Write Around the World

La Dolce Vita

2010-07-24T12:09:00.000-07:00

Hello Lovelies,

I am so sorry to disappoint, but though I promised photos of Austin, I committed the ultimate travel writer sin and didn't take a single one! I was too busy eating brisket and ribs and mac and cheese and breakfast tacos.

Needless to say, all the weight I lost being on the South Beach diet has found it's way back to my thighs! Yet, I know I will be living the life of the starving artist in about a month, so I'm stocking up, preparing for the winter hibernation.

Why will I be the starving artist in a month, you question? Because I have relocated to NYC for grad school, and you know what students eat.....nothing.

So on that note, step on over to my new blog: www.strangershavethebestcandy.com and check out what I'm up to in NYC.

If you come back here expecting news, sorry can't help you. I'll be in candyland, where it's su-weeeeeet!

See you on the flip side....

Everything's Bigger in Texas

2010-07-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

So I'm in Austin!!!!! My first time staying longer than a 24-hour connection in the Lone Star state and I'm loving it already. I know Ive been behind in the blog world, but I'm moving to NYC people, so you're going to have look out for my new blog, details to come soon, and get ready for Write Around the World to take a brief hiatus.

N-E-WAYZZZZZ.....The Austin Skyline will be photographed ad nauseum today, so stay tuned for pics like this....

...and for lunch, it's going to be a decadent, delish afternoon spent at Bess Bistro. www.bessbistro.com. Check out the Mac and Cheese on the menu. Does that sound heavenly or what?!

All I can say is picture-taking, mac-and-cheese-eating YUM!

Till soon.....

Blast from the Past

2010-06-11T13:33:00.000-07:00

I got a tweet yesterday that said, "#nowplaying Fleetwood Mac: Landslide" and that just brought me back almost 10 years, to 2002, when a Fleetwood Mac tape with "Landslide" was one of the few on a road trip I took to Anchorage, AK to hit up the local Wal-Mart.

I was bundled in tight with two sisters from Fairbanks, Jennifer and Denali, who was a single mom, in Jennifer's Ford Bronco, or Explorer, or something like that. We were all in the same English class at Prince William Sound Community College in Valdez (of Exxon Valdez fame) and when you live in a po-dunk, white trash town of 4,000 on a good day, a four-hour road trip to Wal-Mart sounds just awesome.

While the above pic is not from any of the "Wal-Mart Trips" to Anchorage, it is still Alaska. It's actually a view that I had to pass at least twice a day on my way to school. Smack centre is Mt. McGinnis, aka Nipple Mountain, and don't be fooled, people have been airlifted off, or unfortunately died on, that simple-looking boobie. To the right in the back are the Mendenhall Towers, a rough, ice-age era snarl baring its unforgiving teeth from the middle of the Mendenhall Glacier.

I'm going to buy a writing cabin in Juneau one of these days. I guess I should started on the book that's going to help me do it.

Trinidad - and not the one with Carnival

2010-05-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

Trinidad!

Readers, all seven of you, I present to you, Trinidad, Cuba. If this town had been by a river and just a tad more opulent, I could absolutely see Florentino Ariza writing mournfully long poems in a cobblestreet-side cafe to his beloved Fermina Daza, minus the cholera.

I felt excellently adventured back to 1893 (randomly chosen date), with many a scruffy looking vendor selling fruit or insufficiently sweetened/moistened pastries from carts, 90% of the population on rusty bicycles, and the remaining 10% bouncing low in 1960s automotive gems (as seen above)...

Amid the galleries and the craft markets stood centuries old churches, guitar-playing old men (soon to come) and blissfully ignorant school children. While Viñales had been oh soooo sleepy, Trinidad moved equally as slow as molasses, but it had a certain charm that made that negligible. For the list of charming items, read on....

Juliet-worthy balconies? Check.

Rennaissance churches à la (Pollo) Tropical? Check.

Adorable seaside cottages on the way to the beach? Check.

Gar-ge-ous (as my friend says) views of the island sloping around the bend? Check.

Cloud-ruffled sky, perfect for pics? Check.

A trio of characters to form the triumvirate of people-watching perfection? Check.

Trinidad was superfragilistic awesomeness. Just don't do what I did, which is take a long-ass 7-hour bus ride from Viñales, arrive starving, tired and psycho-killer delirious, get fed-up with the home-stay options immediately presented and then let gut-wrenching hunger and ennui lure you into the otherwise obvious trap set by home-stay proprietor, Carlo, whose name has been changed for security purposes.

Here is a summation of the experience staying with Carlo:

"You have breakfast tomorrow?" No, Carlo, thanks, we go out.

Next morning, Carlo makes breakfast anyway.

"Carlo, we told you we didn't want breakfast. Oh, you thought psychological tricks could work, i.e. we see breakfast, we eat? Negative."

"You want bicycle, I have berry good bicycle."

Apparently, "good bicycle" in Carlo-speak means bad brakes, hardly a seat, no gears, and airless tyres. I would scan the chiropractic bill, but I'm having technical difficulties.

On our last night in town, Carlo went out and got drunk and brought home a lady-friend. Thereth endeth the description. I sayeth no more.

Except that Trinidad is the bomb.

We Interrupt this Regularly Scheduled Broadcast...

2010-04-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

....to bring visions of future trip heaven.

For some time now I have been salivating across my screen at images of this gargantuan-in-scope, megalith of a national park. Torres del Paine is the name, and it's deep in Chilean Patagonia territory.
And in the words of Liz Lemon: I.Want.To.Go.There.

And while it may not be covered in cheese, or doused in gravy, it's just as tantalizing. There are rushing rivers and glacial flows down which to kayak, rocky, jagged mountain up which to hike; sprawling fields in which to camp; smooth, amorphous ice on which to climb, trek, scale, sharp; unforgiving glaciers on which to climb, camp, scale; sloping vales in which to spot wild-life, horseback ride, cross. It's like that dream deluxe anniversary edition of Nat Geo Adventure magazine brought to life.

What's not to love?

I'm watching you Torres de Paine, and I'm coming after you.

(The small pics just don't capture the "ness". It so much "muchier" in real life, I imagine.)

Viñales

2010-03-23T16:55:00.000-07:00

Despite that my best friend told me I would enjoy the countryside and rural Cuba the most, and that I needed to "get out of Havana as soon as you get there", everything had it's place. So for those who loved the towns, the country had its place too; it reminded me so much of rural Jamaica. It was something to experience, and more enlightenment on all that Cuba is...

The trip to Viñales was almost ruined when what I thought was just a straight bus ride was announced, via a microphoned woman up front, as a tour. I seethed for the length Central Havana and then conceded defeat. It turns out that until we got to the Tobacco farm, where the maestro roller pictured up top was demonstrating the art of stogey-making, the "tour" was just the microphoned woman talking. I survived.

The Cuban Five - a group of revolutionary intelligence officers that were convicted of espionage and conspiracy to commit murder, and the entire country is confident will eventually be freed. It seems they may have been from Viñales, 'cause their image was all over. Even on the farm, two feet from the rows of plants.

Tobacco leaves hanging in the A-frame shed. I thought they shredded the leaves somehow and then wrapped them, but apparently a cigar is just a bunch of full-sized leaves rolled together. Who'd a thunk it?

My farmer and the Cuban farmer. Can you tell which is which?

The money shot: old car, country road. Can't say fairer than that.

I would say Viñales has a population of about 100, 135 when tourists roll in; it looked like something out of No country for Old Men. Yet, down a dirt road, amid three bedroom haciendas with barefoot children running with sticks, the revolution lives on.

What attracted me to Viñales was pictures I had seen of those massive limestone karsts visible in the background. They just rise up ethereally around the town. In the re-make, Julie Andrews sings, "The hills are aliiiiiiiiivvvve with smell of tobacco....."

The personalities of Viñales were fun to people-watch. This guy looked like he was in for the night. It was a long call, he had to make himself comfortable.

This guy asked me about his picture, "Handsome, no?" Si, Senor.

Everyone around was lining up to get these rectangular cakes that they serve you on slab of cardboard. I learned the hard way that no store in Cuba has shopping bags (much less boxes), you have to bring your own. I left a little bakery we found with about 15 individual mini-bread rolls piled in my hands. I kept trying to get a shot of people with their cake, but they were grabbing it and going, so I came upon this little familia who were nice and stationary.

Speaking of familias, Christopher and I met the coolest one, during our Viñales home-stay. We have Olga (2nd left), her daughter Olgita (little Olga) and Olga's hubby. They chatted with us and talked about the Cuban government and life in Cuba and (gasp!) the fact that they are not rushing to get to the States and stay, despite that they have family. They also made us the most awesomest, scrumptiousest dinner of the whole trip! We were a little concerned about having lobster in the middle of a farming valley miles from the sea, but who'd a thunk it. Better than anything we ate the WHOLE trip.

Sautéed lobster, green tomato salad, black beans and steamed rice. I peered into my squeaky clean lobster tail, scavenging for more. It was awesomeness embodied!

Lobster: It's what's for dinner!

Till next time.........

Havana - Part 1

2010-03-14T17:39:00.000-07:00

We start things with the image of the classic car. The ubiquitous Havana cultural icon. More than you can count, more than you can marvel at, and all the while, all I could think was "where do they get the parts to repair these?" But I guess if all the cars are 1950s Chevy sedans, then parts probably come easy. Evidence, the taxi row below.

Havana was time warp: crumbled baroque and renaissance architecture (see El Capitolio), wrinkled old men and ladies hovering over fretwork balconies, cigars from their lips and no notice of the obvious tourists with the baby-sized cameras dangling from their necks. I grew up in a resort town, so I love how Havana didn't slow down for all the tourists, how life scurried on very frenetically, in spite of my presence. It was refreshing.

We stumbled upon Plaza Catedral and had two stogeys and bottle of wine. It was a great first afternoon in the capital. I got this shot of the inside of the church and stealthily snapped a doctress all dressed up. Usually they want a little moolah for their pic, but...

Right before, we had lunch at the much publicized La Bodeguita del Medio, where Hemmingway drank a mojito every afternoon. There no longer make them like they made them in his day (now lacking rum and general mojito-ness), but it was an experience. I can't tell you how disappointed I was to learn that the place had been franchised. The Horror!

I did write my name on the wall though, which is just about covered!

Never far from the mind is the revolution and all its glory. This is just one of the many wall murals reminding passers-by just what Castro et al have been fighting for. Viva!

Personally, instead of getting all caught up in all that revolution talk, I like to just enjoy a cold Bucanero. It's a much-better way to occupy my mouth.

We finished off the evening near Plaza Vieja, at El Meson de la Flota and enjoyed some tapas and flamenco. Awesomeness. Off to a great start. Need to figure out how to load videos though.

Viva La Revolución!

2010-02-22T18:22:00.000-08:00

In one day I will be touching down in Havana, Cuba! Despite all my travels, I have not explored this cultural masterpiece 90 miles to the north; but finally, I am seeing platanos in my future, black beans and rice, cigars, sweeping, palatial squares, vintage cars, crystal waters, and according to my friend, fab jewellery shopping.

I have one week to explore, and so I have a few things I definitely want to do: ride a moped, see Viñales Valley and Veradero, dance some Salsa, smoke a fat stogey, buy a mini Cuban house to add to my mother's mini-house collection and score some antique bling. In one week, we'll see what I have to report. Stay tuned......

Mi Luv Mi Likkle Kuntry

2010-02-10T07:01:00.000-08:00

Jamaica Land We Love....home of the fried dumpling, Asafa Powell's butt cheeks, Port Antonio, people who say flim and cerfiticate (my peops know what I'm talking about), the seventh largest natural harbour in the world and an unblemished national airline flying record (we'll miss you Air J), almost as many Ms World's as Venezuela, the inventors of the hammock and the pushcart. Birthplace of the late Prof Rex and the living the Honourable Usain Bolt, Bob Marley's vocal chords, and mad songwriting skills, curry goat, rice and peas and the starapple. We have Kumina, Dancehall, Soca, Daggering, Rent a Tile, Ska, Skanking, Dinky Mini (ah so it spell?), Brukkings and can Grand Jete just like the rest of them.

For a little a tiny little island the size of Connecticut, we have a lot going on for us. The land, the people, the history, the food, the music, the sayings, the isms and the skisms. As much as I love travelling the world, I love coming home even more, even when I start to cuss off the taxi drivers before I can leave the airport and the heat start tek me. I've had the opportunity to do three very fun things in Jamaica recently: Horseback riding and ziplining, flying in a small plane across the island and climbing to the Blue Mountain peak. Each time, I was reminded of how absolutely gorgeous Jamaica is, and how lucky I am to live here.

Courtesy of Chukka Caribbean Tours, I had a blast and rode a horse for the first time years. This is Whitney and I on the beach. So I guess beauty, inspires greatness, cause a scene from the Dustin Hoffman flick Papillon was filmed here.

Then we rode in the water with the horses. It was really incredible to feel how strong the animals were and feel their power beneath me. A definite bucket list item.

The zipline tour ended at the gorgeous Cranbrook Gardens, where I caught this shot of the river. I could have just sat there all day. By the way, stay tuned for a video of the ziplining. It was 100% awesomeness.

I love, love, love, love, love royal palms. I think they are simply majestic and if I'm lucky enough to have a yard at my house, I want them lining something. Anything.

Flying time. This is a shot of the north coast, heading out of Montego Bay. Look at the little white clouds and that amazing water. If more people could fly over this little island, they would see just how special it is.

Cockpit Country. Naturally formed limestone karsts that are full of caves and flora and fauna. Every time I see it, I just want to go exploring.

Hiking to the peak. The sun coming up over the foothill as I made my way up Jacob's Ladder, the name, or at least part of, the trail that takes you up to the peak.

No wonder you can never see the peak. At 7,402 ft (2,256 metres), you can see above the atmosphere. We never saw Cuba though...got up there a taaaad late, like 10:00 am.

I was incredibly lucky on the way down though. I caught a shot of the illusive Blue Mountain White Fox (Latin name, Jamaicanus Whitus Brownus Mongrelos Dogus). They are almost never seen in the day and subsist on young ferns and snacks left by hikers. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time.

So that's my little photo tribute to Jamdown. The Rock isn't perfect, but we definitely have something good going here.

Throwback Tuesday - Tibet

2010-01-26T19:18:00.000-08:00

So I've been on a kind of spiritual kick these past few days, doing a lot of thinking, a lot of soul searching, asking myself big questions. And all of this got me thinking about my trip to Lhasa, Tibet. Personally, the less likely I think I am to visit a destination, the more special that place ends up being. I know that sentence is awkward, but it's late. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure it's grammatically correct.

Anyhoo, Lhasa was a dirty, unkempt, slightly crowded city and I loved every minute of it. I believe in energy in all things, and Tibet had a fantastic energy. It didn't matter that I saw monks begging (not really living the chaste life there, are we?), or carrying cell phones (and what did Buddha say about owning stuff?) or that everyone seemed to be wearing a face mask because those who weren't were already sick (and that's just regular flu, not the bird stuff). The city spoke volumes about tradition, and beliefs and a bizarre, surreal connection with nature.

Amid the Barkhor (the square), mixed with students and vendors, prostraters (people doing repeated rhythmic push-ups in prayer) and sightseers, there's colour and modernity mixed with eons-old temples. Despite the crowds and jostling I had experienced all around China, and the fact that Lhasa was no less busy, I still felt like I was in a little piece of the world that hadn't acquired "the rush". That's what I'm calling tweeting and "unfriending" and constant email access: "the rush". There was life, and it was moving, but it wasn't rushed.

Ah, no rush, like the butcher, peddling the simple things, like a nice slab of yak meat.

And yet simpler, just the yak butter. Warm, toasted rolls anyone? A little jam with that?

Then after your solid breakfast of yak bacon and yak butter toast, you walk around town, happy as a lark (pictured above), and see buildings like this little hole in the wall, you have to stop and think, where is this place and what do the people living here feel like? I'll you what they feel like, they're thinking, why can't I be the Dalai Lama and have this sweet bachelor pad as my "Summer Palace". That's right, the Potala Palace is his summer spot, not even year round. The D Lama is a pimp!

But then you get upstairs in just about any building, and this is the view. Not having your own summer pad doesn't seem like the end of the world.

Or you can drive for a night and wake up to Everest outside your car window. The mighty Everest, slayer, breaker of bones, silent, dormant and unknowing. The Tibetan name for Everest is Chomolungma, which means "Saint Mother". Perhaps the Tibetans call her a saint because they know that as long as you don't wake her, it's all good.

Or back in town, you stop by a shop and for about US$1.00, you get a steaming bowl filled with dumplings, soup, veggies and meat, and you don't have to guess which kind.

Outside the shop, old and new worlds collide. My Korean travelling buddy Bok Yeon stops to show a monk her picture on the screen. She's done this before; she knew to ask to see it, but it was like she was seeing it for the first time.

So I have two parting thoughts: when you find yourself somewhere you never expected to be, a new place, in hot water at work, at a strip club at 3:00 am on a Monday, facing a fork in the road, wherever....take it in. Try to see it as if for the first time, be open to the newness, the strangeness and take from it whatever you need. The be grateful you're not a guset in Lhasa. Gusets don't seem to have much luck there.

Parting thought number 2, to my yardies. You see how far we reach?! Nuff said.

Front and centre at the local bazaar.....

and holding the most treasured item in any Chinese bathroom stall......the TP. Dat's right, we run tings...

Tacky Falls

2010-01-19T06:43:00.000-08:00

Recently, I had the rare pleasure of discovering something completely new, as well as beautiful, at home. I escorted a visiting journalist and his girlfriend to a remote and somewhat hard to find waterfall, Tacky Falls, just above Robin's Bay in St. Mary. I had driven by Robin's Bay countless times, heard about the area, even been told I should check out the hotel (a striking Vermont-B&B-meets-the-hotel-in-The Shining type establishment), but I had never ventured anywhere near.

After stopping about four times for directions, one of which was the Islington Police Station where a local lady made it sound like we were taking on a monumental search and rescue operation), we drove, literally, to the end of the road where some local guys shouted "You're lost" and "Tacky Falls?" at the car. Having two of them as our guides wasn't really a question, as more of a "You're heading there? OK, follow me", and off we went.

Above, Rohan, guide #1 chops away at bamboo to clear a path for us. You can't tell, but he's barefoot.

The first viewing of the falls. Everton, guide #2, is a great gauge for the height of the cascade. It was such a magnificent, sheer wall of rock and gushing water. Perhaps not as long or wide as some of Jamaica's other more known falls, but still pretty awesome for something tucked away from the main road.

The Money Shot. Enough with this, "I was depressed after watching Avatar" nonsense. Just look around you! And if you live in Michigan, go on vacation!

All up in my George Foreman...

Some local residents, Momma and baby.

I left at 6 am to head back in to Kingston and caught my favourite view on the north coast just as the sun had come up. This is on the side of the road as you approach the turn off for Noel Coward's Firefly. For once, you could see the Blue Mountain range (background) without its ubiquitous shawl of clouds, the sound of the waves below was so calm and reassuring. If only all Mondays could start like that.

The Fijian Islands

2009-11-11T06:58:00.000-08:00

The Fijian Islands are one of those places I never expected to get to before I was 40 and married. Yet, as luck would have it, I did a brief stint in acting, got a part in a play with the Fairbanks Shakespeare Theatre Company and we were invited to perform for the Shakespeare Congress in Brisbane, Australia. Quantas, the lovely carrier of all visitors to Down Unda, offers a lovely little treat to all departing their lovely country: A stop-over. Any OZ city on your way out of dodge, Auckland, New Zealand, Fiji and LA (if that's not your last stop). I figured I would one-day explore my hobbit ancestries all over NZ, I had been to Brisbane, and LA wasn't even a consideration. That's like choosing Florida over Iceland. Now Fiji, that was somewhere I wasn't expecting to get to any time soon. Plus, it's one of the few countries where I didn't need to get a visa, so Bula Bula off I went!

One of the things that struck me about Fiji was how like Jamaica it was. In Nadi, the other large city that's not the capital, there were little things that were so 1960s Jamaica. Case in point, this sugar cane train, just moseying along through town.

The market is very present day Jamaica, and just tons of gorgeous fresh fruit and vegetables. Up front, my favourite, papaya. Or as we call it in Jamaica, paw paw.

One not so Jamaica aspect was the Indian temples. We have a lot of Indians in Jamaica, but apparently in Fiji, they came over and kinda ran the place a for a bit (a source of contention with the Fijians now) and so they built a few places of worship. This is temple off the main drag in Nadi.

One the spots I stayed at on the Coral Coast (in the south) had recreated a local Fijian village in the back, they had men in grass skirts dancing, the man rowing the boat, the whole nine yards. At night, there was a little concert where guests could sit in a circle with musicians, learn about Fijian culture and drink Kava, the national drink made from the root of the same name. The stuff is definitely an acquired taste.

Some dancers looking sexy for an impromptu performance at the hotel.

So, this hotel, the name of which I cannot remember, is somewhere between Korolevu and Korotoga, and is essentially the launching point for trips to the tiny islands of Yanuca (pictured here, and pronounced Yanutha) and Beqa (pronounced mbenga). These islands are a surfer's paradise, and while lounging on the beach, I dreamed up the crack pot idea that I wanted to swim to this island. Yeah, that lasted a good half hour, when I remembered how I hyperventilate snorkeling in 40 ft of water because I start thinking about the various sea creatures and how much faster than me they swim. It was a pipe dream. I found a local fisherman the next day and took a nice little motor boat over, and hung out at the charmingly rustic Yanuca Island Resort.

It was completely empty and rained the whole time, so my travelling buddy, Willis, and I hung out and watched Being John Malkovich and ate some porridge that the host prepared for us.

I was determined to do some kind of water sport, so I got out the snorkel gear and went to town in the rain. The water was grey with low visibility, so I started to hyperventilate in about 5 ft of water so I got out.

Next up was Nananu-I-Ra Island, at the top of the main island, Viti Levu and definitely one of the cool spots of the trip. Here we have Don Pedro and Iselita from the Nananu Island Lodge water shuttle. Just kidding, I don't know their names, they were just on the boat.

The first sighting of Nananu Island Lodge. We camped. It was awesome.

Nananu is famous for the diving, but that wasn't on the agenda this trip. Instead, walks to the top of the mountain to catch views of the main island sufficed. Very cool.

Sunset on Nananu. I'm sure I could have had smoothies with Gwyneth in LA, ran with Legolas in New Zealand or gotten really up close and personal with a kangaroo in Melbourne or Sydney, but I'm pretty content with my layover choice. People are really surprised I've been to Fiji, and sometimes I can't believe it either.

Vundabar!

2009-10-11T19:33:00.000-07:00

Alas, we begin the coverage of the remainder of the Monterey trip with California deer. One would think that after Alaska, the strange mix of wildlife and pavement would mean nothing to me, but it was still very cool to see these little cuties traipsing around the yard. There were 4 in total.

Fun times at the farmer's market. I was chomping on a chicken tikka wrap. Yum!

While I was in town, there was an antique car show going on. So I had Jeeves fedex my baby up from my Atlanta mansion. Yes, you can fedex a car, just ask Jeeves.

I went to the golf course at Spanish Bay, to do nothing else except listen to the famous babpiper that plays every evening at sunset. This one was a chic, and she rocked.

This building was on the boardwalk in San Jose, but I could just see it being somewhere in Mexico and in the movie Desperado. Viva Antonio Banderas' sexiest role.

And here we have it that I am rounding off the trip with a little heel kick. It was great to visit Monterey, yippee ka-yay!

So that's it, stay tuned to the recession-proofing, coming up next week.

FYI

2009-09-14T14:28:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note, I have been having some serious technical difficulties these past two weeks, i.e. dead computer, and had to be sharing computers with a friend of mine, who has his own company to run. You can imagine the frustration. I then ordered a new Dell Mini and have been going through the arduos process of transferring files. Arrrrggggghhhhhhh. If the dead computer wasn't enough, it magically came back on one day, (did I really need that Mini?) got it to work and then the Internet at my house conked out and has yet to return. So now I have to be living at my sister's house and various coffee shops, still transferring files and trying to wean myself off the old and usher in the new.

Be patient. More tales of Monterey, and beyond are coming.

Viva El Monterey!

2009-09-06T17:15:00.000-07:00

"The nature of parties has been imperfectly studied. It is, however, generally understood that a party has a pathology, that it is a kind of an individual and that it is likely to be a perverse individual. And it is also generally understood that a party hardly ever goes the way it is planned or intended."

Cannery Row

John Steinbeck

Word, Steinbeck. Word. Monterey/Carmel, California. Wine country. Steinbeck country. Big Sur country. All sorts of gastronomic and topographic goodness. Before arriving in Monterey/Carmel, I had heard tons of stories about how beautiful it was, how chic and how quaint. What I hadn't heard was that one of my favourite authors, John Steinbeck, once called Monterey home. What kind of Lit major had I been?! Just shameful. Nevertheless, after landing and driving around, namely to Salinas and San Jose, I could completely see George and Lennie roaming around and trying to stay out of trouble. And not succeeding.

Day 1. BFFs Emily Barrick and Sophie Sanna take me on a drive up the coast on Highway 1. This is Big Sur country. We go through Pfeiffer National Park, past some of the most amazing, cliff-perching architectural phenomenons I have ever seen. And by the way, these are homes, not museums. When I ask who the hell lives here, Emily informs me that it's the newly wed and the nearly dead. I'm not ready to be married, and I still want to work, but after seeing some of these houses, I think I need to revise my sentiments about that.

Along this drive is the Bixby Bridge, a gorgeous arched bridge that I am sad to learn is suicide method of choice for too many local residents. This is no bueno. The Bixby Bridge is this gorgeous landmark that people come from miles away to see, and then the energy is all screwed up. Let's hope the beauty compensates somewhere in the infinite beyond after bridges are buried.

Bad energy or not, the drive along Highway 1 is one of the things to see before you die. An absolutely decadent coastline, with crags and jagged edges, breaking waves and beautiful beaches. It's also spectacular camping territory, as evidenced by the countless RVs behind which you have to constantly struggle. Ah, the bain of the scenic route...the loaded up families in slow-moving vehicles. Once you look beyond the mobile boxes, though, it's all good.

On the way back (doesn't this just look like a Steinbeck book cover?!), we made a detour into one of the national parks and I got a shot with me and some famous California redwoods. They are ridiculous, and I wasn't even standing next to one of the really big ones.

With a stop off at Nepenthe for a beverage, and a lazy drive back, it was a good day, a beautiful day. What a start to what I anticipate will be a relaxing, and very entertaining jaunt into Big Sur/Steinbeck country. Hasta Luego, more days to come.

Oh one more thing, I'm trying this feed thing and hoping to get subscriptions and such, so have a gander and subscribe if you likey...

Introducing Throwback Tuesday

2009-08-12T07:04:00.000-07:00

So for my birthday, which is next Tuesday, I've decided to recession proof my blog. I can't be in as many places as I'd like to be right now, so I've decided to go back into the archives and shazzam presto changem! I come with Throwback Tuesdays.

Inspired by one of the hottest local radio stations, ZIP FM, where they take it retro on a Tuesday, I have decided I'm going to post a bit about one of my past trips every Tuesday. On days when I am clearly living the life and visiting somewhere new (or renewed) I'll give Throwback Tuesday a break and write about the place I am actually visiting. However, in the downtime, I'd like to keep the posts regular, and so the only way to do that is to dip into the coffers of trips past.

So stay tuned, I should have some New Orleans fare, Alaskan Tundra, Hot and Spicy China, Tibet in Black and White, Doing the Du in Nepal and Boston to the Bizee, among other locales. It's all there, I just need to pretty it up and put a bow on.

Next up on the itinerary: Monterey, California, supposedly a nature-lovers paradise. I'll be so happy when I'm told, once again, to fasten my seat belt and return my tray/seat to the upright position. Yes, I know where the emergency exits are.....ON Y VA! Andale, andale arriba!!

Absentee Blogger

2009-08-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

So it seems that the real world and the fantasy world of high-stakes blogging sometimes collide and the real world wins. My schedule interrupted my quest to bring the Nat Geo music rockumentary to the masses and unfortunately I had to yield the call of the paycheque. Alas, all I had to share was Day 1. I had to skidaddle all over the island on other non-blog-friendly assignments and thus was only able to catch up with the Islands magazine crew, writer Stever Knopper and photographer Jon Whittle, much later (on their last day in town actually) and give them the best Samantha (my '97 dark blue Honda Civic) and I had to offer.

First stop, Trenchtown.

Bob's original inspiration and the humble beginnings of A LOT of reggae music's big names. People often think it's only Bob who started there, but oh, are there more: guitar genius Ernie Ranglin, Alton Ellis, Rita Marley, Theo Beckford, Leroy Sibbles, Bunny Wailer....there were even some political connections too. Alexander Bustamante, Jamaica's first prime minister, was also from Trenchtown.

We got a tour and half and heard about the inspiration for some of Bob's songs, saw the one room with the "single bed" of "I Wanna Love You" fame. There was even the original "Catch a Fire" bus, from which he sold the records when they came out.

Aforementioned bus.

Saw some very priceless memorabilia, i.e. one of Bob's first guitars.

All in all highly educational, especially when I heard from some friends that I should have called first, cause you never know what the factions could be waging in ol' Trenchie. Oh well, Samantha still had her wheels on when we got back, so all's well that ends well.

The view on the way out of the Trenchtown Culture Yard (and a wee bit of Samantha).

Next up, Rockers Records.

But not before I had a true first time experience in all my years living and breathing in Jamaica. We rolled up to a stop light in the Half-Way Tree area and were descended upon by the ever-present, ever-discriminating stoplight denizen: the window washers (aka squeegie guys). Never in my life have I had two window washers unleash their skill upon every window of my car. But, you see, these young steeds are no fools. A girl and two, shall we say, "evident tourists", reeks of cha-ching, especially when the "evident tourist" in front is carrying a camera the size of a two-year-old on his lap. They peered in the windows and pounded their fists on the windshield, then used the squeegie to slap the windshield. And I am now supposed to wind down the window and reach my hand out to you? Ah, poor sap, all I want to do is run over your foot! Nevertheless, as soon as the ordeal began, it was over and we were off again. Vagrants are everywhere and an issue we all have to deal with; I'm just not down with the attitude.

Squeegie guys far behind us, we arrive at Rockers Records, a staple of the downtown music scene and a pioneer in the Jamaican 45 business; still standing and still putting out the records.

45s line the walls at Rockers

Local sales are down (darned electronic age), but the Europeans and Japanese are keeping things going, so Rockers prevails. We met Michey, who, whadda ya know, had a demo to share. I guess the cliche of the aspiring musician working in the music shop isn't so cliche afterall.

Rockers staple, Michey

After Rockers, we ventured to a little studio off Old Hope Rd and caught a very special private concert. Ernie Ranglin and Sly of Sly and Robbie stirring up some trouble, giving a demo of Ska and Rocksteady, and following it up with a classic Ernie Ranglin jam session. It was by far one of the last things I ever expected to experience and certainly not on that day, but I guess when you roll with the right crowd, anything is possible. I wish I could share the video, but I've been sworn to keep it in the vault. I guess you just had to have been there. Yes, I'm lucky. Don't hate.

A rare moment: Ernie and Sly in the studio. And that would be Sly all the way in the back hidden by the drums.

Before the Jam session, Islands writer Steve Knopper gets a word in with Ernie.

Now if only I could say the day ends drama free. On the way back up to Strawberry Hill, I had the unfortunate incident of blowing my tyre to smithereens. It was going to happen sooner than later. There were wires sticking out, that's how worn out the thing was. Fortunately, I had not one, but two potential tyre changers on my hands. I didn't want Steve to get so dirty, but he took one for the team. Jon and I weren't completely inactive. We looked on very encouragingly, held bolts and told Steve how strong he was. Hard work, but somebody had to do it.

Steve, working for his ride.

Enlightening, at times anxiety-inducing, colourful and a bit labour-intensive; I think that's a fair assessment of what this tour of Kingston was. Makes for much better stories than pleasant, incident-free and interesting, don't you think?

Operation Jamaican Music - Day 1

2009-07-21T21:08:00.000-07:00

It's not everyday you get to travel around your home country with National Geographic and Islands magazine, having a gander at one of the cultural elements that put your country on the map. Today is that day for me. Over the next few days, I'll be hanging out with a Nat Geo film crew and a team from Islands who are travelling around Jamaica exploring music from the perspective of the musicians, the people who love the music, finding out what it means to them, the works.

I know. I'm lucky. Don't hate.

Last Night, I met the film crew and heard their chiding recount of the day's interviews. 8:00 p.m. at Truck Stop bar and restaurant on West Kings House Rd., and there are surprisingly more groups than one would expect. Yet, I found mine on the first try and met Farook, Jacob, Olivier, Dax, Kelly, Gillian, June and Tony, facilitators of musical conversation, hidden insight and the non-E! TV version of Jamaica. I know I missed about two or three people in there, but don't hold it against me.

Within minutes of getting to Truck Stop I was drinking an ice-cold Red Stripe, teasing Kelly that he has the same name as my sister, getting into a philosophical discussion with Dax about the evils of television (neither he nor I have one) and practising my French with Olivier. I suspect this is going to be an interesting next couple of days.

The day apparently started out with Tarrus Riley on a bluffy beach in the parish of St. Thomas, followed by King Jammy at his studios in Waterhouse, an inner-city community deep in the belly of Kingston. Apparently King Jammy refused to be interviewed until the crew blazed a big one. They crew nevertheless got the footage, so apparently someone eventually gave in. :) Truck Stop for dinner and a satiating close to a day that started at 6:00 a.m., after only three hours of sleep. (Hey, prize video don't come cheap!) Shortly after I got there, it was time to retreat to their mountain hideaway, Strawberry Hill. I let it slide that there was a horizon pool. Stick with me, there's more where that came from.

Go time is 9. Destination: heaven, aka Negril. A little Rick's Cafe for the sunset, some live Mento bands, panoramas of the sea.....here's to a great start to the rest of the week.

Popular restaurant and bar, Truck Stop, on West Kings House Rd.

From left right: Olivier, preferably known as "O" (how Shakespearean), the ever-confusing Kelly, and Dax.

The remainder of the Nat Geo crew.

Strawberry Hill horizon pool anyone?

"...because I was not frightened by the boat..." -Anon

2009-07-02T08:44:00.000-07:00

The ocean is a scary place. I have a friend who has a phobia of large sea mammals. He will never take surfing lessons. Or try jet-skiing in Alaska, which I have done, where he is from. He once had a dream where he fell into the Orca tank at Seaworld and Willy proceeded to taunt him and encourage the audience to laugh at him and point. Willy being the Orca. It was, imaginably for him, a nightmare.
Upon a recent trip to Sag Harbour/Greenport at the end of the unbelievably long, Long Island, I thought a fear of the ocean a thing that plagued the unfortunate, the weak stomached. I was proven wrong. I enjoy boats. I love being on the open sea, the salty air, the birds, seeing the world from a whole new angle. On this trip to the end of Long Island, a trip that was only supposed to take 4 hours, the boat escapade took 9 hours. Not because of detours and sightseeing, a jolly stop somewhere along the Connecticut shoreline to have a local pint. Oh, no, no, no. This was due to abso-fricking ridick weather: ever-undulating waves, rain, wind and non-existent visibility. I have one thing to say. George Clooney should have gotten both his Oscars way earlier, for The Perfect Storm.
Leaving the harbour at about 11:00 am and heading out, it's only rainy. After we take an hour and a half to reach a port that is half an hour away, it's evident that things are not looking good. My mother goes ashore to find some clam chowder. Not an unreasonable expedition. It is, however, a fruitless one. By this time, both my cousin, Richard, (captain amazing and owner of vessel, One Life) and my cousin-in-law, Edwin, are soaked. We had to open the top and that has brought the ocean in. I make them cups of hot chocolate. Within an hour, Edwin brings his back up into the sink on deck.
At some point later, while trying to go below deck and thinking that if I just hold on tight enough to everything around me I won't knock myself out, I manage to hit my front tooth on the pipe of the little sink in the "kitchen" area below deck. How do I manage something so random and unfortunate, I'll have to kill you if I tell you. My tooth is spared, but I am officially over the boat ride. This is no longer fun, I am no longer sailing, I am in a human pinata and very soon I am going to fall out.
At about 3:30, I'm sure we must be nearing our destination, I tell Richard to tell me when we've started our descent. He says it's going to be a while yet. Not cool. The rocking has not stopped, the waves have not diminished and the rain has not eased up, for even a second. Alaska King Crab Fishermen, you do not get paid enough.
At 4-something, I go below deck and sit/lie in a cubby as close to the back of the boat as I can get. I somehow manage to fall asleep. I wake up cold and realize that I have been sitting on Richard and Edwin's change of wet clothes. I am now soaked from the lower back down. Super.
I come out to the top deck nearing the 6:00 hour and become Richard's navigator for the remainder of the trip. I search for red and green buoys, and check depth. At 20 minutes to 8 we begin our descent. At this point, I can tell that we had about 10 minutes of sunlight left in the day.
At the house in Greenport, my aunt, my other cousins and cousin-in-law come rushing out, actually teary eyed. Columbus, I totally feel you with the whole reaching shore thing.
Much soup and lasagna later, we are dry and whole once again. And wha d'ya know, the rest of the weekend had Magritte-blue skies and abso-fricking ridick flat waters. We celebrated my mom and my aunt's birthdays, ate more food than most Ethiopian villages see in a year, watched the French Open final and had a really great time sailing back in the rightful 4 hours. I never say never, but that boat ride out comes pretty close.

This may or may not seem tame to the viewer, but it was casual sailor hell.

Entering green, green Greenport.

Humble abode, Greenport style.

I'm trying to say something poetic with this picture. I'm not sure what yet.

Something we all need.

Ah, the life. You only get one.

View from the back deck, dusk.

On the way out of town, turn left at the lighthouse.

House of Sand and Rock, Thimble Islands.

Style Week, Belated-Style

2009-06-18T12:23:00.000-07:00

Style Week descended upon Kingston recently, and for a few days, everybody was stylish and beautiful. Several models almost broke their waifer thin faces on the bricks at Fort Charles at Port Royal in Kingston, but fortunately, or should I say unfortunately, the night was trip-free. I do not have pics of that lovely ANTM finale-esque runway, however, I do have some choice pics from the mega stage on Knutsford Blvd for the last night of stylish events. However did Deiwght Peters do it? That's pronounced "Dwight", by the way.

The buns on this one......all they needed was some frosting.

You're a tiger! You're ferocious, eat the meat! Now run with the carcass! Drag it across the field! Excellent. Next model!

The Doctor made an appearance and all his future baby mammas in the crowd just lost it. I think some of them actually got pregnant that night by osmosis.

Product placement is everywhere. Even in the Third World.

She could stand to lose 15-20 pounds, easily. I don't even know how she got this job. I need to raise this at the next meeting. That's it, from now on, no one over 95 lbs. This thing has gone to the dogs.

My favourite male model. You could slice cheese with his cheekbones. I actually went backstage and tried. Best cheddar I ever had.

Calabash in colour

2009-05-31T08:28:00.000-07:00

The scene of the crime.
The restaurant, aka the liming spot, the ramping shop, the meet and greet, the support system, where it's at.
Wayne Arnold, Ibo Cooper and Seretse Small et al playing semi-acoustic versions of the lyrics of Beres Hammond.
Vintage Calabash.

The Calabash booths amid the ever-present throng of customers. I bought books instead of earrings and very cute dresses.
Author Xu Xi recounting tales of a middle-class upbringing in Hong Kong, about not realizing her maid had a family until much later than is logical, about the Hong Kong vs English version of the warning about the door opening as the metro approaches the station. Reminds me of the good times in China. Ahhhh.....

The crowd and the view.

Niece extraordinaire, Isabel Craig. Doesn't she look like she would dive off a change table just to spite the changer? There's a hint of Garfield in this picture that isn't sitting well with me.

The notorious pepper shrimp from Middle Quarters.

This young one doesn't realize how close it came to being road kill.

Calabashment

2009-05-31T07:25:00.000-07:00

Calabash Literary Festival, in its 9th year, almost cancelled because of red tape and numbers, held as always at the colourful and one-of-a-kind Jake's, host for three days to no less than the standard array of multi-national literary mindbogglers that give you best the dictionary has to offer. This was my second year in attendance. I, stayed at my usual place, Ital Rest, with a proprietor that, it seems, should not have burnt her bra in the 60s - it would serve quite well right now - and does not have company often and so every conversation is like reverse double-dutch: you're weaving and bobbing, waiting for that split-second moment when you can get out.

I thoroughly enjoyed Calabash this year. I think it was extra special because so many people didn't think it was going to happen. If you didn't think you were going to get any Christmas dinner, and then you got the feast, the flavours would somehow be 10 times better than any other dinner, right? Junot, Diaz, Edwidge Danticat, Robert Pinsky, Xu Xi, Marilyn Chin, Stacey-Ann Chin, my former classmate Millicent Graham, the line-up this year was hot. Like Paris-Hilton-vote-of-confidence-hot. I, on the other hand, had a few fizzling moments that may warrant the query: "what was up with you?"

I arrived so late on Friday night (11:30 pm, and there was a good excuse) that I missed Edwidge Danticat and Junot Diaz. Was I aware that the festival started earlier? Yes. Was I doing anything all day Friday? Nope.
I knew I was going to my rustic Ital Rest - no electricity, mosquito nets over the beds, cold showers. I did not bring a flashlight. The backlight of a Blackberry Pearl is surprisingly bright however.
Edwidge Danticat and Junot Diaz came over to our (me, mom, sis) table and I did not run in crazy butterfly pattern over to the bookshop and purchase their books and come back for autographs. It doesn't matter that I hadn't read any of their books yet. I've been meaning to, as soon as I get through all the other trillion books I keep meaning to read. But it's the autographed copies, dammit; it's all about the autograph.
I met Edwidge Danticat's significant other, Fredo (or Fraideau, if he rolls like that) with their daughter, Mira, and asked him so many questions about their daughter, a little girl who could clearly speak for herself (she was 4), that he finally said, "She can speak." Why didn't I think if that? See, mothers, or those with the instinct, talk to children. My approach: they aren't in their 20s, therefore they have nothing to contribute.
I ate from the long, exhausting buffet line manned by people wearing Jake's shirts, thinking it would personalized, savory and flavourful. Ha!
I bought Robert Pinsky's book - as a result of his reading, I will never look at a shirt the same way again - and went for the obligatory autograph. Marilyn Chin was also there, and there was an awkward double-dutch moment when I said I was here for Robert, she said "You want me to sign", I revealed the Robert Pinksy book and she said "Oh, well, no, blah blah blah blah." I didn't know what happened.
I asked Robert Pinsky if I could send him something and he told me to have a professor of mine pick something and they would have his email. I walked away, was by the restaurant for about 20 minutes when it occured to me: did he say he would give me an email? The autograph in the book was sans email. What had he said?! I went back to the autograph table and he repeated himself. The thing about me is that my charm always gets them later, despite those initial impressions of WTF.
I showed up late to the cafe coversation (I think that was Colin Channer's term) on the International Writers Residency at the University of Iowa and asked one of the first questions that had already been answered: yes, it is only for published writers. Really, I'm usually much more punctual.
My mother and my sister and even a professor that had recently looked at my work suggested I try something at open mike. What happened? I left all my printouts. Did I know I was coming to a literary festival? Yes, that was mentioned in the memo. Really, I usually much more organized.
And the coup de grace of this lovely, literary weekend, the last cherry that brings the whole sundae tumbling down - at the lunch table with sister and mother and my 11-month old niece Isabel, I asked my sister if I could give Isabel a piece of Spicy Nacho Doritos. Yes, you heard correctly, 11 months old, spicy nacho fakeness. I'm an adult and I find the spicy nacho spicy. It's a miracle I asked, I almost just did it on my own. My mother, who had missed this exchange, said she thought I was ready for children. Well, let's test that theory: a few days later, while visiting said sister on the way home, I was changing my niece and I left her on the change table to get a onesy. This is the same niece who is very quick and big enough to roll over and dive off the change table if she felt like. I knew this before I stepped away on my onesy hunt, but I still did it. And my mother thinks I am ready for children. And why would that be, because I have ovaries. Oh contraire, Mother, contraire, ovaries does not a mother make.

Sehanigans aside, Calabash was worth the 3-hour drive and constant search for food. Sitting under the tent, listening to writers from all over with every kind of story - the immigrant hustle, the language barrier, the historical recount, the lesbian trial and tribulation, the Buddhist connection to all things in the world - with the St Elizabeth coastline jutting and jagging behind them and the writers and listeners so appreciative of this event, this place, this time. It is a reminder of the power of passion, and pursuit, and that if you build it, they will come.

Grenada Photos

2009-05-21T06:35:00.000-07:00

So, never mind that the pictures are arriving after in a whole separate post, this is what happens with first time bloggers. Just cool. Above we have the tranquil horizon pool and La Luna restaurant by dusk, but really all I see is Daniele's risotto.
Conch shell on La Luna beach. So Island-y. (Said in that Talk Soup, "So meat-y" way)
Tanning options by the La Luna yoga pavilion. Ommmmmmmmmm..........
Oh, the cheery deck at Mount Cinnamon. We passed through one day for lunch.
Yummy, fruit punch, courtesy of La Luna. Below, a handful of nutmeg and lady in waiting. Hopefully not in vain. Actually, I was sitting in a restaurant across the street and she stood there the whole time. Not sure if she was actually waiting, or just hanging out, catching up about the latest gossip about Ms Isis and how she stole Ms Esmerelda's husband and then kicked him out the house late one night. It's a small town. That could be what she was up to. And continuing, the luminous bar of La Source, for nighttime drinks, a waterfall whose name I forget right now, and quaint St Georges. Good times.

Gre-gre-gre-Grenada!

2009-05-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

So this is the first entry of my first blog. I think it's fitting that I start somewhere outside of my home country (Jamaica), considering what I'm trying to achieve: a little tidbit from my travels around the world. I recently went on a trip to Grenada and had the most relaxing, fun and refreshing time. I stayed at La Luna, with a quick pass through La Source (to see what I had missed in opting for another).

First off, let me just say that if the "island haven" rooms, with their open showers, four-poster canopy beds and gorgeous vistas don't make the trip to La Luna heaven, Daniele, the chef, will make you want to lick your plate from top to bottom. And it doesn't hurt that he looks like Giovanni Ribisi. Perhaps I had been geared up for something great from my friends, and then the website sealed the deal, but I think I could live at La Luna. The bright blue and orange-colours, the lush landscape, the delicious cuisine helped gently along by the on-site herb garden, it's all to die for. As for the spa...Yanik, one of two pint-sized Balinese masseuses, she can step on me any day.

If anyone has ever been to Port Antonio in Jamaica any time in the last 30 years, that's a bit of St Georges. Sleepy. Quaint. Seaside. Hilly. Simple. Rustic. All St Georges. It's hard to imagine government, and laws and taxes and real life when you drive through. Market vendors abound, spices for sale on every corner, old ladies slowly making their way up the many hills in the town. It is island life at its truest.

The thing that struck me most about Grenada is how polite the people are. Anyone can strike up a conversation and seem friendly, but the people in Grenada seemed to really care about whether I was having a good time, and that I thought the best of their island. I know that comes from pride, knowing and believing they have something good that guests (not tourists, but guests) of their island should feel while there and take away with them. I hate to say it, but my precious little island Jamaica could use some of that. We are proud, but I think we take the things we are proud of for granted. Grenada doesn't, and it shows.