled up and off to the side available to ward off any slight evening chill. With a terrace on the water, at sunset with a slight breeze, life in that moment just didn’t get any more perfect. The day before I was home in U.S.; now I was having dinner at a small restaurant in the Lakes region, on Lake Como, near the southern base of the Swiss Alps.

After dinner was the requisite stop in any Italian town at the gelateria for gelato, where I had menthe and limone for 1 euro. The early evening sky put on a show for us across the lake with alternating streaks and flashes of lightening, and rolling thunder. We watched and ate our gelato, with the night falling, as the lights of the town glowed golden in the reflection of the water.

We saw only a small fraction of what is the heart of old Varenna, leaving the Villa Monastero, Piazza San Giorgio, Castello di Vezio, and the many hidden gems along the narrow steps and alleyways for another day. Having started late in the afternoon, our day was pinched; Varenna is easy to fully experience in a day with an earlier start.

Waiting at the train station (on marble benches no less) for our 9:37 pm train back to Milano, it was after 10:00 pm when a train in the opposite direction stopped in Varenna. I asked the train conductor about the train we were waiting for, and with a shrug of her shoulders and hands up in the air, she just smiled, titled her head, and said, “Sorry, retardo” (late). She shrugged her shoulder again with another head tilt, got on her train as it pulled out of the station, and left me on the side smiling, as I was thinking, well, this is Italy after all.

A San Francisco Must-Do: Bike the Golden Gate Bridge - San Francisco, California

2012-09-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

Bike riding across San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge is quite a high and one of the coolest things I have done in the US. One of the most iconic landmarks in the United States, it was pretty intense and exhilarating. It’s a wild, fast ride across the 2 mile bridge, and so worth the day it takes to do it.

With various tour operators offering bike riding across the Golden Gate Bridge, it is easy to get outfitted. We (husband, 14 year old step daughter, and me) chose Blazing Saddles, a play on the title of the 1974 Western spoof movie by the same name, because it was the first one we saw when our taxi dropped us off at Fisherman’s Wharf (Bike & Roll is another good company to use). The college-aged employees mostly hailed from Ireland, in the US for school and summer jobs. They talked fast, showed us the map, and got us on our “Deluxe Comfort Mountain/Hybrid” bikes which they suggested as the best bike for the bridge crossing. The tour company offered ten different bikes total, even tandem bikes.

We felt like San Franciscan’s as we headed out from Fisherman’s Wharf and passed beach-goers, runners, joggers and bikers, locals walking their dogs, lots of BBQ’s and picnics (a two-year old’s birthday party at one of them), and local pickup games of football and soccer at Crissy Field. A velocity of people, all mixed in enjoying the outdoors - that’s California.

The temperature was no higher than 63 degrees that day; even the locals admitted it was unusually cold for being summer. The bike ride was relatively easy up to the bridge, with different points along the way to stop for photo ops. In particular, at the National Park Service’s “Warming Hut”, which was perfect timing, and a needed respite to grab that last cup of joe before heading up the winding hill to the entrance on the west side for the bike crossing. Only in California, the hot dog stand next to the Warming Hut sold “No Antibiotic, No Hormones” hot dogs, touting it’s “free range” status.

Once we started on the bridge, it was an impressive site to see the support pillars reaching upwards into the fog, the stark color contrast of rust and grey. The massive size is daunting, and everyone stops to take pictures at the base of the pillars, steeling themselves against the wind. The Bay below was a swirl of celadon colored energy with white caps, with cliffs of black boulders on each side. Suspended high above San Francisco Bay at 220 feet (67 m), the water looked beautiful, but nonetheless menacing. And I am not even afraid of heights.

I wonder how people climb the cables of the pillars and not be blown away? The constant buffeting of the wind and the roar of eight lanes of constant car, tour bus and truck traffic was deafening. (which is a pretty big challenge for little kids considering the height, total distance, stiff winds, voluminous pedestrian traffic crossing the bridge in both directions). When we stopped to take pictures, the wind would about blow us and our cameras away - it was tough to hear and even tougher to smile with what felt like a million little cold needles pounding our faces. Perpetual mist driven into every pore by the wind. Many tourists had little kids with them biking across the bridge - a quick way to see what a kid is made of.

Repeatedly we heard “it’s sunny on the other side”, and sure enough, it was. Sunny, saucy Sausalito awaited on the other side, the once, long ago, sleepy romantic getaway for San Francisco honeymooners and day trippers from across the Bay. This day, Sausalito was overrun by the bike riding tourists; it was keenly obvious the locals were in hiding. Even the tiny Vina del Mar park, a mini Mediterranean styled park in the center of town, flanked by two cement elephants from the 1915 Panama-Pacific Games held in San Francisco, was surrounded by tourists. Sausalito is a picture perfect, and expensive, little town, staring across the Bay at San Francisco. As Carl Nolte, a staff writer for the San Francisco Chronicle wrote in an article about Vina del Mar in 1996, Sausalito is “...like living in a postcard.”

On the Sausalito side, we had every intention of seeing the “tallest trees in the world”, the California Redwoods, at the Muir Woods National Monument, (9 miles from Sausalito), and then on to the cute town of Tiburon, catching the ferry back long before the last one departed at 8:00 pm. The only way to accomplish such a ambitious 1-day journey would have been to start when the bike rentals opened at 8:00 am. Hit up a grocery store, pack some snacks, water, wine, and lunch and really enjoy the ride as an all day adventure, and pack it all in, all the way to Tiburon. We realized this about 4:00 pm, when we were just getting something to eat in Sausalito at the swank Italian trattoria Poggio, and hadn’t even begun to see anything beyond the town. We headed back on the 7:00 pm ferry.

Such an iconic landmark; now I will be forever looking at the Golden Gate Bridge differently, knowing how biting the wind is in August, how cold the mist that pounded my face, how stable the suspension bridge is in the perpetual wind, and how insanely high it is above the white caps below.

Teatro Colón – Buenos Aires, Argentina

2012-09-06T08:44:00.000-07:00

The Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires, Argentina, built in 1910, is world renowned, and has showcased the stars of the opera world over the course of it’s history: Placido Domingo, Beverly Sills, Maria Callas – and more. All have all performed at the legendary Teatro Colón. Coming off of a 10 year, $100 million (USD) renovation, which saw the Opera house shuttered completely for four years from 2006-2010, the century old Opera House shines its brilliance once again.

After a false start a couple of months ago when I tried to take the tour ($110 pesos/$25 USD), and was told the stage would not be seen on the tour due to a performance taking place that afternoon, I deferred my tour until my next trip to Buenos Aires. After such extensive renovations, done in three stages, I wanted to get the full tour. The acoustically perfect performance stage had been overhauled to pitch perfection; I did not want to miss this vital part of the renovations, and heart of the opera house.

Our group’s tour guide, Carla, was informative and engaging. Standing in the intermission hallway, under busts of Mozart, Bellini, Bizet, Beethoven, she burst into operatic stiletto, smiling wirily at our surprise. (She is a student at the School of Opera, and all tour leaders attend the school). Carla exhibited a cultural pride that floated on her words of the history and romance that is part of the Teatro Colón opera house.

Underneath the four busts is the sinewy marble statue, “The Secret”. Two fingers of Venus were broken off somewhere along the way in the transport to Argentina from Italy (where the exquisite statue was carved on commission), and having been shaped from one single piece of marble, consequently the broken fingers were not to be replaced So fine is the attention to detail, Cupid’s hand shows a soft, indented impression on his mother’s thigh, as he leans up to whisper in her ear. Cupid is telling his mother a secret: whose heart he is going to shoot his bow of love through during intermission, as elegantly dressed men and women stand nearby, sipping champagne.

Four different marbles, ranging in colors from gold to copper to rust to dark green, resonate throughout the interiors. The Gold Hall, painted in 18K and 24 K gold, also used during intermission, hosts chamber concerts, and was modeled after the interior of Versailles’s Hall of Mirrors, embellished with furnishings from Paris. Students who are to perform for the first time on stage must first present themselves in concert in The Gold Hall.

Again the pride from our tour guide as she swished back the red velvet curtains to the entrance for the concert hall. Sultry Argentine beauty, red velvet saturation, turn of the 19th century, Dr. Zhivago, all rolled into one as we walked in to sit in the patrons chairs. Concert boxes for the President and Mayor of Argentina, and Buenos Aires, respectively, were opposite us. The VIP box at mezzanine level where we were gathered, and which is sold to ticket holders (the public) for $1500 pesos, is identified with the Coat of Arms of Argentina at the front. Our lucky day as a ballet performance was rehearsing.

The influence of Milan’s La Scala and Paris’s Opera House is evident throughout, yet Teatro Colón shines as its own beauty, especially at night, reveling in its status as one of the top five opera houses in the world.

(Originally published on LayoverTips.com July 21, 2012)

Cal Pep Restaurant - Barcelona, Spain

2012-09-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

Dubious is an understatement when it comes to how I feel about going to a restaurant that is “outed” - Michelin stars, guidebooks and New York Times write-ups - since the quality decreases, prices increase and it is overrun with tourists. That was my thought bubble exactly the night three crew members (Diane, Debbie and Dee) and I went to Cal Pep for dinner in Barcelona.

The week prior, Debbie had gone to Cal Pep, and loved it so much, she insisted we go this trip. I was going to hold her feet to the fire over this one, especially since we had to queue up at least one hour ahead of the restaurant opening to be sure we were in on the first round of seating at the tiny counter where all the major action happens. Those in first were able to sit at the bar and be entertained by the perpetual motion and activity of Mr. Pep himself. The best way to describe chef Pep is to see his caricature on the restaurant’s website in the likeness of the Greek god Poseidon, chef Pep wearing his trademark eye glasses and a crown, wildly riding crustaceans for his chariot through the waves, a trident speared with an olive, of course. Even the restaurant’s business card is Cal Pep in his trademark eye glasses and chef’s jacket hoisting platters of fish above a scene of The Last Supper with Jesus and his twelve faithful disciples. The caricature drawings line the wall where patrons wait for open seats at the counter, the glass door on the side of the tiny restaurant, and even the brown paper bags that rest over the top of the wine bottles seated at the tables in the back room.

We were too far back in the line to get a table at the counter and were offered seating in the back room. This room was the intimate and romantic dining room with walls of wine racks up to the ceiling stuffed full of red wines, exposed brick walls, and a ship’s galley door separating the rooms. We were all alone, eating too early for the Spaniards who avoid the counter.

We were told by our waiter who spoke minimal English we would each pay 25€. Then came the tapas: a total of eight in all. Certain choices on the menu change daily depending on the daily catch. First up for us though was a round of cold, locally brewed Estrella Damm beers. Our waiter started us with some of the restaurant standards: pa de coca (the equivalent of Italian bruschetta) and truita trempera (Spanish omelette), which was so fresh the eggs didn’t dominate the taste the way it is often is the case in sub-par tapas restaurants. The xpirons amb cigrons (baby squids with chickpeas) came in a black cast iron pan that enhanced the smoky, deep flavor (just like the regional foods of my hometown in south Louisiana such as gumbo and cornbread).

Photo courtesy of Diane Levinson @www.merci-paris.com

Next came calamar fregit (fried calamari), which were fried with a very light touch, and cloises amb perni (clams with ham). The carxofes (artichokes) were simply delectable, not the least bit salty or mushy. With this amount of seafood there is always the danger being over salted to a point of ruination which is quite the contrary at Cal Pep. The one food that we fought over the most for the last bite was the pebrots del padró (Padron peppers), lightly sautéed in olive oil with a smidgeon of salt. Retaining their bright green color, these small, green peppers burst with flavor, not heat, and are worth returning for!

I am going back to Cal Pep, and I plan to be out there waiting with the tourists to get a seat at the counter to watch Cal Pep himself in action. And this time, I want to order dessert with a cup of café con leche, as surely the desserts are as savory as the tapas. A perfect ending to dishes that surprisingly stand up to the glowing write-ups.

The Buena Vista's Irish Coffee - San Francisco, California

2012-08-31T20:54:00.000-07:00

When I was buying Irish coffee mugs for my flight attendant friend from Ireland who was getting married, I wanted to find an exceptional recipe to include with the gift. (I ended up buying a book instead about speciality coffees). In my searches, I found the location of The Buena Vista in San Francisco, which brought over the Irish coffee via an international travel writer for the San Francisco Chronicle who had been served this coffee at the Shannon, Ireland airport in the early 1950’s.

This is a perfect drink for the often blustery, fog-shrouded City by the Bay. The recipe calls for one full jigger of Irish whiskey, which even though it is poured into the coffee and is drunk though the cream that floats on the top, the first pull will let you know this drink means business. After my first sip, feeling the power of the Irish whiskey over the coffee and cream, I wondered how many patrons have sat on the same barstool I was sitting on and after a few of these potent coffees, ended up on the floor at some point.

The Buena Vista had a fair mix of locals and tourists; most of the locals sat at the booths while most of the non-residents sat at the bar to have their obligatory one Irish coffee in order to tell their friends and family back home this was checked off of their to-do list. I watched the musical chairs of customers rotate filling the seats at the bar, then head across the street to jump on the famed cable car for the ride to Union Square. There is no doubt, if I lived in San Francisco, I could easily become a regular drinking these hot toddies. Mine seemed to disappear way too fast.

Confiteria Anahid - Buenos Aires, Argentina

2012-08-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

There has yet to be a time I have been in the Confiteria Anahid bakery on Hipólito Yrigoyen street and not seen a line inside of customers waiting to place an order. I always have to pull a numbered ticket from the red machine. Being that I am not versed in my numbers in Spanish, I have to watch which paper numbers are impaled on the metal stick to know when its my turn that is called. It is an even divide between patrons buying pastries, and those purchasing empanadas. I buy both - every time.

Often by 2:00 pm, most of the empanadas are gone: the spinach and onion, the jambon y queso, the plain jambon. I have eaten these filled puff pastries in Spain, in Puerto Rico, and in Miami, and in Buenos Aires. None compare to these at Confiteria Anahid. Located on a street corner in San Telmo, the outside of the bakery, with its sheaths of wheat logo painted in red, is quite the antithesis of the pretty patisseries of Paris, but it’s front belies these empanadas inside that are worth traveling across the city for if necessary. On my last flight from Buenos Aires back to JFK, one of the Spanish speaking flight attendants on my crew took one look at my empanadas and tried to talk me out of having them at all costs, saying that by looking at the texture of the pastry and the consistency of the filling, he just knew these empanadas were excellent. He quickly wrote down the name of Confiteria Anahid.

As much as I love the empanadas, and I buy two for every 10 hour all-night flight back to JFK from Buenos Aires that I work, it is Confiteria Anahid’s chocolate dulce de leche cookies that have me singing their praises. Yum-YUM! If I could buy all of them in the case, I would; like the empanadas, often when I get there, most of these off-the-chart cookies are sold out. The smooth texture, the luscious and creamy flavor of milk and caramel, the freshness of having been baked that morning - unbeatable!

Trattoria der Pallaro – Rome, Italy

2012-07-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

Most everything seems to be about a stone’s throw away in central Rome – restaurants, outdoor markets, Roman antiquities. Located near one of Rome’s most famous markets, Campo di Fiori, is a simple, rustic restaurant, Trattoria der Pallaro.

A pilot recommended this restaurant to a flight attendant on our crew, swearing up and down anyone she took there would love it. He emphasized being hungry on arrival, since plate after plate of food is brought to the table. Patrons eat what is brought to the table, which seems to be the restaurant’s traditional fare. The three of us from my crew were the second patrons to sit down, and the last to leave that seating general seating of patrons, pacing ourselves through the multiple plates of food that continued to arrive.

Within moments of sitting down on the enclosed terrace, we were asked, “Vino rosso or blanco?” Vino rosso! And immediately arrived a pitcher of red wine, with sparkling water. Then the food started: the ubiquitous basket of fresh baked bread, sliced fennel in vinegar and salt, green olives, sliced prosciutto and salami, a bowl of lentils, arancini rounds and Italian falafel, fresh mozzarella balls, pasta with pancetta, sliced veal au jus, and after all this – handmade potato chips.

To cap it all off, next was a slice of baked lemon cake straight from the black, cast-iron pan, an ideal dessert for a Roman dinner in the summer, accompanied by a shot of Fragioli, a wild strawberry liqueur.

Serving everyone was “Momma”, the essence of Italian grandmother (might have been great-grandmother in this case), who looked the throw back to WWII Italy – a little rough and poor, but with a gregarious and infectious smile of happiness and joy of life that dispelled any other notion. With a kerchief on her head and apron around her waist, smiling broadly, she was giving friendly hugs and pats to the mostly local crowd of diners.

I thought I was going to roll right out of the restaurant at the thought of so much food. But the servings were not of copious amounts, and shared amongst the three of us, and pacing ourselves, I was able to have a little bit of everything, and feel satiated. Was this the best restaurant I have been to in Rome? No. But it is good? Absolutely. And you can’t beat the local Roman ambience, including the framed picture of the Pope over the bathroom door.

When the bill came, we each paid 25€. Trattoria der Pallaro is tucked away, but is worth finding when you want to feel like part of the neighborhood.

(Originally published on LayoverTips.com June 22, 2012)

Coffee, Chocolate & Churros – Barcelona, Spain

2012-07-06T09:11:00.000-07:00

Coffee, Chocolate & Churros – Barcelona, Spain

Getting a good cup of Spanish coffee at Buenas Migas the afternoons of layovers is a standard for most of my fellow crew members; the coffee shop is out the back door of our crew hotel. But, like Americans who can’t live a day without their skinny, grande lattes at Starbucks, the price of this expensive layover coffee starts to add up. My alternative has become the coffee at the local Caprabo grocery stores’ bakery for just 1€. It doesn’t come in a fancy labeled cup, but it is good, and that is what I want. The bakery has a tempting selection of pastries in the cases and fresh baguettes in the baskets behind the counter. I pair my cup of coffee with a pain au chocolat, and I am set for the afternoon. With three other flight attendants on my last trip to Barcelona, after we had coffee and pastries at Caprabo, we headed for the Barri Gothic, the original city of Barcelona.

I was quickly detoured by the inviting, old world entrance of a chocolate shop in the old quarter of Barcelona. Walking through the doors ofFargas, the smell was of truffles, and cocoa powder. One of the other flight attendants Diane, and I, each picked out some truffles – it was a quaint selection, but it filled the tiny glass cabinet. The proprietor wrapped our individual pieces in small bags, smiling broadly, not understanding one word of our English. I couldn’t wait to try mine, and as soon as I stepped outside, I plucked one of the truffles out of my tiny bag and stood there amongst the crowds thinking how much I love the Spanish for their love of chocolate.

It didn’t take us long to be detoured once more by a small gem deep in the Barri Gothic: an box of aXurreria on Carrier dels Banys Nous tempting passer-by with smells of hot bread and melted chocolate. Seeing the churros piled up in a tiny window was temptation enough, but locals popping in and out with a fixed determination of destination was conviction enough for us, this was where we should eat churros. Behind the small counter, the owner was scooping up the fried dough out of the deep fyers and plopping them in paper cones. With a quick twist of his hand, he threw sugar over the hot churros before handing them over. Piping hot, perfectly formed, and sprinkles of sugar – we dived in, and just as quickly they were gone. It didn’t take but two seconds for one of us to get out another5€ to get a second order. Standing out front of the Xurreria, we knew we didn’t want to ruin our appetite for our dinner, but as far as we were concerned, it would have been well worth it! These churros were deliciously fresh, and plump in size; the best I have eaten in Barcelona.

An afternoon in Spain sipping and savoring coffee, chocolates and churros. !Buen apetito!

ONE DAY IN BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

2012-06-13T20:34:00.000-07:00

When you get only one day in a city as sublimely beautiful as Budapest, especially as a crew member, this becomes a “see you at pick up” layover. My very senior crew (40+ years of flying...) wanted to do only two things: stroll through the village leading up to Fisherman’s Bastion, and eat dinner at Café Kör. I, on the other hand, wanted to do everything. I wasn’t sure I would be back to Budapest any time soon, so I opted out of the crew plans for the layover and hit the ground running. Driving along the Danube river on the crew bus the morning of arrival, looking at the beauty of Buda through rain streaked windows, I knew this was a layover that was going to be short on sleep.

Budapest is a deceivingly vast city, and undeniably breathtaking. The former Royal Palace of the Hapsburg kings (Buda Castle built in 1265) looms in grandiose style at the peak of Castle Hill, high above the Danube; Pest is gifted with the striking Gothic Revival style of the Hungarian Parliament building, hugging the Danube in dominant fashion.

The Danube is wide and flowing, with its flat bottom boats and barges moving like chess pieces up and down the river. The afternoon proved sunny and warm; I walked as much was possible in my limited one day layover. I started my afternoon making the trek across the landmark Széchenyi Chain Bridge to catch the Castle Hill funicular up to the Royal Palace. The amount of pedestrians, bike riders, tourists, cars, and photographers on the Chain Bridge was constant movement. Crossing the bridge and seeing Budapest’s sweeping beauty was exhilarating, intoxicating - the beauty of is, at every turn, astounding.

My dinner at Művész Café ("artist café")

was as old world Hungarian as I could hope for. This traditional coffeehouse, wrapped in dark wood, baroque, chandeliers, and red velvet was a reflection to 1898, the year it opened. It was easy to envision dark suits and bustle dressed patrons sitting all around me, conferencing over coffee their vision of the future that I am a part of in the 21st century. My dinner entree of fettuccine alfredo was colored with a few red-ripe tomatoes and slices of shaved parmesan cheese. I picked a light, crisp rosé wine to savor with my fresh pasta - a dinner and drink the anthesis of traditional Hungarian sustenance. I am convinced the pasta was hand rolled and prepared the minute I ordered as it was as near perfect and fresh as I could wish for in Rome. I ordered an Irish coffee afterwards, and with the first deep pull wished I ordered three more as it was also - perfect. I asked the bartender about walking back to my hotel alone along Andrássy út (avenue), late on a Sunday night. He assured me I would be fine and confidently waved me on, with a broad smile, and he was right.

The cafés along the river boardwalk were full of life and patrons, even at midnight, having their last bites of dinner or sips of coffee. I walked in solitude; the cool, evening weather and ambiance transported me to a Budapest that had in earnest shed the shackles of Communism. I listened to laughter and conversations, and walked beside couples holding hands.

As much as I tried to pack into my one day, I didn’t even make it to the many of the major sites: the Gellért thermal baths, the Gellért Hill cave church, the Freedom statue, Fisherman’s Bastion, the Parliament, a glass topped/flat bottom boat ride, the Great Market Hall food market, a Tokaji Aszú wine tour, or Margaret Island. Not even a bike ride along the Danube. But, I did see the Art Nouveau artistic and architectural renderings of the Gresham Palace (now a Four Seasons Hotel), the majesty of St. Stephens Basilica, listened to a violinist playing in front of the Royal Palace-Hapsburg gate, a Pest man showing his British girlfriend the view of his city from the Castle Hill funicular, and in a serendipitous moment, a young couple kiss with a view of Parliament behind them.

The pictures are really the story as Budapest is a city rife with iconic images, a photographer’s dream.

Cappuccino at Rome’s Pantheon

2012-06-01T09:35:00.000-07:00

At the end of a long trip, and commute, I think back to how my morning started. On my recent Rome trip, the morning before my crew pick up at 10:30 am, I was drinking a cappuccino, leisurely gazing at the Roman Pantheon standing out in almost sheer solitude against a pale grey, early morning light.

Being a Sunday morning in Roman Catholic ground zero, the “day of rest” (well, the morning at least) is exactly that. The hordes of tourists, the tour guides and groups, and the constant stream of college students, free of the bondages of yearly study and now on European vacation, were all still slumbering. I heard them outside my hotel window until well after 1:00 am. Our crew hotel is close to Pope John Paul II’s favorite gelateria, Giolitti, a marked spot on the tourist trail of Rome, especially in the wee early hours of the morning. Now, at 8:15 in the morning, I was sipping my cappuccino at a table adjacent to the majestic and iconic Roman architectural wonder, the Pantheon, in almost utter peace and quiet, in late May, a bona-fide slice of tourist time in the travel tourist season.

I decided to sit at Di Rienzo, a café in the Piazza della Rotonda since 1952. The customary black and white outfitted waiters were smiling this early Sunday morning, allowing for the extra flairs and nuances that make Rome the romantic city it is, before the decent of the masses, which within record time can drain anyone of their civility. My waiter was charming and talkative, his blue eyes twinkling as he scattered rose petals over my table, petals floating down over my cappuccino, and homemade chocolate croissant (which turned out to be filled with Nutella).

A couple of times I saw heads peering out of lace curtains in the high windows above the piazza, windows being cracked open for some fresh, morning air. Two older Roman women walked in for their morning cappuccinos, leaving their equally older dog with crusted, tired eyes devotedly waiting for them at the entrance. A couple of bistro tables over from me were two priests drinking their cappuccinos deep in consultation, as well as an elderly British couple, fluent in Italian, the man drawing the scene in front of him seeing his subject in full view, his box of pastels splayed out on the table, with multi-colored dust on his fingers.

The day before, I crossed the piazza in front of the Pantheon in the afternoon. I weaved my way through the shady African immigrants selling fake Prada and Gucci bags, the packs of students, and the hordes of camera toting tourists competing for the best angle to take their proof of visit photo in front of the gorgeous rotunda building. I am sure there were some honeymooner couples thrown in the mix somewhere. But, this morning, it was when I was able to see the piazza, and the Pantheon, look Roman - majestic, an ancient architectural wonder, dominating.

By 9:00 am, Rome the tourist city was awake and on the move; a large tour group following their leader with her ubiquitous flag on a pole, tourists with cameras, the pushy Gladiators grabbing the attention of tourists for highway robbery priced photos with them. As the second wave now crested into the piazza, the priests, the artist and his wife, the dog walkers, the joggers, the men peeping out of their windows above the cafés and restaurants below quietly slipped away for the day.

Les Tontons Flingueurs Bistro Crêperie - Montréal, Québec, Canada

2012-05-06T15:49:00.002-07:00

The newest “in” place for the French crowd in Montreal to gather, restaurant Les Tontons Flingueurs on chemin de la Côte-des-Neiges, near Université de Montréal, attracts a sharp mix of French students, ex-pats and locals. When the French presidential primaries were held two weeks ago, the owners showed continuous coverage on the HD flat-screen television. Les Tontons Flingueurs became the place where Montreal’s French community rallied, and crowded in, to follow the election primary news.

When co-owners Francois Harmant and Matheo Alary chose the name for their restaurant, it was borrowed from a 1963 black-and-white French film (loosely translated as “The Hired Guns’ Uncles”) that is a cult, film noir classic for the true French citizen, along the lines of Serge Gainsbourg - a little rebellious. Opening a restaurant, it was a tip of the hat to one of the most famous scenes in the film, gangsters from opposing sides, in the kitchen of a restaurant, trying to nonchalantly drink together while keeping a wary eye on each other.

Just as any speakeasy in the ’30’s was gangster fueled, decorated with red banquettes and mirrors, Les Tonton Flingueurs gives proper due to the image, with a Parisian bistro twist. No attention to detail has been overlooked: the small Eiffel Tower, an antique wall map of the heart of Paris, a Paris Metro map, and even a silver model airplane as a wink to the co-owner’s Air Canada flight attendant girlfriend. In the men’s bathroom are various quotes from the movie, including the line “Touche pas au Grisbi, salope!”, which comes from the film’s kitchen conversation.

My French husband Thierry and I arrived for lunch late in the afternoon, post lunch crowd, and were able to do what the French do best: eat in a leisurely fashion. The entree crêpes are made with buckwheat flour, giving each the authentic flavor and consistency of Breton crêpes, harking back to the crêpes found in restaurants such as Crêperie Ty Breiz in Paris, made to be drunk with the strong cider from Brittany. Despite the recommendation we try the crêpes, we passed on this visit, enticed by other intriguing offerings on the diverse menu. I ordered Le Gros Deguelulasse, a juicy, thick hamburger stuffed in the bun with ground beef, grilled onions, sautéed mushrooms, bacon, creamed cheese and fresh tomatoes. With my Stella Artois beer, simply put, it was outstanding. Thierry ordered Le Cul de Poule, a sandwich of white chicken, brie, honey, apples, lettuce, tomatoes, drizzled with a cider vinaigrette. Fresh, and a perfect meld of flavors. As the French would say, superb!

Manchester, England: A Brilliant Diamond in the Rough

2012-04-18T05:55:00.000-07:00

Premier shopping - check! World famous football clubs - check! 5-star hotels - check! Michelin star restaurants - check again! A major university, historical sites, a Saxon cathedral, cool bars, a hip and vibrant music scene - check! The Crown Jewels - ah, no. But Manchester, England has everything else. This is a city that is London, on a smaller scale. Manchester is the city that has it all.

The Castlefield area lies over the old Roman ruins of what became the city of Manchester. Manchester Cathedral, built in Saxon 700 AD before Norman William the Conqueror swept through England, anchors the city, flying the English flag high. Even though it suffered heavy damage during the air raid blitzes of WWII, Manchester Cathedral has prevailed. The IRA unwittingly helped Manchester when it bombed the city center, carving out a chunk. Manchester seized the moment for the better and became the phoenix lifting above its former industrial self, rising to become the vibrant and cosmopolitan city it is, with over 20 art galleries and various museums, high-end shopping with the likes of Harvey Nichols (which had at one of the make-up counters one of the most stunningly beautiful girls I have ever seen), Hermès, Links of London, and Vivienne Westwood, luxury hotels to cater to these shoppers (The Lowry, Malmaison), restaurants of every persuasion, and hot bars and cool clubs, often frequented by the footballers of Manchester City and Manchester United. Even the National Football Museum is relocating to Manchester, to be housed in the Urbis Center. And, an unparalleled music scene with two symphony orchestras, world-renowned artists playing concerts at the Cathedral, and hometown bands the Charlatans and Oasis. Any night of the week, pick your pleasure from the cultural scene.

Manchester is decidedly diverse in population with a Chinatown that has its own gate to its “city” and restaurants housed in old cotton warehouses that can equal most any in Hong Kong; the Manchester Jewish Museum as the gatekeeper of the still present Jewish community’s history since the Industrial Revolution; a vast gay populace that congregates in the now revitalized Canal area, the perfect place to be on sunny summer afternoons with its many outdoor cafés; and Curry Mile, a mile long area of south Manchester made up of Pakistani, Indian, Middle Eastern and Arab restaurants. When I asked the hotel concierge which one he would recommend out of the mile long amount of choices, he looked at me as if I had 10 heads. “Any! Walk along and pick one with your nose,” was his answer.

My flight attendant crew member Kris and I went to the outdoor pub at Sinclair’s Oyster House in Shambles Square in the city center, near the dominant ferris wheel. With a couple of pints in hand, we sat outside at the tables. An edgy young local with some missing teeth came up to us, holding his full beer, and with his even rougher looking buddy said, “dlibuiaosdu goiaudof elkgjos?” Kris and I looked at each other, and looked back at him. The buddy started laughing. I said, “You have to speak a lot more slowly for us to understand your... accent.” “Do-you-have-spare-change-I-could-have-for-my-next-pint?” I thought about that a second, looked at his full beer, and said, “If I give you my change, how am I going to pay for my next pint?” This time they both laughed, and then talked to us for a solid 10 minutes. Slowly.

Urbis Center, future location of National Football Museum

Manchester is a city that has star quality, smoothing out is rough, industrial city feathers. That is what makes it such a fantastic city. Being in Manchester heralds back to a time when a place on the global map wasn’t tainted or altered by commercialism and tourism. Manchester is a relatively small city in size, but powerful - it’s all there. It’s dynamic, and you see it and feel it. These are people who have a fierce pride being a Mancunian, and rightfully so.

Now, I just have to figure out how to get tickets to one of those perpetually sold out City or Man U games...

Working a Flight to Port-au-Prince, Haiti

2012-04-10T15:21:00.000-07:00

Until last Wednesday, I had flown into Port-au-Prince, Haiti only one time in the last 23 years as an international flight attendant. I remember the airport - and walking outside in stifling and suffocating heat and humidity along the tarmac perpendicular to the airplanes lined up and parallel to the building; I remember the vendor - her store was inside the airport, upstairs, and full of Haitian crafts, vanilla and liqueurs. I remember how naively sweet the Haitian people were on the flight - many didn’t know how to flush the toilet or where to throw their wet hand towel, but many came dressed up for the flight in suits and hats, and always smiled at us working the flight.

The airport looks different now; my original vendor where I purchased a stunning black iron serving plate decorated with bright fruit designs in 1996 was gone, and the outside path to walk to the airplanes for boarding is now covered. Looking out at the tarmac, I envisioned the wingtip to wingtip lineup of military and commercial aircraft parked two years ago bringing in desperately needed supplies of all kinds. I went inside to buy the famous Haitian vanilla again. It was a different brand than before, but I was thrilled to see that even after the earthquake, some things are still available. The few vendors in the airport were eating plate lunches and the first vendor we stopped at had only a fish skeleton left atop her rice, with the head still attached. I purchased a bottle of Haitian Cremas, a rum based drink made with creamed coconut and either condensed or evaporated milk. It is served at holidays and on other special occasions, but I might just get it good and cold and drink some sooner as opposed to later since it is said to be like drinking a milkshake.

Our passengers on our flight were the same, for the most part. Hats (one woman was wearing two new beautiful hats that still had the price tags on them), suits (both men and women), and still confusion over the lavatories’ buttons and design. A woman wore a silk gold and purple dress that was out of the realm of passenger attire on a Caribbean flight. She looked proud, and fierce, and beautiful. There is always one exception to the rule, and it was a 16 year old girl, who was not Haitian, and was part of a group of high school students who were on their way to New York City to perform in a musical concert. She was texting on her iPhone after the aircraft door was closed. When Alison, the flight attendant working on that side of the plane asked her to turn off her cell phone, the young girl - without looking up - dismissed Alison with a wave of her hand and said to her, “I’m busy.” Lucky for her, Alison is a patient flight attendant. Alison said to the young upstart, “Turn your phone off now, please, or you can sit in the terminal while we leave, and be busy there.” She turned off her phone.

The next day our crew flew to Paris, France. We had French speaking flight attendants on both flights, however, the speakers did not speak French on the Port-au-Prince trip. No need to since the passengers speak Creole. But, to go from the former French colony of Haiti, to the “motherland” of France within 24 hours, glaringly pointed out the striking differences in two countries that at one time, spoke the same language.

Bunny Mania in the Land of (Swiss) Chocolate - Zürich, Switzerland

2012-04-08T18:12:00.000-07:00

In the run-up to Easter, it is a downright bonus to fly to a country known for its chocolates. With so many choices on where to savor famed Swiss chocolates, on my layover in Zürich I took a three hour walk along both sides of the Limmat River to soak it all in, and be treated to over-the-top, spring window displays from a citizenship celebrating the end of another long, and cold, Swiss winter.

Everywhere I turned, there were bunnies, or chicks, or eggs, or flowers, or Swiss chocolates, many in shapes every size imaginable, in virtually every store, and, of course, in the Swiss chocolate houses of Sprüngli, Teuscher, and Steiner. The windows, saturated with riotous floral beauty, speckled with chocolate bunnies throughout, made it a feast for the eyes as lush abundance stuffed the window fronts; these are the window displays that become the inspiration for wedding and party planners who spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to create a floral fantasyland for a bride. I was confident my favorite confiserie in Zürich, Péclard, would have window displays that defied all expectations. Péclard’s offerings of fresh, mouth-watering pastries, handmade chocolates, fresh flowers, and bunnies, bunnies, bunnies were a visual treat and sensory delight as I sat outside drinking a cup of café au lait, slowly savoring their fresh chocolate truffles.

All through the Old Town, bookstores, home decor stores, gourmet food and wine stores, restaurants - all managed to display something to resonate loud and clear Easter and the advent of spring weather, almost three weeks into the spring season. Even along the famed financial powerhouse Bahnhofstrasse, storefronts had every variation and persuasion of Easter bunnies: floral, paper, metal, glittered papier-mâché, and, of course, chocolate. The entry to one of the discreet Swiss banks along Bahnhofstrasse had tall, thin, metal bunnies sitting upright, guarding the entrance like sentry soldiers at Ali Baba’s cave. At the department store Wenberg, one block from Hermès and Prada, the mannequin showcasing women’s clothes stood surrounded by bunnies, in matching colors, no less. Along the Bahnhofstrasse, these are the stores where clients can buy not only the clothes shown, but all the bunny displays too, if they wanted. One of the jewelry stores had football sized gold eggs upright amongst the diamond necklaces.

The next morning leaving Zürich, more chances to buy Easter bunny chocolates were throughout the airport. I stopped at Sprüngli. I couldn’t resist; I bought more.

Verona, Italy - The City of Eternal Love

2012-03-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

My other two flight attendant crew members and I had a long day ahead of us, spending the day in the Renaissance city of Verona. We knew large cappuccino’s were the order top of the morning to jumpstart us in the right direction. Fortunately, there is a café right across the street from our layover hotel. My visual of a large Italian cappuccino definitely did not include an American sized Hummer in a cup, which was actually dwarfed by the sugar bowl.

We ponied up the 40€ for roundtrip train tickets leaving Milan’s Centrale station (glorious artwork in itself) for the roughly 90 minute train ride to Verona’s Porta Nuova station. We knew we would see the highlights: the Duomo, the Roman arena, the market in the town’s square, Juliet’s - of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet - famed balcony. With all the tourists and young lovers, who either swoon and pine at the feet of Juliet’s balcony, professing undying love, or have their picture taken in the tiny courtyard below rubbing the right breast of Juliet’s bronzed statue for good luck, it seemed we were going to be the odd ones out being a trio of married co-workers, on the fringe of being tourists. Nonetheless, how could we bypass visiting Verona’s cultural Renaissance icon? A young girl named Juliet, in love with her Romeo in 1303, when life and love were very different.

If we didn’t know the address, we would have likely missed the entrance to the Juliet sanctum. Upon entering the small tunnel, it was obvious this was a place visited by dedicated fans the world over as every name imaginable was colorfully written on the tunnel walls, one on top of another. But one stood out among the crowd; I just had to have my picture taken with Guiseppe’s and Irina’s heart! Turns out, that was a hit maker as after the three of us finished having fun taking pictures with their big, white heart, there was a line forming, fingers pointing with cameras in hand, tourists ready to be part of Guiseppe’s and Irina’s love story.

Looking up at the balcony, there was an Asian student who was relishing his 15 minutes of fame as he preened and turned, glancing down at everyone in the tiny courtyard, everyone looking back at him, wondering when he would move it along. These tourists wanted pictures of Juliet’s balcony - and they were going to wait him out. While all the posturing was going on, we perused the store in the courtyard that sold the padlocks lovers buy to write their names on, and lock onto the gate that rests along the back courtyard wall. Locked in love for eternity - isn’t young love great?

Deep in the Heart of São Paulo, Brazil

2012-03-18T17:47:00.000-07:00

Flying in on approach into São Paulo, Brazil’s Guarulhos International Airport is like looking at a graphics chart on Bloomberg News. Flat land for miles, and for miles tall, skinny skyscrapers punching upwards in staggering heights. And, at the bottom, squeezed somewhere in between every possible inch, groupings of tiny red-tiled roofed houses, juxtaposed at all angles - all this before the dense concentration of skyscrapers. In this vast sea of human dwellings, it becomes evident this is what it looks like to house 19 million citizens in South America’s largest metropolitan city, a city painfully devoid of greenery flying in on approach.

Our monolith crew bus - we could have fit three wide-body crews on this bus - pulled up to our hotel after an hour’s drive from the airport to the city’s center. Almost every scene out of the bus window was a sterile view of cars zipping along ribbons and cross ribbons of highways. Downtown São Paulo, and more skyscrapers. Not as many, not as tall, but the distinct look of business. Our crew hotel was located in the middle of the business district, with one small, but busy, outdoor café across the street, a couple of blocks off the busy Avenida Paulista, and Trianon Park. The view from my high-rise hotel window was confirmation of why São Paulo is the engine of South America’s economy. Sexy Rio de Janeiro and staid São Paulo. Where’s the Brazilian passion in a city of steel and concrete?

Our crew made reservations for dinner at one of São Paulo’s most famous restaurants, A Figueira Rubaiyat (“fig tree”, and an 11th century Persian poet, respectively). Looking out the taxi window as we made our way down Rua Haddock Lobo in the Jardim Paulista area, life was finally revealing itself on a warm summer, Saturday night: locals walking their dogs, cafés and small restaurants spilling over with paulistanos (São Paulo’s citizens) out front, luxury stores like Louis Vuitton and Christian Dior indicating it was their customers who lived behind the beautiful, walled structures lining the residential area.

Stepping out of the taxi, looks can be deceiving as what seemed like a decent sized tree greeting us at the entrance of the restaurant was really a fruit tree of magnanimous proportions. Swathed in a welcoming, warm, gold light, it is easy to breeze right into the open entrance and head straight for the bar area (where one of the restaurant’s rocket-fuel caipirinha’s is enough to knock you out flat) or the hostess desk, but that would be an injustice to such magnificence. The fig tree quietly dominates from above all the patrons of the evening, feasting on butter soft steaks that are from the cattle raised on the owner’s private farm, with its sweeping extension of branches and leaves. It was someone’s birthday this night, and the celebration under the fig tree was with balloons, song and a cake with sparklers for candles. The fig tree in its own way is a national treasure, and maybe a back door view to what the natural landscape of São Paulo was before millions of people took it over.

From the airplane, to the crew bus, to a city taxi driving deep into the heart of São Paulo, peeling back layers of South America’s largest city one segment at a time, in the midst of modern day structures of steel and concrete, survives a beautiful fig tree.

Crawfish and Cochon - Lafayette, Louisiana

2012-03-05T10:13:00.000-08:00

A trip home to south Louisiana is a trip to culinary utopia. Known for its fresh seafood and delectable dishes such as gumbo, jambalaya, and étouffée, with French, Creole, Spanish, Indian and African influences, it’s a hard choice where to eat some nights. Add with beignets, pork barbecue, and the famous Cajun Zydeco music contributing its zesty sound, the makings are there for what draws foodies to travel from the world over to relish the tastings.

Dwight’s in Lafayette, an establishment that began as a grocery store roughly twenty years ago and is now a packed restaurant most nights of the week, was my first stop. Our party of five arrived at the early hour of 6:00 pm on Saturday night and found one spot in the parking lot, and already a one hour wait for a table. Dwight’s defines basic, nothing fancy here, but the boiled crawfish speaks up for the austere surroundings. In a boil and peel place like this, there is no looking for anything other than perfectly spiced “crawdad’s.” We each put in an order for five pounds of boiled crawfish at $5.00 a pound (an excellent price), and talked and laughed in the midst of swigs of cold beer, and peeling and eating. There is a certain rhythm and method to the process, and with a restaurant full of locals, the pace is fast and furious in an effort to get to the bottom before the cooked crawfish begin to cool. “Nothing is sweeter tasting than early spring crawfish”, as my brother said when we all finished.

Brunch on Sunday was at Cochon (“the pig” in French). A sister to the restaurant of the same name in New Orleans, and recently opened, with a modern decor and overlooking the Vermilion River, it was a perfect choice after a night of beer and crawfish. Dressed up from the jeans we all wore the night before, cocktails of blood orange mimosa’s and bloody mary’s (hands down the best I have ever tasted) were the first order up. Next, the appetizers: “boudin noir with grits, peppers & onions, sunny side up quail egg”, and “wood-fired oyster roast” which, according to Miss Julie, an elegant 83-year old local whose home where she was born is now where City Hall sits, “could have done with a little more marsh air.” Then, to follow, grits, black pepper biscuits, and bacon (of course, in a restaurant named Cochon!) as sides, with our main courses of “grilled pork loin & poached eggs with jalapeño crawfish butter”, “corn meal crusted catfish, white bean cassoulet and herb chile rice”, and “pain perdu (“lost bread”, a French speciality) with strawberry syrup, candied pecans, Nola rum whipped cream” for something sweet to balance it all out.

What did Dorothy say in the Wizard of Oz? “There’s no place like home.”

Beach Art in Rio

2012-02-22T20:14:00.000-08:00

My first crew layover in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil was admission to a free outdoor art gallery. Artistic expression abounds on the south side of Rio! It began with our crew layover hotel’s lobby where one of several magnificent costumes for Carnival greeted guests. Not 20 yards from the front of our crew hotel, walking toward Ipanema Beach, I passed a mural painted on the stone wall running alongside the road. So vivid, and full of life in color; I tried to decipher the meaning from the mural. Angry? Political? In love?'

The ruler straight sidewalk of geometric alternating black and white design running along the length of the famous Ipanema Beach is a standout. Standing at one end, and trying to spot the opposite end, the pattern harked of rounded-edged square metal links, an unbroken chain for miles, coming in and out of black/white focus with the switch of my adjusting eyesight. This traditional style “Portuguese pavement” (Calçada Portuguesa) of paving the way with natural stone has been used since early Roman times (think of the vias in Rome - which are slowly being paved over citywide by asphalt). The Portuguese adapted the method, using the decorative black (basalt) and white (limestone) cobblestones in artistic and symbolic patterns, now found all over Portugal, and the former Portuguese colonies of Brazil and Macau.

Each cobblestone is cut in perfect dimension, and placed with careful precision to give the smooth and even overall effect. One of the Portuguese speakers on my crew, who is from northern Brazil, explained to me the importance of the sidewalks to the Cariocas (as locals in Rio call themselves). The sidewalks, if damaged, are repaired immediately in the same old-fashioned method traditional craftsmen (calceteiros) have used in Portugal since 1849. Because the job is back breaking, the work in Rio is often done by poorly paid laborers, like the one I came across when walking to Ipanema Beach.

The other famous beach in Rio, Copacabana, is 2.5 miles (4km) long with a black and white wave swirl, swishing along the entire length of the beach, a pattern designed by the noted Brazilian landscape architect Roberto Burle Marx. He modeled his design after the famous Rossio Square in Lisbon, Portugal, a design translated as “the wide sea.” But, the most captivating art at Copacabana Beach were the sand castles, elaborate and labor intensive, prizeworthy at any sand castle contest in the world.

Later that evening as our crew was walking through a section of the Leblon neighborhood on our way to dinner, I spotted a mini-truck, saturated with design, and eye-popping color, conveying the message “this truck sells fish!” Someone directed their passion - for their creative side, or for their business - into painting that truck! The wall of graffiti behind it created a nice background canvas, quite by accident I am sure.

None of these individual artists, ordinary citizens to world-renown professional, knew what a collective and spectacular display of art and expression they created within a 5 mile stretch of Rio de Janeiro.

Fashion & Flying Fusion on the Runway - CHANEL Haute Couture Printemps-Été 2012

2012-02-10T09:08:00.000-08:00

All ice blue and cool vibe groove going forward down the runway, Chanel hit the stratosphere with its 1960‘s Pan Am inspired Spring 2012 collection. This was a moment in retrospect to the days when women “dressed” to fly. Furs, jewels, gloves, hats - and those to-die-for-suits and fitted dresses - all part of what was expected of the traveler in the early days of luxury, jet engine travel (Boeing 707, anyone?).

Despite a few futuristic space travel dresses, the overall collection reflected the era of a modern age of flying with the advent of the jet engine. The evening dresses were pure ethereal simplicity, and captivating. In fabrics of pale blue tweed, trademark Chanel suits were shown, the height of suited glamour. The stand-out dress of the collection was sheathed with iridescent paillettes, paired seamlessly with stockings bejeweled with crystals reflecting the blue and silver colors of shimmering spring rain.

Always striving for a set design that is cutting-edge in an industry that sews it’s salts on what is next and hip, Chanel unveiled its collection in Paris’ Grand Palais, with its ceilings of glass allowing a suspension of space between the runway and the sky. The runway’s aircraft ceiling mood lighting reflected the interior cabin of the new Boeing 787 Dreamliner. The set design was sleek, streamlined and ultra-modern in its look when viewed from above; Pan Am of the past meets Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Chanel channeled retro Pan Am stewardess when being young, beautiful and a stewardess was the epitome of hip, cool and glamorous, as they circled the globe, effortlessly drinking cool cocktails out of uniform at only the finest establishments in the City of Light. The Chanel spring collection empowered the vision of the multi-lingual stewardess who traveled the world, one glamourous trip after another.

Having Dinner with Bob Dylan - London, England

2012-02-04T19:10:00.000-08:00

Tonight I ate dinner with Bob Dylan. And Paul Simon. Oh, and Jimi Hendrix. And a host of other legends of the folk rock music era of the ’60’s. Across town in Soho during that time, I envision the Austin Powers swingin’ set dressed up, rockin’ everything oh-so-British, when, near’s Earl’s Court, a movement all its own was happening as these folk rock legends were discussing the changes to come with the social movements taking root, all while they played their music in a coffeehouse called the Troubadour.

If I didn’t know what I was looking for on Old Brompton Road, I surely would have missed the entrance tonight as the facade does not adequately reveal the treasures inside. Even though the Troubadour has a few seats outside (for the downright brave in the damp cold -2C/28F weather) and plate glass windows fronting it, this is a traditional coffeehouse - nothing neon and flashy to grab the attention of the passerby.

It pays tribute to it’s namesake, as the menu squares off its meal choices with titles such as “Intro” (appetizers) and “Finale” (desserts). I chose to start with a champagne and a kir royale since it was before the 7:30 pm 2-for-1 cocktail cut-off. I sat at a small bistro table, next to a rack of newspapers, but was far more interested in listening to the multiple conversations going on all around me. My initial waitress was French; after that, it was British all the way. Being such a famous place, and a Friday night, I expected to see more than locals squeezing their way in; instead, it was all sophisticated, twenty/thirty something, laid-back locals, deep in conversations. My dinner was above my expectations. Admittedly, I half anticipated standard food choices, and sub-par taste. Instead, my “Intro” choice of Ciabatta Grill with goat cheese, portobello mushroom, spinach, tomato and rocket, with a light pesto sauce was spot on - filling and fresh. The waitress laughed when she saw my plate - it was licked clean.

Afterwards, I trekked downstairs to see where the legends themselves played when they were still unknowns. For £7 before 10:00 pm (£8 afterwards), I would have been able to stay and listen to five different talented artists playing their music, which is the best deal in London town going on a Friday night. I walked in on a packed house listening to Morrissey & Marshall, and wished I could have stayed until the 2:00 am closing.

The intimate, bohemian feeling - the colorful old tin coffee pots lining the top of the windows, the bistro tables allowing tête-à-tête conversations, the absence of “famous faces” photos, the music of Dionne Warwick’s “Walk on By”, Stevie Nicks’ “Rihanna’ and Peter, Paul and Mary playing in the background - is what gives rise to the continued success of the Troubadour as an authentic, and original, coffeehouse. No place could possibly replicate it since its musical history is the aura that plays through the air. It’s a true original.

Shopping the Black Market - Shanghai, China

2012-02-01T10:31:00.000-08:00

Going shopping at the black market in Shanghai, China is an art unto itself. My friend Janet, a former flight attendant, was in Shanghai for a couple of years, and I went over to visit her for one week. Janet grew up in Hawaii, and is ethnically Chinese, Filipino and Spanish - she is very beautiful, and looked like a local. Her driver introduced her to the black market vendors he knew, getting her foot in the door, and from there, she made her own connections. This is not the shopping market to venture into without guidance. I expected the black market to be rickety stalls, and hush-hush deals; it turned out to be an enormous, modern, underground shopping mall.

Janet told me to follow her lead, and stick with her, as some parts of the “underground city” were off limits - the activity in those sections a little too criminal. Her driver dropped us off, and down the steps we went into the black market of Shanghai. The first store we went to was the preliminary stop in the process. Janet spoke to the male vendor, an older man who welcomed her with a familiar smile, broken English and more pens that she could use in a lifetime. Janet bought some small items, and motioned for me to do the same, which I promptly did. Now we could be taken to the serious shopping vendors.

Down one of the corridors of the labyrinth of the market we followed her vendor friend. We turned a corner and it was like walking into the Louis Vuitton store on Avenue Montaigne in Paris. Blond wood paneling throughout, neat rows of designer bags like museum pieces lining the shelves, customers eyeing the goods with a sharp eye. Janet acknowledged the necessary “hello’s” and before I knew it, the far right wall opened up like a scene from a James Bond movie. This was the real deal goods - Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Prada - all lining the shelves of this private, and very small showroom. I picked out a LV summer handbag, and a brown and cream Prada handbag.

There was absolutely no way to tell the difference between an authentic designer handbag bought in Paris, and a black market bag bought in Shanghai. The most minute detail was covered. I turned my handbags inside out and could not find a stamp, or mistake. The handbags even came with the soft chamois storage bag, embossed with the brand logo. The Chinese can copy anything, and since they are the ones who make the bags for the actual French and Italian designers, it is easy for them to re-make them for the black market. Supposedly, some of the workers bring the leftover materials out of the factories; hence some of the areas Janet and I avoided in the black market.

There were people at the market with black garbage bags hauling merchandise both in, and out. Despite how “normal” this mall looked, it had a distinctly different feel to it. Two handbags were enough for me. My Louis Vuitton didn’t last six months; my Prada bag I still use, four years later. I am sure I could never find the market again, and don’t really want to unless I am with another local. It really is the safest way to go.

Point G - The Modern Macaron - Montreal, Quebec, Canada

2012-01-28T13:16:00.000-08:00

In the rarified world of perfect macarons, Ladurée, in Paris, seems to arguably set the gold standard. Pierre Hermé, Gérard Mulot, Dalloyau - all are equally fabulous. Point G in Montreal gives each of these steep and serious competition. Where as Ladurée is all pale vert amande and gold, Louis XIV decor, as if Marie-Antoinette herself would be sitting next to you drinking tea and eating a plate full of candy-colored macarons, Point G is the edgier younger sister, with fuchsia pink hair and a lower cut corset.

Co-owner Thierry Andrieu at Cirque du Soleil

I took my professional macaron taste-tester with me to see if these macarons held up against the legendary Parisian puffs of sugar and cream. My step-daughter, Emma, having been born in Paris, would make her daily meals of macarons if we let her, and she probably will once she lives there again in a few years. Emma slowly perused the choices at Point G, asked about each and every flavor, and with great attention picked out the six she wanted to have slowly melt in her mouth, a truly savoring moment. I watched her try one, then another, the next brought an even more satisfying smile, and I realized, we have a winner! It is no wonder that for their 25th anniversary celebration in 2009, Cirque du Soleil chose Point G to serve their macarons.

There is not a flavor that doesn’t delight and excite; my favorite is still the caramel fleur-de-sel, the exact mixture of sweet and salty. Emma will try the bold, new, and unusual flavors with abandon.

Montreal is Paris wrapped up in European upbringing, with North American experience. Point G is the gold nugget you find in the midst of it all. It sits in an area that is off the beaten tourist path, yet for any Montreal resident, sits perfectly in the heart of the Plateau Mont-Royal. Perfect macarons I am sure even Marie-Antoinette would love.

Yesterday at Narita's Hatsu-mōde Festival

2012-01-26T18:31:00.000-08:00

The Shinshō-ji (新勝寺 ) Buddhist temple in Narita-san, Chiba prefecture, near Tokyo’s Narita airport (NRT), is one of Japan’s most popular temples to visit for the month-long (January) Hatsu-mōde (初詣) - a Japanese citizen’s first shrine visit of the New Year, where trains run all night long between Tokyo and Narita on New Year’s Eve. Built in 940, Shinshō-ji Temple has The Great Pagoda of Peace set within the tranquil Naritasan Park.

I walked along Green Street yesterday, one of the old streets of Narita, and arrived at the temple before 9:00 am - a bright, but very damp and cold morning. I kept slipping on the icy sidewalk, and kept thinking how badly I craved a hot cup of coffee. Most places weren’t open yet, so I headed straight for the temple.

The overwhelming majority of visitors to the temple were the elderly. Undaunted, they hiked the steep steps, walked through the gardens, strolled arm in arm, followed their tour leaders, and paid their respects. I think I was the only westerner that morning visiting the temple. Along with the Japanese, I washed my hands and mouth at the tsukubai (for purification), threw my coin in the well at the Great Main Hall, bowed for reverence, and clapped twice to keep evil spirits away.

At the temple entrance were stalls selling all manners of Japanese souvenirs. Tempting as it was, I pressed on further down Green Street to the vendors selling their wares on the street. By now it was 10:30 am and the street was really coming to life. I was amazed at not only the number of Japanese tourists, led by their flag-on-a-stick tour leaders, but how many locals were walking around, shopping and buying.

At one open-air restaurant I watched two young Japanese men slice and dice fish with skilled precision. As I watched the two men - one filleted the fish, the other threaded the filets with small, wooden sticks - I made a mental note to eat there for dinner on my next NRT layover. Further along, one shop was selling nothing but sake, and giving free tastings. If I wasn’t working the flight back to New York later that day, I would have been waiting in line - I love sake!