Wandering the World

Already There and Long Gone

2010-12-06T00:10:00.002-05:00

Thanks for the memories, Australia.
I’ll see you again soon.

Filling in the Blanks

2010-12-03T00:17:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago, one of my friends called me Carmen and asked “where in the world” I was that day. I laughed aloud when I typed my response and explained I was still in Sydney, Australia. Although I may no longer live the life of an Expat Princess, I still haven’t given up my wandering ways and if I had my druthers I never would. Reality, however, is a horrible affliction that has invaded my life and bank account like succubus on the prowl.

I have put off that dreaded fun-sucking demon for at least another few months for the sake of my Devoted Readers. Over the past five years, I have written about and lived on five continents and that seems a little lazy to me. What kind of blogging tour guide would I be if I couldn’t tell you about life in South America? So for the sake of the blog, that’s where I’m headed next.

Argentina and Brazil are my first stops followed by a super special Christmas pit stop that I’m keeping secret as a surprise. So please continue to watch this space and forgive the occasional silences as I look for Internet cafés while I’m on the road.

I’m still not sure where all this traveling is leading me. Nor do I know when I’m going to give in to the necessities of adulthood, head home to grow up, and get a job. For now, I’m enjoying living out of my suitcase and through this blog. I am literally living my dream and don’t plan to wake up any time soon.

South America better prepare itself because Hurricane Typo is on her way.

Of Hats and Horses

2010-12-01T00:54:00.004-05:00

I grew up in a house that paused every year for the Kentucky Derby. Every year since I can remember, my father has made the trek South to join the “Run for the Roses” to see the year’s best 3-year-olds cross the line at Churchill Downs. The North American community may follow the Triple Crown like a pack of teenage girls on the hunt for Sparkle Vamps, but they have nothing on Australia’s almost 150-year obsession with the first Tuesday of November.

They call it “the race that stops a nation” and they aren’t kidding. Before post-time, office buildings empty and nationwide productivity drops to nil as everyone gravitates to the nearest television to watch the only thing on TV that matters – the Melbourne Cup. Aussies love their racing so much that the day is even a holiday in Melbourne. For weeks in advance, ladies can be found trying on cocktail dresses and, more importantly, finding the perfect hat to wear to one of the thousands of viewing parties held across the country.

Ever a vigilant reporter of local customs, I naturally threw myself into Melbourne Cup fever. On the morning of the big race, I primped and preened before donning a new dress, borrowed heels, and a fluffy white floral headpiece. I probably looked like a reject from a bridesmaid-themed prom but I felt pretty as I made way across Darling Harbour to Criniti’s for brunch.

I put a great deal of thought and research into choosing my Cup Day brunch. A good meal at a fair price is important but all you can drink sparkling wine trumps all. After being seated on the balcony, I quickly put in my order for my first course of munchies and a bottle of bubbly to get me started. I dug into my plate of flat bread and dips and was amused to note my solo table received plates piled with as much food as the ones bound for the larger groups around me. This soon became a little intimidating as a plate of calamari and a second of croquettes soon followed.

The tables around me filled quickly with smartly dressed men and fantastically hatted women. Well into my first bottle of sparkling wine, and halfway into my incredibly tasty plate of pasta, the table next to me sent their men off to place bets on the race. Never one to shy away from not having to things for myself, I asked them to place one for me too. After all, the restaurant may have taken it amiss if I had disappeared with my purse halfway through the meal. It was at this point when the ladies took pity on my solo status and insisted I join them.

The brilliantly amusing women, it turned out, were flight attendants on a 56-hour layover. They kept refilling my glass while we chatted about everything under the sun and continued to nibble. Shortly after the boys returned with our bets, my pizza course arrived and I shared the huge board with my new friends while they waited for their own pizza to arrive.

Soon one of the waiters came out to tell us the big moment had finally arrived – the horses were ready at the post and the race was about to begin. Everyone rushed inside to find a spot in front of one of the large flat-screen televisions. And then they were off! I yelled at the screen, I stamped my foot, I cheered, I clapped; I became a temporary Aussie joined in spirit with millions of others hooked for two minutes on one goal – the finish line at Flemington Racecourse.

My horse, I should state for the record, did not win, place, or show yet I still can’t find it in myself to be disappointed in the outcome of the day. I skipped the final course and stumbled home to pass out on my bunk content in the knowledge that I drank too much, ate too little, made some wonderful new friends, and had a fantabulous day.

The Three Musketeers

2010-11-29T00:30:00.005-05:00

My time in Sydney was quickly coming to an end when LoJo reminded me we had one last adventure to embark upon. There was one place we hadn’t yet hit on our tour of Australia: the capital. So at some ungodly hour of the morning on a brisk Sunday early in November LoJo, Minnow, and I piled into Bluebird (LoJo’s new Toyota) and headed for the Australian Capital Territory.

I have visited many national capitals over the years from my own chilly Ottawa and its American counterpart Washington, DC, to Paris, London, and Vienna, but they are all drastically different from the thoroughly modern city of Canberra. A planned city with a current population of 345,000, the first thing that struck me was how incredibly green it was – there were trees everywhere and the way it appeared the buildings were fit around them rather than the other way around.

After a brief delay that had nothing to do with getting lost, we made our way to the Black Mountain’s Telstra Tower and its breathtaking views of the city in the valley below us. The windy observation deck was the perfect spot to take in the beauty of Canberra. The 195 meter high tower serves a practical purpose as a telecommunications tower in addition to a tourist stop and is home to both a revolving restaurant and a lovely café that makes tasty milkshakes.

The city gets its fair share of grief for being boring and antiseptic but there is no denying the peacefulness that lies within its carefully designed borders: from the perfect line from the War Memorial, down the ANZAC Parade, across the river, to the Old Parliament House, and then up the hill to the creatively named New Parliament House with its distinctive flag tower. Even the embassies and high commissions seemed to follow a particular set of laws that I haven’t noticed in other capitals. I realize Canberra is a young city but the embassy groupings seem to actually have been thought out rather than merely popping up when land became available.

After a quick lunch, we piled back into the car and headed to where all the magic happens: parliament. The new parliament building was conceived when the old one became too small to house the needs of a rapidly growing country. Construction on the modern edifice was completed in 1988 and is truly a unique building in my opinion.

From Parliament Hill in Ottawa to Capitol Hill in DC, most government buildings I’ve visited are old and reek of the ghosts that haunt their halls. Canberra’s Parliament House, on the other hand, is brand spanking new and feels it. In direct contrast to how I feel about the rest of Australia, Parliament House is a cold, uninviting building from the moment you walk into its cool marbled entry hall. That is not to say it isn’t beautiful and architecturally interesting – it’s that and more. It is perhaps more a reflection of my preference for buildings that tell stories and breathe their history.

The moment we stepped inside the Pepto-Bismol pink Senate, to the right of the entrance hall I was cast back in time to high school when I participated in the Forum for Young Canadians program up in Ottawa. It was there I first really started to entertain the idea of becoming a politician and reforming the world (or at least Canada) in my own image.

Sadly, I was unable to get down to the floor of the House in Canberra as I did all those years ago in Ottawa, but by the time we walked across the building to the green House of Representatives, I was well into reforming my plans for world domination as World Dictator Typo. The Lower House’s familiar arrangement made me envy the kids that worked there as Pages when Parliament was in session. It is, after all, easier to get people to hire you as World Leader when you have some experience on your resume.

The highlight of the new Parliament building isn’t on the floors of power but upstairs on the roof. From there, you can see the beautiful city of Canberra was laid out at the feet of Parliament in exactly the manner of how its city planners, Walter Burley Griffin and his wife Marion Mahony Griffin, intended. The centerpiece of the roof is situated above the beautiful glass pyramid. The huge Australian flag atop the unique 81-meter high steel flagpole can be seen waving in the wind for miles throughout Canberra. Perhaps, I thought as LoJo, Minnow, and I wandered around the roof, a new modern building is appropriate for this very young, modern country.

I amused myself counting how many items had been monogrammed with Australia’s coat of arms as we made our way back to the car. From there, we drove along ANZAC Parade to the Australian War Memorial where the country’s contribution to the last several wars was on display. I explained the significance of the paper cranes in the Hiroshima/Nagasaki display and Minnow told me about the contribution her husband’s ancestor had made toward the war effort in Gallipoli.

Our final stop was Mount Ainslie for a final bird’s eye view of the city. The fountain in Lake Burley Griffin cast water into the air as cars drove past Old Parliament House, and people made their way into the city’s quiet business district. With the capital at my feet, it suddenly dawned on me that my Australian adventure was almost over.

We had a three-hour drive (or in my case nap) ahead of us before we had to once again part ways. I’m not sure when I will return to Australia but I know when I do who I’ll call. I ran away from home only to land safely in the arms of friends on the other side of the planet. Thanks, ladies.

Shut-up and Drink Your Moscato

2010-11-26T00:42:00.005-05:00

I’m a fat girl and I like food. I won’t apologize for either of those things. There is little in this world as tasty as a box of Kraft Dinner and from time to time life requires a Big Mac combo. I love a good salad as much as the next girl and a pint of Greek yoghurt may well be the best way to end a long day. Don’t get me started on the joys to be found in a chocolate éclair or the many ways a perfectly made sandwich can be a finer meal than anything created by Alain Ducasse.

It should come as no surprise to anyone that when the Crave Sydney International Food Festival began in October, one of the events I was most looking forward to was the Food and Wine Fair. Scheduled as one of the final events of the Festival, the tasting took over Hyde Park where the almost 70 vendors set up their booths for the big day. I made sure to arrive at the park well before the noon start time so I could get a feel for the lay of the foodie land and plan my eating appropriately.

Tickets, it should be noted, were not inexpensive at $19 for five. A glass of wine generally cost two, a pastry was one, and a small plate of food three. I even saw
some vendors charge as much as four tickets per sample. Needless to say, I spent slightly more than I planned that afternoon but since all the proceeds from the event went to the AIDS Trust of Australia, it was hard to complain.

Within five minutes of having my first band of tickets and free Sydney Morning Herald bag in my hands, I purchased my first glass of wine. It had been my intention to kick off my afternoon with a glass of bubbly, but the woman at the Beelgara Estate booth convinced me to try their Moscato instead, and it was so good I have actually consumed several bottles in the weeks since.

Now armed with a glass of wine, I veered to the left and braced myself for the onslaught of humanity that stood between me and my lunch. Some of the top restaurants in the city were present and determined to make me spend more on tickets than my budget allowed. I did some initial recon and convinced myself to walk away from the Icebergs’ table with their Belvedere vodka and grapefruit drink. Guillaume at Bennelong had crepes plated to look like the Opera House but despite my well-documented obsession with that building, I walked away.

After doubling back, I noticed a large line in front of the booth for the Hungry Duck Restaurant. Normally, I would purposely avoid anything that looked so popular but when I spied Duck Springrolls in one happy customer’s hands, I lined up to part with another two tickets. “Oh my God these are so good!” I gushed aloud upon popping the first bite into my mouth. The contrast of flavours was a revelation of yumminess, and if I hadn’t been determined to try as many different things as possible I would have gladly eaten spring rolls for the rest of the day.

I chatted with people at many of the booths and found them to be universally helpful and well informed. From the volunteers to the chefs, it honestly appeared that the people working at the Food and Wine Fair were having a good time and their positive attitudes were contagious. Whether from the inexpensive wine, the good food, the great weather, or the profusion of goodwill from raising so much money for a great cause, everyone in Hyde Park seemed to be having a brilliant time.

Caught up in the general good spirits of the day, I headed over to the Hudson Meats booth to try their Moroccan Lamb Burger with Green Salad and Tzatziki for three tickets. Although tasty, my advice to future vendors at events like these would be to avoid dishes that require knives and forks because the style of the day simply does not lend itself to standing in a crowded corner and cutting into a lamb burger while balancing a glass of wine, a camera, a purse, and a free swag bag. While not as outstanding as my earlier springroll, the flavours of the lamb and tzatziki complimented each other nicely.

I soon found myself dreadfully parched so my next stop was the Tempus Two table for a glass of their well-advertized Moscato. The wine, I was told, normally sells for $20 a bottle, so my two ticket sample seemed like a good deal. As refreshing as the wine was, I would definitely have bought one of their awesome t-shirts had they been for sale.

Foodgasam isn’t a word one should throw around willy-nilly but it is definitely one I uttered when I tasted the sublime lemon tart from Bourke Street Bakery. In fact, I think several passers by thought I was having my very own personal Meg Ryan moment when they overheard me moan in ecstasy over the pastry perfection of that tart. I had to force myself not to go back and spend the rest of my tickets buying up their supply of lemony goodness.

The heat of the day was really starting to affect me so I made my way over to the De Bortoli Wines table for a glass of sparkling wine. I was told the wine I sampled was the drier of their two sparkling selections, which only made me glad I didn’t have the other one as I found it to be rather cloyingly sweet for my tastes.

By two o’clock, at least two tables I walked past had run out of food and closed up shop. The Delicious Magazine table had even reduced the price on their food goody bag from four tickets to a much more affordable three. Packed with a bag of pink salt, cooking chocolate, Bertolli pasta and sauce, an apron, and several other items, the bag was a good way to bring a piece of the fair home with me and even provided me dinner for a few nights.

Sipping fine wine, nibbling on great food, and walking through Hyde Park is a pretty good way to spend a Saturday afternoon, in my opinion. I would be tempted to tell you more but I have another bottle of Moscato begging for some attention and I must obey the shirt.

1964 – 2010: I Will Remember

2010-11-24T00:23:00.001-05:00

Sometimes words fail me and it takes longer than it should to find the right thing to say. Sometimes, however, words don't have to be right or wrong: they just need to be shared. You see, I’ve written about a lot things over this past month but I never told you about Mary.

I met Mary the same day I sat in the corner on a barstool at the Delhi Network and cried because I was alone and didn’t have any friends in that place so far from home. Mary was also there during one of my most embarrassing (and to her consternation unblogged about) moments in India as she and I drove to Gurgaon and I was so hung over I had my driver pull over multiple times. Mary also was there when I needed to vent about the woes in my life or simply to share a random laugh.

Mary and I signed-up to join the boards of the AWA and Delhi Network together. She dragged me shopping and made me realize I had to buy things I never knew I needed. It was with Mary that I officially became “a lady who lunches,” and we hit more great lunch spots in Delhi than I can think of. She was always game for one last round or a good chat over a Diet Coke. Mary was the best bad influence in town.

When I talk to people about how awesome it was to be an expat, why I love Delhi, or the good friends you meet and keep while traveling the world, I usually talk about Mary. She was that kind of a friend.

I hate going back to places I’ve been because subsequent visits never live up to the hype of a first meeting. Delhi has always been a rare exception to that rule and Mary was a big part of that. I’ll never forget my first return visit when she played hostess to The Ex and I. One morning, we were both feeling so lazy we stayed in bed and texted each other from across the hall to figure out our plans for the day.

Mary always had a smile on her face, pink somewhere in her outfit, and an effervescence to her spirit that made the day a little brighter.

As much as Mary loved crafting, her friends, shopping, and travelling, there was nothing she loved more than her family – her adorable son and her wonderful husband. To Mary, there was no job more important than that of being a good mother and wife. She loved her son more than the sun, the moon, and the stars. He was her world.

Mary talked about going to Toronto as part of her home leave vacation this past summer. Although I have enjoyed every moment of my post divorce “journey of discovery,” I will regret not going home to Toronto if only to see her one last time. I have always been dreadful about keeping in touch with friends and family. Facebook and the blog have become my way of saying hello and giving hugs from afar. I always thought that was enough. I was wrong – it isn’t.

My wonderful, and good, and awesome, and always smiling friend Mary died one month ago today and I miss her. She passed suddenly and left her sweet son and beloved husband behind. She had so very much to live for and was taken from us.

I found out by reading Facebook. I joined her friends from all over the globe and watched her memorial service live on YouStream. I left words of mourning on an electronic guestbook for a friend I met halfway around the world. This is death in 2010: modern but still eternally painful.

I will miss my friend Mary and I will never forget her. Her smile, her quilts, her gossip, her faults, our lunches, her shopping, her kind words, her laugh, her zest for life, her love for her son, her pokes on Facebook, her tough love talks, her cross-continental calls for phone numbers, her friendship.

Mary was one of the first good friend I made in Delhi. I miss you Mary and more importantly I will remember you.

A Fly in the Soup

2010-11-22T00:16:00.004-05:00

If you make customers unhappy in the physical world, they might each tell 6 friends. If you make customers unhappy on the Internet, they can each tell 6,000 friends.
- Jeff Bezos

The annual Sydney International Food Festival was held in October and was marked with great events like Breakfast on the Bridge, Night Noodle Markets, and the “Hats Off” chef-hosted dinners at several of the best restaurants in town. The extensive month-long program also included prix-fixe lunch menus at numerous restaurants around the city. After a great deal of research and time spent comparing menus, I planned my Food Festival participation in the form of lunch at Bécasse – a French restaurant located near the QVB. My $65 lunch would include three courses and a glass of wine, which is a good deal in any book.

Midmonth, I headed to Clarence Street and popped into the restaurant around 1:15 p.m. About a third of the tables were empty so I didn’t anticipate any difficulties. The rather brusque hostess raked her eyes along me; from my scuffed Doc Martin sandals, my worn black jeans and white lace top, and finally ended with a look of distaste at the bun I had hastily fastened in deference to the heat of the day. Although I wasn’t in a business suit, I was by no means ill dressed or slovenly - a review of the dining room showed equally casual patrons.

I replied to the hostess’s condescending tone with a smile and explained I didn’t have a reservation and would like a table for one. “No reservation? I’m afraid the earliest I can seat you is two o’clock.” I smiled and said it was okay but would try again another day. Part of me knew this was the response she was hoping for but I didn’t care. It was a lovely day and my favourite café was only a thirty-minute walk away.

A week later, I returned to Bécasse on a whim. It was 12:20 p.m. and once again the dining room was busy but not full. The same hostess greeted me with the same Ice Princess aloofness she demonstrated on my previous visit. This time when she offered me a 2:00 p.m. seating, I thanked her and said that would be perfect. Before I left, I made sure the kitchen would not rush me due to the late seating. She explained that if I wanted the prix-fixe, it wouldn’t be a problem and seemed perturbed by my desire to actually read the menu before I committed myself.

After some enjoyable window-shopping, I returned to Bécasse twenty minutes before my scheduled reservation. I smiled at the now familiar hostess and said I knew I was early but would it be possible to be seated. The response was an unequivocal “no.”

“May I just sit and order a cocktail?”

“We don’t really have a bar,” she replied with some vague hand waving toward the small bar area behind her. “There are lots of cafés in the area you can sit at.”

I was literally shocked into silence. Rather than let me sit and pay for the privilege of not being served, she was sending me away. Even if they didn’t have martinis, I could have had a glass of wine and thus provided revenue for the restaurant while I sat in silence. I understand that kitchens don’t like to be rushed and wait staff rely on timed seatings so they don’t have to serve too many people at one time, but all I wanted to do was sit with my Kindle and have a drink while I waited patiently for 2:00 to roll around.

That was the straw that broke this camel’s back. “You know what, that’s fine. You can cancel my reservation,” I said in a decidedly arctic tone. “All I wanted to do was eat lunch and yet this is the third time I have entered this restaurant and the third time you’ve been borderline rude to me. I just wanted some lunch but never mind.”

“You’ve come during Let’s Do Lunch so we are quite busy,” she replied defensively.

“Let’s Do Lunch explains the seatings but not why you have been discourteous and impolite. Have a good day.” I turned, walked down the four stairs to the front door and walked out with the Ice Princess sputtering behind me.

I left Bécasse literally shaking with fury. Just because I’m not wearing a size six dress by Chanel is no reason to be disrespectful. Customer service is important to me – whether I’m calling my bank, buying a dress, or dining in a restaurant. Poor customer service irks me like little else and it is always an important factor in how I review any restaurant or business.

Blind with righteous indignation, I stalked up Oxford Street and soon found myself back at my café: Coco Cubano. I walked in the door and was greeted with a smile by one of the baristas who grinned and asked if I wanted an Iced Blanco (cold white chocolate). I smiled ruefully and said bemoaned my predictability. “Not predictable,” he replied. “We just like seeing our regulars.”

My heart did a little flip flop. I smiled stupidly and paid for my cake and iced chocolate before taking my usual seat in the big front window. I was a regular at my favourite café in Sydney. How freaking cool was that?

In the space of 45 minutes, I had literally run the customer service gamut. I had seen service that would leave Frank Bruni cringing and then been the recipient of as high a compliment a customer can possibly receive. Good food can only get a restaurant or café so far because no chef or owner can be on the floor all the time. In the end, good front of house staff can make all the difference between a two or three-star rating, or that ever important factor in all businesses – repeat customers.

I hope the Ice Princess is happy. Sure, I was never going to be a regular at Bécasse but I was a willing, paying customer who wanted a good meal and a glass or two of wine. She judged me lacking because I didn’t meet some mysterious criteria known only in her mind - and after some thought I’m okay with that. I may not have had a three-course meal and a glass of wine but I did become a regular at a place that makes amazing hot chocolate. Sounds like a good day to me.

Backstage Drama

2010-11-19T00:42:00.004-05:00

There is a fine line between love and obsession and I think I may have crossed it in Sydney. Shortly after arriving I entered a contest for a free Backstage Tour of the Sydney Opera House and although I didn’t win, I was given a chance to take the tour at half price. Some people might say three trips to the Opera House in the space of six weeks was excessive but I chose to ignore those naysayers and focus on the voice inside of me that wanted to tread the boards and test the famous acoustics for myself.

That’s right, I recited Shakespeare on the stage in the Concert Hall, conducted an imaginary orchestra in the pit of the Opera Theatre, and then sang The Pirates of Penzance on its stage. The drama geek in me was on fire as I danced through the corridors where privileged few had gone before.

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

I am not in any way shape or form a morning person so you can imagine my bliss when I learned the Backstage Tour started at 7:00 a.m. The early start, we were told, helped ensure admittance to more spaces before the artists needed them. Thanks to my genius move of sleeping through my alarm, I didn’t even have time to grab a venti triple shot white mocha before I arrived to meet the other seven people who would be joining me for the tour. We were a ragtag group from all over the planet with not a single morning person among us.

The tour, we were reminded, was not a traditional Opera House tour but rather one designed to take us through the inner workings of the famous landmark from the Kissing Wall behind the Concert Hall to a private dressing room with its own grand piano and a view of the Harbour Bridge. As a lifetime theatre geek I was literally bouncing with excitement despite the lack of caffeine.

We started our morning exploring some of the smaller venues at the Opera House like the Studio and the Playhouse. Both seemed well suited for high school or amateur performances. The Studio, in particular, was a great space for interactive or perhaps modern dance performances.

The group made its way through the truck corridors that run under the Opera House and Troy, a tourism major at the local university, regaled us with stories about everyone from Queen Elizabeth II and her bulletproof vest to an incredibly kind Pamela Anderson. We continued along the lower corridors and spotted inactive sets from the operas currently being performed. We also learned to respect the term “suicide door.”

Our first stop in the Opera Theatre was the orchestra pit where I began what would soon turn into a habit: ignoring Troy in favour of doing something cooler. In this case it was being the first to wander onto the conductor’s platform, pick up an imaginary baton, and lead my invisible orchestra in a few bars of something with a solid 4/4 time.

Somewhere between quieting the brass section and inviting the strings to raise their bows in preparation for the next bar, I overheard Troy explain the purpose of the net above our heads. It turns out that many years ago live chickens were needed as stage dressing during a performance. The chickens, it seems, were not very good at taking stage directions and kept falling into the orchestra pit. In addition to saving chickens from stuffing up any random tuba bells, the net also saved someone’s life when an actor tripped during a sword fight and fell point down into the woodwinds.

We left the ghosts of chickens and percussion past to explore a hallway with dressing rooms and costumes ready for that night’s performance of Pirates of Penzance. Naturally, when everyone else was content to walk by and photograph the entire rack, I felt the need to pick one up and hold it up to see if it would fit. In addition to being surprisingly heavy it was also, sadly, too long.

Finally, we reached the door of the Opera Theatre and I was reduced into a quivering puddle of fangirl goo. Poor Troy was once again cast deep into the background of my consciousness as I ran upstage and began to sing a verse of Modern Major-General just because I could. Puck’s final speech from Midsummer Night’s Dream was next and, if I may brag for a moment, I must still have it (or at least be able to project effectively) as I saw workmen in the back of the balcony turn to listen me. Then again, they were probably hoping they were “slumbering.”

After I kissed the boards goodbye, we descended once again into the maze of corridors that link the different theatres to one another. We proceeded into the Concert Hall, which was currently occupied by the Sydney Symphony. Despite not having any rhythm what-so-ever I gravitated to the timpani in the back and from there recited a little Julius Caesar quietly enough for only the drums and xylophone to hear me. “Friends, percussions, symphony members, lend me your sheet music!”

Exploration was the keyword of the day and we soon found ourselves wandering the area beneath the stage where the trapdoors lead. Here, we were told stories about sleeping stagehands and performances canceled due to broken technology.

After an exploration of the remaining theatres we discovered our time was up and Cinderella was due to turn back into a pumpkin in time for the day’s matinees. Thankfully before we were all transmogrified into mice we were ushered into the large, airy greenroom where a lovely breakfast awaited us.

Over bacon and eggs our poor guide was subjected to a battering of questions by me everyone else from the moment he sat down. “How many times as the Scottish Play been performed here? What calamities accompanied the production?” “Is it possible to get up on the roof?” “How many operas are in the Company’s repertoire?” “What happened to the idiot to painted over the autograph wall in the star dressing room?” “What famous person most surprised you?” Troy was incredibly patient and answered all our questions no matter how random or bizarre.

I literally bounced out of the Sydney Opera House that morning. I had performed on the same stage as some of the most famous actors of our time. The fact I was doing it for a bunch of workmen and amused tourists could not diminish my accomplishment: I was Pavarotti and Sir Laurence Olivier all rolled in one. I am incredibly glad I participated in the informative and exhilarating Backstage Tour. More than that – I’m glad I was able to do it for half price thanks to the contest I “lost.” That morning last place felt an awful lot like first.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
- William Shakespeare

Part of the Collective

2010-11-17T00:44:00.001-05:00

Little in this world can make you more agreeable, flexible, and humble than communal living. From creaking bunk beds to silent battles over square footage on the bathroom counter, sharing a room with total strangers can be an eye-opening experience for even the most adaptable and easy going among us. And heaven knows I’m neither of those things.

Growing-up the only girl of three children, I lucked into my own bedroom. This inadvertently nurtured many selfish tendencies including reading until all hours of the night and an alleged habit of dropping dirty clothes on the nearest flat surface.

At University, I unconsciously scared my first roommate off and she moved across campus to the all-girls dorms the first chance she had. The Ex was really the first long-term roomy I ever had and he didn’t really have much choice in the matter. He learned to put up with my piles of laundry on the chair by the door, and I pretended not to notice when he left the seat on the toilet up for the umpteenth time.

Running away from home on a budget means that I don’t get to stay in nice hotels and rely instead on hostels and rooming houses. In Auckland, I lucked into a flat with awesome housemates. Better than that, I lucked into a private room with a nice big bed. Insomnia be damned, I could read in bed with the lights on until six in the morning, drape my laundry line with undies and bras, or forget to make my bed safe in the knowledge that my room was my private sanctuary.

After BBS left Sydney, I was faced with a new reality – hostel living. I quickly found myself one of six people in a room where the only space I was allowed to claim as my own was a locker at the foot of my bed. Twelve years of living with The Ex had not prepared me for living in close quarters with five other people, each with their own annoying quirks. One older woman turned out the lights every night at 7 p.m. One roommate snored so loudly, I had to run down to the front desk and beg for a pair of earplugs. (Most of my hostelmates, for the record, were lovely but they make for far less interesting blog posts.)

Looking for a flat in Sydney is a lot like banging your head repeatedly into a brick wall with rusty nails sticking out of it – but more painful. For a mere $300 a week, I could be one of 11 people living in a two bedroom flat with dubious hygienic standards. For $250 a week, I found a fabulous flat where I would be one of 10 plus my rent came complete with free rice. I found places with people sleeping on couches, the floor, or even the balcony in one case.

I was thrilled when I eventually found my flat in a great neighbourhood within walking distance of virtually everything. I was allotted a top bunk in a room with three other girls. There were a total of six people in the flat and we each had our shelf in the fridge and cupboards assigned to us in the kitchen. I staked out a corner of space in the bathroom for my toiletries and unpacked my clothes into the wire Ikea drawers in the closet. In deference to our tight space issues, I tried to keep my laundry in bags in the corner and made my bed each morning before I left for the day.

My bunkmates were two great girls from London, Pink and Mrs. Ronaldo, and a lovely girl from France named Frenchie. Despite the differences in our upbringings and ages, the four of us got along quite well. Many nights found us joking around, singing off-key, and teasing each other long after the lights had been turned out. Our group was known to go for picnics or spend the occasional Saturday evening at a local bar or club dancing the night away.

Rumor had it that one of the girls in the room snored but I have always been a sound sleeper and never heard it myself. My personal contribution to the chaos came in the form of a tiny pink reading light with an incredibly bright bulb. When the room was dark my small reading light was likened to a mega-watt spotlight. I eventually started reading under the covers in an attempt to keep from driving the other girls crazy.

We said good-bye to some people and welcomed new girls in their place as the weeks went by. New personalities wedged their way into our lives and fresh habits drove us to occasional bouts of thinly veiled politesse. For the most part, however, we all got along incredibly well.

Living with strangers is always a lesson in humility but bunking with them was something I was completely unprepared for. There was no door to separate the private from the public – our lives were on display and it was only discretion and a polite aversion of the senses that helped maintain the illusion of privacy. That said, I wouldn’t trade the weeks I spent in that room with those girls for anything. They kept me laughing and dancing even when teeth gnashing and foot stomping were my preferred choices. They taught me how to be less me for the sake of their sanity and reminded me how to be more myself for the sake of my own.

(I, it should be noted, have no annoying quirks. Nor do I snore or do anything that would make me a less than an ideal roommate. Anything you have heard to the contrary are all lies concocted by the Typ0 Defamation League. Really.)

Thank Bacchus

2010-11-15T01:32:00.005-05:00

I have a secret to share but you have to promise not to tell anyone else. You see the truth of the matter is that I like wine. From time to time I enjoy imbibing a glass of vino and have even been known to open a bottle of fermented grape juice without sharing a drop with anyone else. This news is shocking, I know, so I can only hope you won’t be too overwhelmed to learn that I participated in a wine tour – this time in the Hunter Valley.

The tour began right in front of my flat where I was picked up at 7 a.m. sharp by our driver/guide, Phil. Imagine my surprise when the van doors opened to reveal my roommate, Mrs. Ronaldo, and her mother. I knew they were also attending a tour that day but had specifically picked a different tour so they wouldn’t think I was trying to horn in on their family time. Plus they had an even earlier pick-up at a location about ten minutes from Mum’s hotel. For reasons the three of us were unable to determine, they had paid less money for an entirely different tour and we all still ended up together. Go figure.

After I boarded we proceeded to pick up a Norwegian couple, a British couple, and a French guy. With the team assembled we set off across the Harbour Bridge and made our way into wine country.

Those of you who know me well can imagine my bliss when I discovered our first stop was the Australian Reptile Park. An hour with snakes, spiders, and other random forms of creepy crawly critters – oh yay. I am proud to say that I managed avoid having a complete nervous breakdown during our ~~interminable~~ brief visit. After a bracing cup of coffee and the world’s smallest muffin most of the group broke off to visit the animals and I hightailed it back to the van before the snakes found out I was there, broke out of their pens, and came to attack me.

My relief was palpable when we pulled out of the parking lot and hit the road again. Our next stop surprisingly not alcohol related but historical. We were shown existing remnants of the old Convict Trail and told some of its history. I’m the first one to crack a joke about Australia being a land founded by jailbirds but the history behind the convicts is actually really interesting and Phil did a good job making it come alive.

As much fun as history and scenery can be I was more than ready when we finally pulled in for our first drink of the day at Wollombi Tavern for a taste of Dr. Jurds Jungle Juice. The tavern must be cursed considering the calamities that have befallen it over the years, yet it has managed to survive the seven plagues in part thanks to Jungle Juice – a bracingly strong combination of port and brandy. I was by no means tempted to buy a bottle of the fire-inspired beverage but must admit that the rather sweet concoction was a nice pick-me-up at eleven o’clock in the morning.

We were finally on our way to our first winery of the day. Brokenwood was currently on a high from winning the “Best Winery” and “Best Cellar Door” of year from 2010 Hunter Wine Industry Awards. With hype like that I had lofty expectations as the eight of us lined up along the bar in the tasting room. Our tasting guide for the day was Ron, an incredibly charismatic former Canadian who kept us laughing and drinking for our entire visit.

The first thing I noticed was the cringingly warm temperature of the first white wine we were served. I have little shame in confessing one of my greatest wine sins is my adoration of overly chilled whites, and the thought of tasting a series of what could have been lovely wines at room temperature made me shudder. Ron, however, defended the choice and explained that while chilled was better for daily drinking, warm was the best way to enjoy a tasting glass and appreciate the subtleties of the selections. I’m still not sure I entirely buy his explanation but warm or cold the seven wines we sampled that day were definitely top notch.

I wasn’t the only one feeling slightly tipsy when we departed Brokenwood Wines and was rather grateful to hear our next stop was lunch. Our four course tasting meal at the Hunter Valley Resort was a nice way to break up the day even if the wines were mediocre at best. It may be my salad leaning bias showing but I felt the Caesar Salad was easily the highlight of the meal. I was pleased to note that our guide, Phil, took note that Mrs. Weegie required gluten-free options and made sure that she would have appropriate choices for each course.

Thanks to generous friends who were not enamored of the wine choices with lunch, I had officially lost track of how many glasses I had drunk by the time we boarded the van for our next stop: Oakvale Wines.

To be fair, I should point out that Oakvale was incredibly busy when we arrived so our tasting guide was stuck helping at least two tables in addition to our own. Bad dye-job aside, her explanations of the wines were rushed and she appeared to have little love for the wines she was describing. Her greatest fault wasn’t even of her own making: she simply wasn’t nearly as much fun or informative as Ron. This may or may not have coloured the group’s overall opinion of the seven dismally average wines we tasted.

If you think that is the end of my tale you have no faith in my ability to pick a winning ~~horse~~ wine tour. Our next destination was one of the reasons I picked the tour in the first place: the Hunter Valley Chocolate Company. If there’s one thing I love more than a nicely chilled glass of wine, it’s a perfectly delectable bite of chocolate. I’m a simple woman, with simple needs and this tour gave me both my true loves!

We were initially given several samples including some chili chocolate that I found quite tasty but Mrs. Ronaldo else complained was too “spicy.” I admit to buying a bottle of wine at some point during the day but my best purchase all day was a bag of chocolate coconut macaroons like my mum used to make. Yum!

The tour was easily some of the best money I spent in Australia. Although we didn’t visit as many wineries as I would have liked, the quality of those we did more than made up for it. On our way home Phil even regaled us with a recitation of The Man From Snowy River as he drove back through the picturesque Hunter Valley toward Sydney. Good wine, good food, good friends, great chocolate – sounds like a perfect day in Australia to me.

Thursdays at Coco Cubano

2010-11-12T01:26:00.000-05:00

I have half-a-dozen half-written blog posts on the screen in front of me. A dozen more ideas are floating on the edges of my mind. My fingers ache to tap the keys and create a symmetry of words that finally delight my soul. Words flow through me only to be deemed lacking. I strike the delete key and another paragraph becomes lost to history.

I turn my head to the sun and close my eyes to bask in its warmth. The chill of the day is gone and shadows are banished. Inspiration comes at me from all directions: skateboarders in their concert tees, suit-clad office drones escaping their glass prisons, lovers with their fingers intertwined, dented fenders on expensive cars. I attempt to write all their stories and fail. I lean on the delete key and another urban fairy tale disappears forever.

I am an autonomous island in a sea of coffee craving café goers. The smell of hot chocolate wafts past, tinged with the scent of lime from my neighbour’s Corona. Secrets are whispered quietly between friends oblivious to the strangers around them - they lean into each other as if the millimeters between them were a great chasm to be overcome. I sip my sweetened coffee and brush my fingers over the keyboard - it is my job to observe and record. I drum the delete key and erase the unworthy words again.

Music flows through my earphones and lights up my smile as song after song reminds me to be joyful. Buses fly past on their way to a dozen places far from the window at whose edge I perch. Strangers dance by each other through the intersection, uncaring of the stories that might secretly connect them. The blue sky of the day fades into the pink of dusk and there is a sudden moment of clarity as cars pause at the red light and silence echoes for the space of a breath. I draw the picture in words and hit save.

Go Tell it on the Mountain

2010-11-10T01:00:00.000-05:00

Before I wrote today’s post, I looked up “adventure” in my thesaurus but nothing seemed to quite capture what I had in mind. An exploit, a venture, an escapade – none of these words possessed the soul to accurately describe the thrill of hanging hundreds of meters over a forest supported only by a piece of glass. I suppose “exciting activity” might begin to express the rapture of giggles that ensued when we broke the rules and rode a horse, or played with echoes at the base of the valley. I suppose you could say we had fun but that seems such a tame word when compared with reality.

Katoomba’s Scenic World, I learned, is the best way to get the most bang for your Blue Mountain buck. From here, LoJo, Minnow, and I would have the entire Jamison Valley at our feet along with tour guides, rides, and even a gift shop to buy postcards to send home. Never one to do things by half measures, I quickly voted that we should check out the Scenic Skyway, Scenic Railway, and the Scenic Cableway. (They are obviously big on original names here at Scenic World.)

Our first stop was the Skyway, which would take us from one side of the valley to the other in a cabin suspended 200 meters above the Jamison Valley. The huge picture windows along the perimeter of the car aren’t the only way to get a good photo – shortly after departing the station, the center of the cabin was revealed to be made of glass and allows passengers a truly breathtaking view.

Our guide (and ride operator) shared facts about everything we saw from Wentworth Falls on our left to Orphan Rock on our right. LoJo was somewhat uncomfortable with the slightly swaying cabin suspended as it was so precariously high above the valley. She was, however, a great sport, and shared stories of past visits to the area. When we reached the other side, we took a short break for more photos before hopping back on the Skyway for the return trip.

Now that we had seen the tops of the trees from the Skyway, we needed to get down and see them up close so we hopped aboard the Scenic Cableway. The cable car’s operator/guide was giddily cheerful and a great ambassador for both the park and Australia. I’m usually so hyper I'm forbidden from eating sugar after 8 p.m. and even I was amused at our pixie stick fueled Cableway guardian.

We arrived at the bottom of the Cableway into lush green forest. The trees reached high above us and formed a canopy that shielded us from the blue skies above. The path in front of us offered walks of differing lengths but since our daylight was fast disappearing and we still had a long drive home ahead of us, we opted for the shorter route to the Railway.

A devoted and hard-line city girl, I am none-the-less in awe of places like the Blue Mountains where nature literally wraps itself around you. I knew it was unlikely, but I half expected an echidna or wombat to peek around the corner at any moment. I was fully under the spell of the ancient trees when LoJo started demonstrating the Valley’s amazing echoing capabilities. Soon, not only was the valley responding but so were other tourists. Never one to let an opportunity to yell in public pass me by, I quickly joined in with a rousing round of “Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!” and waited for Minnow to respond with the appropriate, "Oy! Oy! Oy!” Obviously our delightful Skyway guide had rubbed off on us.

The remains of the area’s original coal mining operations are still visible for tourists and are an integral part of the experience for visitors to Katoomba. Part of this historical montage is a brass horse pulling a cart of coal. You might be surprised to learn but despite having a passing thought or two, I was not the first one to hop aboard the horse. To the shock of other tourists, the envy of several children who wished their parents were so cool, and the glee of her friends, Minnow was posing with the brass horse and moments later LoJo was astride it.

We each took turns and were delighted when one of the park’s employees walked by and laughed that she “saw nothing.” The three of us had regressed into giddy children and loved every minute of it.

Our final event of the day was the Scenic Railway – a 415-meter ride back up to the top of the valley at a 52-degree incline. The line was originally constructed in the 1880’s to haul shale up from the valley to the escarpment. After the Second World War, it was converted into a tourist attraction and has been wowing people ever since. We were perched at the front of the car so that the only thing between us, and a 52-degree drop back into the Jamison Valley was a thin wire cage. I read this was the steepest funicular in the world and I believe it. The trip back up to the escarpment was breathtaking for an entirely different reason than the ride down in the cable car.

The Blue Mountains are known as such because they appear to possess a bluish aura when viewed from a distance. Whether this is caused by UV radiation or light reflecting off the eucalyptus leaves is matter of some debate but either way, this UNESCO World Heritage Site is a definite must see for anyone in the Sydney area. I doubt anyone could possibly have as much fun as LoJo, Minnow, and I did that day but I dare you to try. Good friends really do make the difference between a good day and an amazing one. Thanks, girls!

River Deep, Mountain High

2010-11-07T13:52:00.004-05:00

After an entire week with only me for company, LoJo was no doubt thrilled that Friday’s adventures expanded to include our fellow ecfriend, Minnow. I had been hearing about the Blue Mountains ever since I arrived in Sydney and was excited to finally see the popular tourist Mecca in person.

Our first stop was Leura Cascades for some light hiking, photo ops, and even a swing in the park. My months trekking up and down Sisyphus Hill in Auckland held me in good stead as we walked along the rough-hewn paths that cut through the beautiful forested park. Every so often, the creek skipped around a new corner and we were presented with another small waterfall.

While we explored, the three of us talked about the upcoming and much anticipated release of Jean M. Auel’s sixth book, The Land of Painted Caves, and what we hoped would happen to our favourite couple in the final installment of the Earth’s Children series. Some argued in favour of death and closure while others contemplated villains and offspring. We probably sounded rather crazy to anyone passing by but we didn’t care – we were three literary -girls exploring the great unknown.

After a brief break, we continued up the road to Echo Point and its breathtaking views of the Blue Mountains. From our vantage point we could see the Three Sisters, the Ruined Castle, and the Jamison Valley below.

I’m not quite certain why I thought there would have been a medieval castle in the middle of the Australian Outback but I was still surprised to learn that the
outcropping that made up the Ruined Castle was a natural formation. I mused silently that early settlers must have thought they had seen a strange oasis in the distance the first time they happened upon the sight before me. Perhaps they thought they had found the first Aboriginal Knights Templar only to be disappointed to discover rocks instead of tapestries.

Despite my documented fascination with castles, my favourite part of the view was definitely the Three Sisters. Known (highest to lowest) as Meehni, Wimlah, and Gunnedoo, the Sisters are accessible via a trail that leads to a small bridge that, from our vantage point, appeared to connect visitors to all three sandstone outcroppings. Known as the Giant Staircase, the track runs all the way into the Jamison Valley below and is reputably a lovely walk.

An important section of Auel’s The Plains of Passage takes place at a location known as the Camp of the Three Sisters, so naturally I insisted on countless photos of Minnow and LoJo with the Sisters in the background. Although we never spotted any of the S’Armunai, it was not due to any lack of diligence on my part. (Nor, I’m certain, was it due to the fact that the S’Armunai lived in modern day Czech Republic and not New South Wales, Australia.)

In true democratic style, we voted to forego a walk into the valley and instead headed to lunch at one of the nearby cafés where I ate a traditional Aussie Pie with my hands but without tomato sauce. Our day was only half over and we still had a descent into the valley, a bronze-age horse ride, and a flight over the canopy ahead of us. In fact, I would go so far as to say we had a Scenic World to look forward to.

Life is a Highway

2010-11-04T15:10:00.004-04:00

I have never liked driving. Being a passenger means I literally have the time to sit back and enjoy the scenery. Truth be known, I don’t even have a valid driver’s license any more. I cannot tell you how lucky I was in Sydney to have a wonderful friend like LoJo who was not only a world class ambassador for her fabulous city but who also didn’t mind being the one to drive along almost every major highway in and around Sydney over the course of a week.

If Tuesday was about industry and cities then Wednesday was a return to nature. Our first stop was the lookout at Mount Keira where we cast our gazes down upon Wollongong. Perched in the hills like an oversized aviary, the lookout is an incredibly peaceful spot to grab a cup of coffee or, it turns out, to get married.

LoJo and I noticed several padlocks attached to the iron fence that formed the outer perimeter of the lookout. The locks were all engraved with names and dates and fastened by their brides and grooms. It seemed to me a very romantic gesture for the couples to leave their mark in such a symbolic way. I did, however, wonder what they did with the keys afterward.

We drove back through the mountains and over to Warragamba Dam near Penrith. The dam, I learned, is operated by the Sydney Catchment Authority and helps distribute water to locals in Sydney and the Lower Blue Mountains alike.

Perhaps our visit to Toronto the day before had home on my mind, but my first thought as we breathed in the clean rain-scented air was that the area reminded me of Cottage Country in Northern
Ontario. From the winding blue waters to the endless blanket of green forestland it was like Muskoka had been transplanted and was simply waiting for me to build my Great Canadian Dream on the shores of the Warragamba River.

The facilities and grounds at Warragamba are quite impressive. It is easy to see why so many Sydneysiders would make the drive to the dam to enjoy a Sunday picnic. The area was incredibly peaceful and LoJo was able to point out several different species of native birds we spotted perched here and there throughout the day.

I couldn’t get over the beauty of the land that surrounds Sydney. A short drive in almost any direction and you’ve left behind the oppressive clamor of the bustling city in favour of an ocean of nature and beauty. A wander through wine country, a picnic at the river’s edge in the mountains, or simply a chance for an eagle’s view of the urban chaos below – it is all available in Sydney if one only remembers to look for it.

Rocking the Suburbs

2010-11-02T14:48:00.000-04:00

Sorry to leave you all hanging Monday but I figured that everybody loves a good cliffhanger. It has been over a year since I’ve been home so you can imagine how excited I was when I found out about the wormhole that could take me all the way from Circular Quay to Queen’s Quay. Our destination that Tuesday was that famous city on the lake: Toronto, Australia.

I was amused beyond words when LoJo mentioned we could visit Toronto on our way to Newcastle. After all, it isn’t often you find a city at the bottom of the world named after an Iroquois word meaning "place where trees stand in the water.” The world is replete with Waterloos, Yorks, and Londons but I always thought Toronto was fairly unique.

My curiosity got the better of me and I was determined to find out if Toronto South, as I started calling it, was actually named after the city of my birth or if it was an incredibly bizarre coincidence. According to the Lake Macquarie Historical Society, the city was named for a very modern reason: publicity. In the late 1880’s the resort town still had no name and was visited by Edward Hanlon, a world champion rower from Toronto, Canada. Perhaps hoping to gain an edge on the budding 19th century tourism industry, they named the resort on Lake Macquarie ‘Toronto’ in Hanlon’s honour.

In an amusing twist of fate, sports would once again unite the two Toronto’s over a hundred years later when the winner of the 2009 RBC Canadian Open Golf Tournament was won by Nathan Green – a Torontonian from Down Under.

Further proof that Toronto, Australia shares its heart with Toronto, Canada is evident the moment you speak to one of its denizens who know enough to drop the T’s and pronounce the city’s name “Chorono.”

Somewhat smaller than its Canadian sibling, this Toronto boasts a palmtree-lined main street and its own version of my city’s Royal Canadian Yacht Club. One of the most populous cities in New South Wales, Toronto has a thriving business community and yet still manages to maintain a small town quality that I found quite appealing.

Later that day, LoJo drove me from Canada to England. Located 165 kilometers North of Sydney, I was surprised to learn that Newcastle is a popular commuter town and many of its inhabitants make the daily trek all the way into Sydney. LoJo and I wandered along Nobby’s Head before heading to Swansea, on the banks of Lake Macquarie for lunch.

By the time we arrived back in Darling Harbour, I felt I should have had my passport stamped several times that day alone. I had traveled from Australia, to Canada, to England, to Wales, and then back to Australia in a matter of hours. Three continents in one day is pretty impressive by anyone’s standards and I still had two more days of traveling with LoJo ahead of me.

We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.
~Hilaire Belloc 

Walking on Sunshine

2010-10-31T15:42:00.003-04:00

The only thing better than meeting new friends is catching up with old ones. When I first decided to runaway from home and head to Oceania, one of the first plans that formed solidly in my mind was reuniting with my wonderful friends from ecfans. A large group of us had met in person four years ago on the occasion of my first visit to Australia, and I was excited to have the chance to see my Aussie girls once again.

Shortly after arriving in Sydney, my friend LoJo, a lifelong Sydneysider, took it upon herself to show me the hidden secrets and beauty of the area she calls home. During our first three days, we covered hundreds of kilometers, countless breathtaking vistas, a dozen beaches, and shared innumerable stories on our way there.

At promptly 10:30 each morning, LoJo picked me up in front of my flat and we would start off on our adventure for the day. Since I had just been to Bondi the day before, Monday kicked off with a drive to Sydney’s other famous beach – Manly. Australian summer had not yet officially begun, so there weren’t many surfers in the chilly waters but those that were seemed to be enjoying the relative quiet to be found in the water on the first day of the workweek.

Although LoJo didn’t say as much, our next beach, Cronulla, felt less touristy than either of its better-known cousins. The boardwalk in Bondi is replete with shops selling everything from surf gear to Bondi branded t-shirts. Cronulla, on the other hand, seemed quieter and less exploited by the locals who seemed to love its more natural charms.

I never truly appreciated just how large Sydney really is until I unfolded myself from LoJo’s car at North Head. The city stretched before me in literally every direction. The Harbour Bridge peeked over a ridge to my right while the local ferries passed across the water in front of me carrying tourists and locals alike. LoJo pointed out the best places to watch the city’s world famous New Year’s pyrotechnics show, as I soaked in the sights before me.

Since my own beloved home and native land recently hosted the Winter Olympics, I was keen to see our next stop: the grounds where Sydney hosted the Summer Games in 2000. The extensive area we drove through was home to enough stadiums and sports complexes to have any top-rated American college salivating.

Although the crown jewel in this Olympic park is certainly the newly named ANZ Stadium, I was far more taken with the newer installations: specifically the tribute to the thousands of volunteers that helped make the Games such a success. I don’t know if such a tribute is traditional at all Olympic sites but it should be.

LoJo and I wandered around posing for photos, and she told me about what it was like to actually attend live Olympic and Paralympic events. Ten years ago, the street where we parked was wall-to-wall people as fans from around the world poured into the city for a chance to witness sports history. Canada, it should be noted, walked away with a whopping 14 medals that year.

The next day I went home.

Ballet in the Sky

2010-10-27T15:57:00.003-04:00

Sundays always seem to arrive too early for the hungover among us. A late night of drinking and dancing is a sure fire cure for even the most faithful early bird. You can then likely imagine my shock when my roommates all woke up early after a late night of imbibing with the news they were headed to Bondi Beach for a day of sun worshipping and relaxation. Since I was without any good reasons to do otherwise, I took my flatmates up on their offer and joined them a day at the beach.

After years of living in conservative countries, I don’t actually own any shorts so I was the only one of our group wearing jeans in spite of the warm weather. At the door, I donned sandals for the first time in almost a year and found it odd not to have socks on. Our group walked a short distance to Hyde Park and then hopped on an already full bus for the 30-minute ride to Bondi Junction.

We arrived in the midst of the Festival of the Winds and the sky above us was dotted with every colour of the rainbow. Kites of all shapes and sizes danced along the length of beach. The fliers ranged in age from young children to senior citizens and the one thing they all had in common was the look of joy on their faces as they watched their kites cut across the blue sky above them.

I’m not sure what I was expecting but the kilometer-long stretch of beach in front of me wasn’t it. I always thought the famous beach would be miles long, with huge breaking waves, and hordes of gorgeous surfers. Although there were easily two-dozen hopefuls out in the water, the waves were not terribly impressive that day and most of the wetsuit-clad surfers seemed to be chatting amongst themselves whilst straddling their boards out in the water.

Surf-happy tourists who fail to come prepared can rent a board from one of the local surf shops. Many newbies avail themselves of the group lessons that are available for approximately $65 to $100 for two hours, during which they learn everything from how to paddle out to meet the waves to standing on the boards to greet them properly. During our brief afternoon, we saw at least three groups of eager wannabes carry their boards into the water for presumably the first time.

Considering I arrived still mildly drunk from the night before, I had a great time sinking my toes into the soft sand at Bondi. We watched cute boys literally take flying leaps off a ledge and giggled at the little girl with her homemade kite complete with neon pink string and nylon stocking tail. I may not have taken a dip in the chilly waters, but I can sincerely say that my first trip to Bondi Beach won’t be my last.

Insert Title Here

2010-10-24T15:44:00.003-04:00

More than once, I have found myself wandering around a strange city thinking out my next blog post. I’ll notice something interesting across the street and begin to compose a few paragraphs in my head. Blog Think, as I call it, is always brilliant and witty, the prose never needs work, there are no comma splices, and were Pulitzer Prizes awarded for inspirational blog perfection, I would have won a dozen by now. Sadly, the problem with Blog Think is that it doesn’t have a recording device.

I started carrying around a leather bound notebook for those moments when I had finally created the perfect turn of phrase but ended up with pages of disjointed thoughts and no memory of what inspired them or how I could use them again. I briefly contemplated sticking a tape recorder in my purse for those moments but dismissed the notion because there was no space in my already bursting Roots bag. Despite several successful ventures, carrying around my laptop day after day became an exercise in masochism due to its weight and my now sore back.

Thus, I have been left with only the brief memory of genius to keep my blog warm at night. Mind readers on the street all know I was capable of fits of Kafka-esque brilliance but they were the only ones. Unless someone invents a way of recording my inner musings and transferring them to paper without any interference from me, I’m pretty much buggered in the writing department.

Writer’s block hounded me for months in New Zealand. I composed post after post while I wandered the damp streets of Auckland but was unable to command the words again when seated before my computer. I spent more time staring into space than I did tapping the keys.

In Sydney, I thought I had tracked down my muse and convinced her to stick around when she abandoned me at a typically inconvenient moment. I had dozens of stories to tell but was incapable of getting past the first sentence. I stared for hours at photos and remembered the wonderful memories behind each picture yet the second I thought to turn my musings into something more purposeful the words mocked me and disappeared like wraiths into the ether.

So instead of a witty tale about how Australia is a land of beaches I’m left with yet another post about writer’s block. Rather than sharing the rollicking good times I had with Sophie the Giraffe at Bondi Beach I am left contemplating why no one has invented a mind reading, self-typing computer to be sold at an affordable price at the local Mac store. Unfortunately, it looks like Blog Think and brilliance will only go hand in hand when there’s a telepathic shorthand expert around.

Around Sydney in 500 Words

2010-10-20T19:01:00.001-04:00

I realize I’m verbose which is why I’ve set myself the goal of sharing the following photos without explaining or talking them to death like I usually do.

I don’t have much to say about this photo. Sydney is a beautiful city that stretches for miles in virtually every direction. One of the best ways to appreciate the city is by water. So hop on one of the many ferries to Manly, Bondi, or points in between and soak in the breathtaking scenery.

I crossed the Sydney Harbour Bridge twice one day with my friend LoJo. While I’m not brave enough to walk along its exterior, the option is there for those with steady nerves and deep pockets.

Unlike the CN Tower in Toronto or Eiffel Tower in Paris, Sydney Tower doesn’t dominate the skyline or mental image of Sydney. At 305 meters high it can be seen throughout the CBD peeking out from behind newer office buildings downtown yet remains a must-see for tourists. For the truly daring there is even a Skywalk to tour the outer perimeter at a scary 268 meters up.

I have always been a fan of random sculpture art and Sydney doesn’t disappoint in this area. A brief tour of The Rocks finds a new sample of modern art behind and attached to buildings where you least expect them.

BBS and I visited the Sydney Fish Market with our wonderful cousin and his wife. Anyone who likes seafood even a little must visit the Fish Market where the fresh fish and seafood are beyond tempting. Freshly sliced sashimi, huge freshly shucked oysters, massive prawns, prehistorically large crab legs, and every fish you’ve never heard of are on display and ready to be brought home and popped “on the barbie.” No kitchen in your hotel? No problem! There are dozens of restaurants small and large with the fresh catch of the day on the board ready for a quick snack or a sizeable meal.

In much the same way that visitors to Kenya insisted on buying six foot tall giraffe’s that never fit the in overhead, many people who come to Australia feel the need to buy a didgeridoo. Most days, buskers along Circular Quay can be heard playing the Aboriginal instrument. I understand from a friend who sells them in her shop that they are surprisingly difficult to play.

The ten-year anniversary of the 2000 Sydney Olympic Games was on September 15th of this year. Olympic Park is still well maintained and worth a visit out to its grounds. LoJo told me about the exhilaration of being there during the Games to watch the events unfold in person. She described the chill and pride she felt hearing 120,000 people yell, “Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!” and reply, “Oy! Oy! Oy!” in the stands of Stadium Australia ten years ago.

Pitch Perfect

2010-10-17T17:32:00.000-04:00

I have always celebrated my birthday with a great meal. At home in Toronto, I would always ask my mother to make roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and all the veggie fixings. The Ex and I would go out for a meal at whatever my favourite restaurant of the day was: Il Pizzico in Maryland, Radio Maria in Illinois, Tonino in Delhi, or About Thyme in Nairobi. Just because I was on my own in Sydney for the big day this year, I saw no reason to break with the tradition of having a “Big Deal Meal.”

After much research, I narrowed down my choices to two Circular Harbour- area restaurants, both of which had recently received top honours from Australian Gourmet Traveller. I reviewed the menus of both establishments and finally decided upon lunch at Aria, which is located next door to the Sydney Opera House. Named one of the top 20 best restaurants in the country, I was excited to see if Chef Matt Moran could impress me.

I showed up without a reservation at half past one and was seated by a window with a lovely view of the Opera House. Despite the decidedly high prices, I was intrigued to note that most of the other diners were obviously businessmen on expense account lunches.

I perused the menu and tried to decide what to order. After a great deal of internal debate, I opted for the Seven Course Spring Tasting Menu. Sure I would be stuck eating Ramen Noodles for a month, but instinct told me the meal I was about to enjoy would be more than worth it.

My passion fruit martini arrived prompted and left me greatly enamored of the bartender. Unlike many restaurant cocktails, my martini had not been watered down. The lovely presentation was complimented by delicate scent of passion fruit, which wafted up with each sip. Since matching wines with my meal was beyond my budget, I opted for a lovely Viognier to accompany my meal. The wine was light with little nose to speak of, thus ensuring it did not interfere with any of the flavours the chef had lying in wait for me.

The amuse bouche was a cold vichyssoise shot with salmon mousse. The tasty soup slid down my throat with little fanfare. The soup was neither too salty nor fishy tasting, creating a perfect balance between the textures of the fluffy mouse and the silky soup; all combining for a creaminess that hit my taste buds and made me smile almost instantly. My amuse bouche arrived rather quickly after I placed my order so I politely informed my waiter that despite all the paraphernalia I had strewn about the table (my kindle, camera, note book, and a pen), it was my birthday and I was not in a rush.

The reason I like tasting menus so much is that they give me a chance to try things I might not otherwise order. Despite my culinary fears, whenever I delve into the unknown flavours of a tasting menu I’m never disappointed and am left wondering why I don’t order outside of my comfort zone more often.

So it was with my first course of tuna sashimi served with shaved fennel and radish, octopus, spicy puffed rice, and yuzu purée. The only course I forgot to photograph, it set the bar high for what was to follow in both flavour and presentation. I am not normally a fan of tuna but the contrast between the yuzu purée and the sharp bite the wasabi on the fish raised this dish from a typical plate of seared tuna to a truly unique experience. The light crunch of the puffed rice and shaved vegetables provided the perfect contrast to the soft bite of the tuna.

Perhaps my favourite course of the entire meal was the cured goose breast with chicken liver parfait, poached rhubarb, black pepper, and ginger bread. The almost Carpaccio-like goose meat provided the perfect foil to what I felt was the star of the dish – the chicken liver cigar whose texture melted on my tongue and made me long for seconds even before I finished eating.

It finally struck me as I enjoyed a bite of the eye-opening poached rhubarb that my meal wasn’t supposed to be about strong flavours or knocking me over with the marvels of meats prepared sous-vide with a side of foam. No, Chef Moran had created a menu designed to impress all aspects of my palate with a contrast of textures and mouthfeel. Mouthfeel is that elusive element that makes people cringe when they eat the sucker of an octopus or sigh with pleasure when they first taste a perfectly whipped chocolate mouse. Texture is exactly what Moran has perfected with this tasting menu – the crunch of the pastry shell around the cigar, contrasted with the sinfully smooth chicken liver, and solid bite of the goose. Each bite was pure perfection – a trend that would continue during each subsequent course.

My waiter presented me with the next course: roasted Nova Scotia scallops with a shaved Brussels sprout salad, pumpkin purée, and a raisin and caper dressing. Too many restaurants lately have become lazy about scallops and tend to serve them overcooked – not so at Aria. The caper dressing was a nice surprise of tartness with each bite of perfectly prepared scallop. The distinct and unusual raisin flavour was a revelation but not more so than the Brussels sprout salad that almost had me liking the dreaded vegetable despite myself.

The well trained and efficient wait staff never failed to impress me during my meal. Each course was explained in detail and any questions I had about what I was eating were answered patiently and knowledgeably. When I was presented with the Peking Duck Consommé with dumplings, shaved abalone, and mushrooms, for example, my waiter explained the complex techniques used to create the delicious and aromatic soup. Once again, subtle flavours seemed to be the order of the day and each spoonful of soup was gentle reminder that gluttony was one of the seven deadly sins. The mushrooms still had a nice bite to them and complimented the tasty dumplings perfectly.

The course I was most looking forward to was the Kurobuta sweet pork belly with pickled watermelon and crackling. The pork belly was tender and flavorful without being overpowered by the salt cure. The pork was, sadly, not only slightly greasy on the plate but also on my palate. When eaten in conjunction with the watermelon, however, the greasiness was countered with the natural sweetness of the fruit and formed a perfect union my mouth. I often complain about saltiness yet that was what I liked most about the crackling as I snapped each bite. As this was one of the courses I would have ordered a la carte, I was somewhat disappointed by the overall dish.

My final savory course was roasted lamb fillet with confit belly, eggplant purée, tomato and basil fondue, and a black olive sauce. My lamb was slightly overdone due in part, I believe, to my late arrival and the fact that by this time, it was nearly four o’clock. The cucumber crème cut the natural saltiness of the lamb’s jus and left me with an arrangement of flavours and textures battling for supremacy as they burst across my tongue. The brightly flavoured tomato fondue was really more of a mushy bruchetta and nicely complimented the eggplant purée, which itself was the perfect accompaniment to the lamb. This final course was truly a tour de force and demonstrated Chef Moran’s talents to their utmost.

Before I could ready myself for dessert, my palate cleanser arrived: a pineapple Piña Colada sorbet with coconut tapiocoa. It was crunchy, soft, and cold all at the same time. The vivid flavours were eclipsed only by the incredibly unique tapioca bubbles that exploded like small bombs in my mouth.

To accompany my dessert, I ordered a glass of Domaine de l’Arjolle Lyre muscato. The not overly sweet dessert wine had a strong nose and although not overly sweet reminded me of Ethiopian t’ej with its honey-like colour.

When my dessert arrived, I was appropriately amused and touched to see the chocolate “happy birthday” message on the plate complete with a candle to make my birthday wish. The Calvados ice cream, caramelized apple, almond crumble, and apple sorbet was an interesting take on the now popular “Apple Four Ways”. This was the ultimate dénouement to a meal of textures as the creaminess of the ice cream, smooth tart sorbet, biting apple, and crunchy crumble united to present a sweet assault on my taste buds.

Little did I realize as I savored the last bites of apple crumble that my meal wasn’t actually done yet. A tray bearing six petit fours with two pieces each of nougat, Turkish delight truffles, and coffee lamington was laid before me alongside a piping hot macchiato. I found the sticky nougat a little too chewy for my personal tastes. The truffle, on the other hand, was a pleasant combination of a crunchy chocolate outside with a squishy middle that made me wish I could roam around to the tables that had foolishly left their truffles behind. Finally, the small pieces of cake were delightful snatches of the lightest sponge.

Despite my short-term future as a backpacker, I talked myself into buying Matt Moran’s cookbook eponymous first cookbook. One of my pet peeves when I dine at “celebrity chef” restaurants is a lack of signed cookbooks. Even though I own them all, I would have willingly bought an extra Mario Batali or Jamie Oliver cookbook if it were signed. Yet every time I visit these chefs’ establishments, I have been told that the chefs never leave signed copies available for the public. When I discovered Chef Moran’s cookbooks were signed, I felt it was a sign and added one to my bill.

Ruth Reichl, like most great critics, believed it took multiple visits to a restaurant in order to truly gauge its weaknesses and strengths. As the critic for the New York Times, she famously visited restaurants in different disguises as part of her testing process. As an overweight tourist on her birthday, I can safely say the service and food at Aria is top notch. The lunchtime fare was exquisite from beginning to end and the service was attentive without becoming overbearing. Even when I was the only person left in the restaurant, I was assured I should linger to enjoy my coffee.

Normally, the biggest insult I can offer is the word “nice.” The Ex used to joke that “nice” was the death knell of many meals in subpar restaurants around the world. Yet at Aria, I found myself uttering the word over and over without disdain. Flavours and textures melted in my mouth and left me unable to utter anything other than the incoherent babbling of someone utterly happy and sated. The perfection of the ten courses presented to me should not be lumped as merely nice – they were sublime.

China in Three Parts

2010-10-13T18:10:00.004-04:00

While by no means the largest or even most impressive Chinatown I’ve ever visited, Sydney’s Chinatown is a definite must see for visitors to the area. Of course, to get the full experience it will take more than one visit, a pair of comfortable walking shoes, a sense of fun, and a hearty appetite.

After our disappointing visit to Paddy’s Market, BBS and I headed across the street for what would be my initial tour of Chinatown. The touristy pedestrian mall area of the Asian quarter is two blocks long although the neighbourhood proper is much larger. From the ubiquitous pink cat store to the myriad of hole in the wall eateries, one could be forgiven for wondering if there was a do it yourself ChinaTown™ kit that cities purchased and erected to lure tourists.

Despite the tasty steamed buns at The Emperor’s Garden Cakes and Bakery, I must admit that I was initially disappointed by my first visit to the rather generic Chinatown. Luckily for me, I was dragged back twice more.

My return visit found me in Darling Harbour at the Chinese Garden of Friendship with my then roommate, a girl from Ottawa, and two guys from our hostel. The Gardens are located a short walk across the pedestrian bridge at the foot of Liverpool Street in Chinatown. After some debate we each paid the $6.00 entrance fee and quickly decided it was the best money any of us had spent in Sydney.

Built in 1988 to commemorate Sydney’s bicentennial, the Chinese Gardens are fashioned after a typical Ming Dynasty private garden. The Gardens were designed by Chinese architects and landscape designers in the city of Guangzhou in China, Sydney’s sister city, to demonstrate the perfect balance of the four elements of water, plants, stone, and architecture.

It seems almost trite to call Chinese gardens Zen, relaxing, or calming but that’s what they are. I don’t know if they sell season’s passes to this 10,000 square meter space but if they did I would snap one up in a minute.

Although the price is not as well advertised as I might like, the most entertaining part of the Chinese Gardens appeals to the child in everyone. For $10 anyone can don traditional Ming and Ching dynasty garb and wander the Gardens at will. Men are dressed as Samurai Warriors complete with swords and the ladies are transformed into fan waving princesses. For those shy folks out there, it should be noted that most of the people I saw in costume that day were adults rather than children.

Natural granite formations, waterfalls, koi ponds, hidden nooks and crannies, a miniature bamboo forest, stairs to hidden spots perfect for lover’s trysts, bridges, and creative landscaping are just a few of the wonderful features of the Gardens. If you can avoid looking up, it would be easy to forget for a few hours that you were in the middle of a huge city.

I find it difficult to explain my fascination with the Gardens except to say that I felt at peace there. With hidden niches perfect for stolen kisses, Ottawa Girl and I both remarked that it would be the perfect place for a first date. Of course, for that same reason, it would make a horrible destination for a high school field trip. Yet, I found myself sitting on its stone benches more than once during my time in Sydney: it was peace in the middle of a bustling and noisy city.

My final visit to China Town was under cover of dark on a clear Friday evening. The Chinatown Night Market occurs every Friday night regardless of holidays or weather. This excursion found me with another roommate, Opera, as we wandered the stalls of discounted jewelry and other various wares from IPad accessories to adorable slippers.

I naturally bargained for everything I purchased, much to Opera’s horror, and paid only $15 for my $25 slippers. Opera insisted that nobody bargains at the Night Markets whilst I countered that anyone who has a stand has to expect a little give and take. Simply being in an outdoor market brought back all my happy Maasai Market memories and stood strong by my prices and walked away when necessary.

To top off our night we even got tattoos! Or, as close as I’m ever going to get to breaking down and finally getting inked. In honour of the Year of the Rabbit (due to start in February) I had a small bunny air painted on the base of my thumb. More daring, Opera opted for one at the base of her spine. That night when we returned to the hostel we told everyone they were real. Unfortunately, no one believed us for very long.

The best part of the Chinatown Night Markets is definitely the food, so be sure to bring your appetite. The scents from the freshly cooked food assaulted us the moment we arrived at the markets and tantalized us until we finally gave in and tasted what was on offer. From “meat rugs” and steamed buns, to black rice and dumplings I don’t think there was a single food vendor that disappointed. On our way out, Opera tried some Dragon Beard Candy that she declared scrumptious.

Three visits on three separate days allowed me to see different sides of Sydney’s Chinatown and each was unique in its own way. From the excitement of the Night Markets to the tranquility of the Gardens, there is far more to see than first meets the eye and none of Chinatown’s many facets should be missed on a trip to Sydney.

Why I Now Drink Cider

2010-10-10T15:04:00.000-04:00

Most universities (and some high schools, I know) have a tradition of locking their students in a room with a great deal of alcohol and allowing them to get drunk, content in the knowledge that they are in a safe place, have a sober ride home, and people to watch over them. In the dorms where I lived during university, it was called a “Brewery Tour” and was a greatly anticipated event. We had some sort of alcohol themed event every few weekends but Free Beer Night was just that – free beer. Are there any sweeter words to broke college students?

The tour was hosted by Moosehead, a local brewery, and involved our House heading across the bridge in a school bus and being locked in a room with a bartender and all the Moosehead we could consume in three hours. It was on that occasion that one of the more embarrassing events from my university days occurred. And those of you who knew me back then (or now for that matter) can certainly understand that embarrassing events involving alcohol were plentiful in those days.

The following is my recollection of those events…

First some background: the brewery that footed the bill for this annual bacchanal is famous for a beer with a green label and, at least in those days, it was common to go to the bar and simply ask for “a bottle of Green.” Being a “snooty Upper Canadian” from Toronto, I instead preferred a nice cold bottle of Labatt’s Blue. Although it is considered good form to drink the local brew when travelling, ordering “a bottle of Blue” was always my own private rebellion.

The night of the Brewery Tour, I had enjoyed several bottles of Green when I, in a beer induced haze, decided to grab the next round for my table. To this day, I remember walking up to the bar and consciously thinking I would ask for “a bottle of Green” rather than simply asking for a Moosehead like a normal drunk person.

You know those moments when an entire room goes unexpectedly silent and only your voice can be heard?

“Ask for green. Ask for green. Ask for green.” The words kept swimming through my mind on waves of free beer. “I’ll take three Blues, please.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew they were wrong but I was incapable of taking them back or correcting them midbreath.

I never knew what the saying “deafening silence” meant until that moment and it was horrible. For several seconds, the din of the room had died and even the music seemed to have screeched to a halt. People behind me whispered in loud drunken tones if they had actually heard me correctly.

The bartender stared at me; the indulgent smirk that had been present for most of the evening was gone. I had just dissed his employers – my free beer benefactors - in the worst possible way. All around me, people fell into one of two categories: drunken outrage at my faux pas, or drunken mirth at my folly. It was awful.

The remainder of the evening consisted of me trying to get someone to remove the invisible spotlight I felt pounding directly into my eyes. “I meant to say green!” I tried to explain to anyone who would listen. “GREEN!!!”

Those friends who weren’t on the floor laughing uproariously at me kept asking me to identify different colours in the room. “What colour are my jeans? Very good. Now what colour is the beer?”

By the next day, the incident had become legend throughout Residence Hall. Mocking Blue Girl had evidently been made an official sport while I slept and everyone was eager to play.

The whole incident came to a head several months later, long after I thought my humiliation had been forgotten. By then, I had participated in a House Free Beer Party where I chugged at least one (or two) straight bottles in our House President’s room to offset the number of free beers I had been swiping for my friends hiding in my room. I had served flaming Sambukas during a Room Crawl, and provided my world famous “’Caper Water” to more than my fair share of drunken friends during the wee hours of the morning. I had made amends for my sins – or so I thought.

During the last week of classes, each House hosted an awards dinner. It was a way to avoid the usual cafeteria food; the various House League teams were given prizes, and the old Presidents could make speeches that everyone would ignore. Although I always joined interleague teams in September with the best of intentions, I was never that good at remembering to attend games so I knew I wasn’t about to win any MVP prizes.

“Next up, we have the award for House Beer Rep,” the outgoing president announced. In theory, the Beer Rep was the liaison between Moosehead and the House. “This year’s Beer Rep is Typ0!!” I was shocked, embarrassed, and giddy with pleasure as my friends and Housemates applauded and laughed at the announcement. The gag award was the cherry on my Blue/Green moment of drunkenness months before.

The Beer Rep award was a wonderful way to end my years of living in residence. I would not be returning in the fall as my friends and I had already secured a house not far from campus for the new school year. Best of all, I had learned my lesson: always order the local beer and when in doubt get someone else to order.

They Got the Salt Part Right

2010-10-06T17:37:00.005-04:00

Back when The Ex and I lived in Kenya, we used to watch this wonderful Australian reality show called My Restaurant Rules. The show, which only went two seasons, had its contestants create, start-up, and run actual restaurants. The restaurants were not simple fronts for a reality show – they were real functioning businesses with employees and a clientele who would hopefully vote for them each week. In addition to the public, the couples had to deal with the show’s fabulous (in all its connotations) judges who reviewed everything from the food and kitchen to the washrooms and staff.

Over two mouthwatering seasons, our favourite couple and by extension restaurant, were Evan Hansimlkall and Bella Serventi of Pink Salt in Sydney. Despite not winning the show’s second season, the pair re-launched their restaurant in the Double Bay suburb of Sydney. With my well-known obsession with the Food Network, it should come as no surprise that along with my decision to visit Sydney came the desire to seek out sample the wares at Pink Salt (version 2.0).

Filled with high hopes, I took the ferry from Central Quay to Double Bay for a midweek lunch. The first thing that hits any visitor to Pink Salt is the word PINK – in all caps. From the walls to the eclectic variety of throw pillows, every shade of the pink spectrum is present and accounted for. Although the slightly shabby interior could use a good dusting and some TLC, the décor was not unattractive or overly distracting. The theme went so far, I observed, that other than myself, most people seemed to be dressed for the occasion in shades of pink.

Immediately after being seated, I ordered a Watermelon and Rose Petal Martini. The delicate scent from the drink immediately spoke of the watermelon but the taste was, it seemed to me, oddly of lychees. The admittedly tasty aperitif was an alcoholic precursor to a middling Pinot Grigio and a rather too sweet house muscato.

After much internal debate, I ordered the Tempura Zucchini Flowers filled with blue swimmer crab and ricotta as my starter. As someone who admits to not salting her food at all, I found my initial bite somewhat salty despite the rather tasty saffron aioli accompaniment. Although slightly greasy, the zucchini flowers boasted a delicate crab flavor that didn’t overwhelm my palate.

My second course of Gruyere Cheese and Black Olive Ravioli arrived indecently fast for my sensibilities. Despite winning a Top Service Award in 2008, this was just another nail in the coffin of uneven service during my meal. By the time I had ordered and finally eaten both these courses, only thirty minutes had passed and that, by my standards, is simply unacceptable. I was obviously not there to eat a quick business lunch, and to serve my courses back to back because the chef was anxious for a break was unacceptable.

The excessively hot plate and melted cheese spoke loudly of a chef aching for a breather rather than one looking to impress his diners. The three large ravioli were once again salty for my tastes and immediately brought to mind the numerous comments on My Restaurant Rules that food was not salty enough. Perhaps Australians like their food with excessive amounts sodium, I reasoned.

Sitting on a bed of perfectly wilted greens, the ravioli tasted bitingly of olive without being overpowering. Considering they are out of season in the area, the delightful cherry tomatoes and Parmesan oil that topped the dish provided the perfect natural sauce and took the dish from nyeh to interesting.

Next up was an Apple and Fennel Crumble my waiter recommended on the strength that it, like him, was “very British.” The first course all afternoon long that wasn’t too salty, I found the crumble disappointingly lacking in flavour. The pastry chef’s choice to shred the apple rather than dice it was interesting but not one I would recommend to home cooks as the result was a rather mushy filling with little to recommend it other than a bland crumble topping. The sorbet, on the other hand, was a delightful treat for the taste buds: neither too tart nor too sweet. It was the perfect foil for my flavourless crumble.

In a town obsessed with cupcakes, it should come as no surprise that Pink Salt offered this small treat on their dessert menu to either consume in house or take home. I chose the latter and was well pleased with my decision as it helped me end my day on high note. The moist cake was topped with an icing that wasn’t too sweet and didn’t have that grainy texture I have come to associate with the genre.

When I first arrived at Pink Salt, an older woman next to me noticed me taking notes and asked if I was reviewing the restaurant. I nodded and she shared that she felt the eatery deserved no more than 2.5 stars out of five. I went in with high hopes and initially felt she was being a tad bitter. Three and a half courses later, I think she may have been generous. Even with credit given for the caliber of the wait staff, perfectly sized portions, and tasty cocktails, I find myself unable to overlook the excessively salty food, rushed service, vaguely shabby décor, and an overall sense that despite a solid business plan Pink Salt was still trying to get by on fame earned years ago.

From Hotels to Hostels

2010-10-03T19:50:00.003-04:00

After BBS left Australia, I was relegated once again to living on the cheap. Despite my best (i.e. barest minimum) efforts, I was unable to find a new and affordable flat in Sydney prior to his departure. The thought of leaving the comforts of the Circular Quay-area hotel, with its amazing views, comfy duvets, and lovely business lounge did not sit well with me. Since my quest to go local was meeting with only limited success and few prospective flatmates had rung me back, I cringed and prepared to bite the proverbial bullet.

My housing slump left me with the unenviable choice of living on the streets, staying in an overpriced hotel, or moving into a hostel. I am far too spoiled to live on the streets and far, far too broke for the hotel lifestyle, so I pulled up my big girl panties and accustomed myself to hostel living.

As you can expect, I did a great deal of research into my choice of hostel and eventually settled on the one closest to the hotel where BBS and I stayed. Since I made my decision to stay there at the last minute, I was relegated to bunking in a room with five other girls for a sum slightly greater than one might expect of a hostel.

I have to admit, the newly opened Sydney Harbour Hostel impressed me from the moment I entered its airy reception area. The large comfortable living area features plenty of natural light and fronts the impressive cooking area with its six professional-style ranges.

What surprised me most, however, were the residents of this particular hostel. With rooms to serve 354, the clientele run the gamut from grandparents in their 70’s to children on their first overnight field trip. The 20-something backpackers certainly make up the bulk of the visitors but the contemporary furnishings, banks of computers, and quiet efficiency of its staff are a reminder that this hostel has more than stoned kids on gap year vacations in mind.

The YHA tends to nickel and dime its guests with charges for everything from post checkout luggage storage to overpriced barista coffee in the mornings. The hostel does, however, do its best to entertain the masses. Every night, there is a themed meal people can sign up for. The first night I stayed, I enjoyed ’Roo Burgers on the roof for $6.00 AUD. The following night found me flipping pancakes with other residents while we made a mess and enjoyed the surprisingly free prepare-it-yourself meal.

Located over an archeological site, the best feature of this family-friendly hostel is the roof deck. The views from BBS’s pricey hotel are easily eclipsed by these panoramic offerings. The unimpeded view of the Opera House with the Harbour Bridge to the left is a popular feature here and people can often be found on the roof snapping photos or simply enjoying the fine Australian weather. Best of all, they also have an unimpeded view of the Canadian High Commission!

Lest you think this effusive post is a sign that I have become less spoiled and am suddenly willing to live like a proper backpacker, I wish to assure you that I am still the expat princess you all know and love. That said, if I had known that hostels could be this nice I probably could have saved myself a bundle by now.

The Sydney Aria

2010-09-29T19:29:00.005-04:00

When most people think of Sydney one thing comes to mind: the Sydney Opera House. With its intriguing architecture and famously impressive acoustics, the Opera House features highly on many people’s bucket lists and I’m no different. As soon as BBS mentioned going to Australia with me I told him my only wish for Sydney was to catch a performance at the Opera House.

We vacillated for weeks ahead of time attempting to decide what we would see during BBS’s short window of time. After some debate we finally settled on the 33rd Annual Highlights of Opera featuring the SBS Youth Orchestra. Rather than watching an entire opera, the Youth Orchestra would accompany a series of professional opera singers performing a selection of pieces from a variety of operas.

Made a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2007, Jørn Utzon’s architectural masterpiece sits on Bennelong Point in Sydney Harbour not far from the hotel BBS and I were staying. The series of shells that make up the iconic roof make an impression whether seen from a nearby rooftop or, perhaps more impressively, from within the Opera House itself.

The performance we saw that night was impressive and definitely left me planning to see a proper opera before I eventually leave Sydney. The Youth Orchestra, to my untrained ear, was suitably impressive with only a few audibly off notes over the course of the night. Although not all the kids on the stage were talented enough to go onto become professionals, conductor Stephen Mould has good reason to be proud of the talented musicians we heard that evening.

I am not, it should be noted, an opera aficionado and I was pleased and surprised by how many pieces I recognized once I heard them. Papageno (or Pa, Pa, Pa) from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, for example, didn’t click when I read it on the program. Only moments into Angela Brun and Christopher Hillier’s uneven performance I was instantly able to mentally sing along.

As vaguely alluded to by one of the night’s honorees, Hillier was vastly outclassed by virtually everyone. Last minute replacement Warwick Fyfe, on the other hand, whose impressive baritone left everyone longing for more after his Hai Gia Vinta la Causa from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro was a pleasure to listen to.

Brun’s later sublime performance of Leo Delibes’s The Bell Song from Lakmé was one of the highlights of the night and raised one of the rare ovations of the evening. The only other person to whom that honour was extended was fan favourite Dominica Matthews’ performance of Seguedilla from Bizet’s Carmen. The only person who changed costumes for her pieces rather than donning an evening gown, Matthews added a sense of fun with her flair for drama every time she took the stage.

The true find of the evening, however, was tenor David Corcoran whose initial foray on stage with Dies Bildnis from The Magic Flute caused BBS to wonder aloud whether he had written the lyrics on the back of his hand. (He was actually pretending it was the mirror he would have had in hand for the real opera.) His later performance from Verdi’s Rigoletto was outstanding. One of the youngest singers to take the stage that night, Corcoran was a one-time recipient of the Moffatt Oxenbould Young Artists Development Program awarded by the night’s sponsors, the Australian Opera Auditions Committee.

The final performance of the evening from La Traviata left me humming as I left the Opera House. I realize that opera isn’t for everyone but a night like this with snippets of different composers is a great introduction to the medium. Whether it was the talented kids, the gifted singers, or the fantastically impressive surroundings my night out at the opera exceeded my hopes for my evening at the opera.

Life From the Passenger Seat

2010-09-26T20:30:00.004-04:00

The sibling road trip BBS and I arranged of the North Island was rather lacking in solid planning. We came to a mutual agreement to allow anything vaguely resembling an actual plan to remain fluid. We each had spots we wanted to visit on our four-day route and anything else, we decided, would be gravy.

High on BBS’s to do list, and smack dab in the middle of our first day’s route, was the Kauri Museum in Matakohe. Although we decided we didn’t want to pay to see the actual museum, we both fell in love with several hand-carved bowls in the gift shop that we foolishly didn’t purchase. The experience only went to prove my theory of travel shopping: Is this something you’ll regret not owning in five years? If so, buy it!

Later that first day, we arrived at the Waipoua Forest where we visited the enormous Tāne Mahuta. It may seem odd to pull off the road to
take photos of a mere tree but at over 167 feet, this is the type of tree that gives birth to legends about faeries, elves, and Avatar’s Hometree. Taking in the millennia-old trees along those miles of winding roads was truly breathtaking and made taking the much longer scenic route more than worthwhile.

After a good night’s rest in Paihia, we were on the road again, this time to see Cape Reinga, on the northwestern tip of the Aupouri Peninsula. Often referred to as the northern most point on the North Island, Cape Reinga is a photographer’s dream with breathtaking vistas in literally every direction.

We were informed that from the plateau where the lighthouse is located, it is possible to see the actual point where the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean meet. The weather was typically overcast during our visit, so I wasn’t able to see the mythical line myself.

As I stared out across the ocean I was able to imagine the land as it must have been hundreds of years ago when the Maori first arrived in New Zealand. The churning waters below and the rough, craggy hills behind me hardly seemed like they would have been a welcoming sight to the weary travelers. Yet, as I have said before, New Zealand is just that: welcoming and warm. I can’t think of anywhere better to find oneself when running away from home and responsibilities of reality.

After walking around Cape Reinga, BBS and I piled back into the car and headed for lunch at the Mangonui Fish Shop. The fish and chips shop had been recommended to us by the oft-absent front desk clerk at our hostel and didn’t disappoint. Since we were there off-season, the restaurant wasn’t terribly busy but the fish was freshly fried and the chips were crispy and plentiful.

Our last stop before heading back to Auckland was Kawakawa and its “world famous toilets.” Designed by Austrian artist and architect Friedensreich Hundertwasser.in 1988, the toilets are a popular tourist stop for anyone in the area.

BBS and I didn’t see as much of New Zealand as either of us hoped during his stay. We explored small patches and made the most of our time. While he no doubt wished I was more amenable to hiking and tromping around random hilly paths, I would like to think he still had a good time while I showed him around “my island home.” Perhaps the best part of the trip was the places we didn’t see because that means I will have to return soon.

Are We There Yet Papa Smurf?

2010-09-23T00:58:00.004-04:00

When I first informed my family that I had run away from home and landed in New Zealand, they were naturally a little worried. That emotion was quickly followed by envy at the freedom that granted me the time and wherewithal to gallivant around the planet. Ever the stalker, my eldest brother, BBS, quickly latched onto the idea of joining me in KiwiVille™ before the fall semester started. The plan was to spend a week or so in New Zealand and then hop across the Tasman Sea to spend a few days in Sydney, Australia.

We (and by that I mean he because I’m a lazy git who never answers emails) planned to rent a car and drive around the North Island to see the sights. We mapped out a route that would take us from Auckland past Orewa, through Paihia, to the northwestern most tip of New Zealand, Cape Reinga. We initially planned to drive back through Auckland to hit Rotorua but to my dismay time got away from us and we never made it there.

The drive to Paihia was beautiful and reminded me a lot of similar views in Northern Ontario – except with more palm trees. Since I don’t drive, I enjoyed the relative comfort of the passenger seat while BBS put in eight good hours behind the wheel that first day.

Thanks to my executive decision to take the scenic route along Highway 12, we arrived in Paihia slightly later than intended. Whether because of the late hour or simply due to the laziness of the front desk staff at Bay Adventurer, it took us ages to check into this popular backpacker stop. Off-season though it may have been, I was shocked to discover that the town appeared to close down before ten every night. Any hope BBS and I had of enjoying a late night pint and a pizza were dashed as we wandered through the darkened town and were left puzzling over why this area was so popular with the backpacker crowd.

As we discovered two days later, Paihia was simply the eerie Bizarro World version of Russell, a brief ferry ride across the Bay. Literally every café, tourist shop, and hardware store was identical to that on the other side of the bay. I’m sure there were differences but I simply wasn’t able to find any.

The beautiful Haruru Falls and Waitangi Treaty Grounds, where the historic Treaty of Waitangi was signed in 1840, make Paihia more than a simple backpacker magnet. The Treaty Grounds are, in my opinion, a far better way to enjoy Kiwi history and culture than stopping by the comparatively dry exhibits at the Auckland Museum.

Several days later, we made our return trip to Auckland along Highway 1 and I officially dubbed it the faster, if less pretty, way to navigate the North Island. The seeming speed of the return journey may have been due in part to the incredibly yummy lunch of mussels we had my SIL Eleanor’s cousin’s home. When we hit the road after lunch our car seemed to eat up the miles in front of us and we were back in Auckland ahead of schedule.

Road trips were a staple of my childhood, so spending several days in a car with my brother didn’t faze me. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I don’t drive so I was able to nap during some of that time. I can’t speak for him but I think we had fun during our Kiwi adventures. Of course, to hear about those adventures you’ll just have to tune in again on Monday.

In Vino Veritas

2010-09-19T16:40:00.004-04:00

One should never travel to a new place without trying the local delicacies. In the case of New Zealand, that means a plate of lamb for dinner and at least a glass or two of wine from time to time. Since I always try to make an effort to fit in with the locals, I made sure to imbibe in locally fermented grapes whenever possible.

So when I heard that BBS was tracking me down in New Zealand, the first plans I made were for a winery tour on Waiheke Island, a 45-minute ferry ride from Auckland. Joining us for our tasting adventure were BBS’s cousin by marriage and his wife.

After a slightly bumpy ferry ride, we boarded a bus on Waiheke with seven other people and our driver/guide for the day who filled us in on island life. My favourite piece of trivia was that Waiheke is the third most populous island in New Zealand – after the North and South Islands.

Our first stop was Stonyridge Estate where we paused long enough to enjoy a light lunch of quiche and salad. As our vineyard guide introduced himself in the cellar, we were quickly clued in to the fact that this was a boutique winery in the every sense of the word: one of the first Bordeaux-style wines he told us about cost over $200 per bottle. He followed that tidbit up by telling us we would not be trying any of it that day.

While we sipped on glasses of not-$200 wines, he told us about the surprisingly low bottle yield they produced, and the more surprising fact that they still used real corks. In an area that prides itself on being among the first to switch to the more modern screw tops, I was amused by his defense of old-style corks and the lack of “valid research” about the potentially negative effects on cellared wine. My one regret about the entire tour is that I didn’t purchase a bottle of Stonyridge’s wine, as this was by far the best we sampled all day.

After lunch, we made our way to Rangihoua Estate to learn about and sample olive oil. A woman there guided us through the process of growing, picking, and transforming the locally grown olives into olive
oil. BBS’s favourite part of the tour, however, was the impressive hand-carved giant chess set that sat in the corner pressing room. We followed our olive lesson with a tasting of four or five different oils and an incredibly tasty herb pesto of which virtually everyone on the tour purchased at least one bottle.

Everyone on the tour deemed our next stop universally disappointing. Wild on Waiheke is an example of a winery being a “jack of all trades and a master of none.” It is a winery that was also a brewery, corporate retreat specialist, and several other niche market endeavors they shared with us and yet they managed to do none of them well. The wine was barely palatable; the beer, I was told, was average at best; and the jarred and bottled snack foods they urged us to sample were tasty but unimpressive.

Although we weren’t asked for feedback after our tour that day, I would encourage Fullers to remove Wild on Waiheke from the Taste of Waiheke tour and replace it with a winery whose wares tourists may actually want to purchase.

Mudbrick Vineyard, the final stop of our tour, was a refreshing improvement and a nice way to end our slightly rainy day. The gentleman who conducted our Mudbrick tour was knowledgeable and pleasant while he took us from the tasting room, to a terrace with views of Auckland in the distance, and then finally to the vineyard’s internationally acclaimed restaurant. Sadly, of the two whites we sampled, the Viognier, a favourite varietal since I first sampled it in South Africa in 2001, was a one-note disappointment.

Although they weren’t all homeruns, the wines we tasted, vineyards we visited, and great company all made for a lovely day. I would highly recommend a visit to “Wine Island,” as I dubbed Waiheke, to anyone visiting the Auckland area. The local vintners combine old world expertise and sentimentality for the grapes with a sincere love and modern appreciation for their chosen art.

City of Rain

2010-09-16T02:45:00.004-04:00

This post marks the beginning of what I hope will become an Internet rumor that within a month or two becomes an Internet truth. Here goes: Auckland is Māori for rain. As rumors go, it doesn’t seem too big or important but as someone who lived there for three months it seems incredibly and unerringly true.

Kiwis reading this are undoubtedly yelling at their screens that it is my own fault that I chose to visit this fabulous country in the middle of winter. It was, I confess, my own conceit when I believed that no “southern hemisphere winter” could impress a Canuck who just survived a snowy winter in Oslo, Norway. Yet the dampness of Auckland had me kvetching like no torrent of snow ever could. One of my flat mates even had to use the oven to dry out his shoes from the omnipresent moisture one day. With those admissions on record, I just have to say that I am officially and utterly over any weather pattern that involves rain!

Of course, it was the rain that helped push me from long term tourist to an official (by my personal standards) local.

I wasn’t initially certain if living in Auckland as an overgrown backpacker counted as “officially” living in New Zealand. While I did have a mailing address, I wasn’t there for very long, didn’t have a job, nor did I stay long enough to develop one of my patented faux accents. Yet when one looks back on my “homes” over the last five years, one thing theme is evident: water and the many ways it can drive me insane.

In India we literally had a hole in the wall that caused a flood in our guest room. In Kenya, I loved the sound of rain on the tin roof but it always caused heart palpitations since there were several gaps in said roof that caused it to rain in the living room. Egypt was home to the pipes that stopped providing water on a semi-regular basis shortly before we moved. Not, as one might think, due to a drought but simply because the fifth floor didn’t seem to deserve water on the days when my maid was scheduled to work. In Norway, our water problems were brought on by the washing machine we bought shortly after arriving. Due to a comedy of errors, I ended up partially installing the machine myself and two or three floods later can safely say that I am an awesome plumber when the need for clean clothes outweighs my need to be a girly girl.

Which brings us to New Zealand and its never-ending pattern of rain. The owners had only recently renovated the house where I lived and I was among the first people to live there. My little corner room had a large bed, small wardrobe, a desk, a tiny window, and two exterior walls. The latter would prove to be my downfall as the rainy season persisted in Auckland.

It turned out that the eaves of the house weren’t quite up to code. Or maybe it was the mortar in the walls or simply the rain gods who so enjoy mocking me but almost every time it rained in Auckland, it rained in my room. Not simple holes in the roof, but cracks in the foundation that would find rivulets of moisture tracking their way down the walls and gathering in yellow puddles in the freshly painted white floor. Dots of mold formed on the venetian blinds and even on my suitcase as the problem persisted week after rainy week.

My landlord’s solution was to plant towels throughout my space but even these eventually fell to the power of the rain gods who were not about to be thwarted in their quest to make me feel at home with H20 related miseries.

Lest you think the indoor rain made life unbearable, allow me to ease your fears: after a while I simply learned to ignore it. After years of water-themed headaches (starting with Poseidon trying to kidnap me on a trip to Mexico as a child), I refused to be beaten by something as mundane as poor masonry. Despite the fact that I still don’t know what Auckland looks like without the shield of omnipresent rainclouds, I loved living there. If the water gods trying to make me miserable is the standard bearer of my past, then I guess Auckland was, if only briefly, home.

Radiation Head

2010-09-13T05:59:00.002-04:00

I have always had dreadful luck when it comes to electronic devices. It started when I was a child and I accidentally put my foot through a Christmas gift that turned out to be a stuffed animal with a radio in its tummy. Come to think of it, even prior to that debacle, I may have been responsible for killing at least two needles on my father’s record player.

The Ford Contour The Ex and I owned when we arrived in the Midwest had a problem with its Check Engine Light. The problem was that whenever I was in the car, it wanted to come out to play and would only go back to sleep if we paid a small fortune to the local Ford dealership who kept telling us nothing was wrong. According to their fancy diagnostic machines, the fact the light only came on when I was driving was simply a coincidence. The fools.

During that same period of time, this curse came to be known as Radiation Head because no matter what phone I was on or where I stood, any call I made on a cell phone always dropped. This was especially embarrassing as I worked for a large cell phone company at the time.

I used to hypothesize that I had a giant electromagnetic field surrounding me that caused so many gadgets to malfunction in my presence. Little did I know that my curse was only waiting for a perfect storm called New Zealand to truly demonstrate its true malevolence and power.

Within weeks of arriving in Auckland, my computer had a heart attack… Or maybe that was me… One night, while I was busy deleting writing I deemed unfit to be posted, BigMac (my Mac) decided to join the separate vacation my Muse had taken from me and gave me the blue screen of death. “Macs don’t get the blue screen of death!” I sobbed.

What followed was a week and a half of me having a series of nervous breakdowns in a variety of Apple stores throughout Auckland while the Mac Geeks explained that my charger was fried and it would take several days to order, ship, and receive from the States. (Don’t ask me why I couldn’t have one from their stock, as this question was never answered to my satisfaction.) I’m sure it’s a coincidence but that week also coincided with the purchase of my first bottle of vodka since arriving in New Zealand.

A month later, the battery on my camera died. Okay, this one may have been my fault, but since my backup battery was also inexplicably dead at the very moment I needed drunken photos, I will chalk it up as another win for Radiation Head.

The electronic doomsday tale that has been my time in New Zealand came to a head my last week in Auckland when, at the worst possible moment when the mic on my phone died. According to the calendar, my phone was a year and a day old - an age the good folks at Nokia explained to me meant it was no longer under warrantee. Several heart palpations later, I had a rather pricey new headset that would save me from jumping off the Auckland Harbour Bridge.

A week later the whole thing up and died.

No matter what outlet I plugged it into, or how loudly I wailed at the Electronic Gods, my year old phone would not charge. Its lovely screen stayed dark and it refused to sing to me about Defying Gravity. This time I knew there was no quick fix in the offing – I was officially and utterly screwed and there was no light at the end of this phoneless tunnel. I departed New Zealand with a heavy heart and a dead phone in my purse.

When I arrived in Sydney, I headed to the local mobile phone shop and told them that no matter how much I lusted after the new iPhone, I would like to purchase their cheapest unlocked handset. Ever the ~~glutton for punishment~~ optimist, I had them double-check my E75 just in case. Five minutes later, I heard a chorus of angels sing as the lovely girl behind the counter told me my phone was fine – I just needed to replace my fried charger.

Long story short (way, way too late): New Zealand brought my chronic Radiation Head to a whole new level of evil. All it took was one day in Australia and whatever power New Zealand held over my electronic tethers to sanity began to wane. I had a new charger and my old phone worked like a charm – even the microphone had somehow miraculously fixed itself. Given my history, I won’t jinx myself into thinking this is the end of the Radiation Head story, but I do hope that maybe this chapter is at an end and the next won’t start for a long, long, long time.

Please.
[image source]

Nine Years Later

2010-09-10T18:50:00.002-04:00

I was surprised to look at the calendar earlier this week to see it was September 11th again. It has been nine years since that day but even the date manages to chill me and serve as a constant reminder of the events that changed American history. Horror had a new name that day as my coworkers and I listened to events unfold on radios throughout the office. We were all paralyzed by what we heard and waited for some unseen force to turn back the hands of time and undo what was happening.

So many people died nine years ago today. They were mourned by friends, family, and even strangers around the world who stood and grieved for the senseless losses. They remain lost to us and nothing we do can change that. Avenging their deaths won’t bring them back. Nor will denying people their rights or hating blindly.

I wonder what some of those people did that morning. Did they remember to kiss their children on the forehead as they headed out the door? Did they say, “I love you,” to their wives before they picked up their briefcases? Did they cut people off on the road because they were running late to the office? Did they laugh at something funny in the newspaper while they sat on the train? Did they give the bum on the corner a nickel of their change from Starbucks? Did they curse their boss as they snuck into the morning meeting five minutes late?

Nine years ago, 2,996 people died. When most of them woke up that morning, they had no idea what fate awaited them and acted as if that Tuesday were just like any other. The small transgressions of each day passed because those weren’t supposed to be their last moments on earth.

No matter how much we wish for it, we cannot change the events of that morning. All we can do is learn from them. It sounds trite, perhaps, but the lesson of that day shouldn’t be about lashing out blindly, looking for someone to blame. The true legacy of the victims of 9/11 should be to live each day as if it were our last: to share our gifts with those around us so that we can be remembered for how we embraced life and lived each moment to its fullest.

Not, how did he die, but how did he live?
Not, what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever ready, with word of good cheer,
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away?

Anon

Mini Home

2010-09-08T10:06:00.004-04:00

It occurred me to recently that I am officially a girl without a home. For the last five years when people asked me where home was, I told them whatever country I was currently living in and let them draw their own conclusions. After all, as a professional expat wife, it was my job to make my home wherever I could find it. Now that question is more difficult than ever to answer, since the point of this trip is to help me find a home within myself.

Deep down Canada has always been, and likely will always be where my heart calls home. Yet I realize that the Canada I know and love is captured forever in amber and seen through rose coloured glasses. I haven’t lived in the country of my birth for well over a decade, and if the G20 riots I watched on television are anything to go by my beloved Toronto has changed dramatically in the years since I “rode the Rocket.” Perhaps that is what I love about Auckland or as I like to call it: Mini Toronto.

The most populous city in New Zealand is, for all intents and purposes, Toronto in microcosm – or so I was told by a reliable source. The similarities go far beyond the obvious superficial ones of Sky Tower, Queen Street, and the waterfront with its plethora of restaurants and bars. From its oddly polite and law-abiding denizens to its pedestrian-friendly neighborhoods and parks, Auckland is a surprising portrait of home on this island thousands of miles from the city of my youth.

My first stroll along the boutique-dotted Ponsonby Road revealed a fine collection of cafes, bars, and restaurants from one end to the other. Although Queen Street, and its parallel sister, High Street, get more attention from tourists and the guide books, Ponsonby is a great location for those days when an afternoon of lunching and boutique shopping turns into an evening of martinis and dancing.

At the top of Ponsonby Road is Karangahape Road. Known locally as K’Road, the street boasts an eclectic mix of shops, bars, clubs, adult emporiums, and cafés. Although I may have partaken of a pint or two in the bars on K’Road, my favourite stop along this local street appealed to the child in me. Named after my favourite Robert Munsch book, the fabulous second hand store The Paper Bag Princess boasts not only well-priced merchandise but even has some of Michael Martchenko’s illustrations on its walls.

A nice walk (or brief Link bus ride) across town is the shopping nirvana of Newmarket. Although not budget friendly (or maybe that’s my inability to ever shop on sale), the stores in Newmarket have everything a girl in need of retail therapy could ever want: from Macs to MAC cosmetics, the main drag Broadway is a great place to find that perfect something you never knew you needed. Sadly, other than the Cock and Bull, I found the area to be dreadfully devoid of good eats or drinks.

Luckily for me, the tourist trap that is Parnell is a quick walk up the road. If Ponsonby is where the locals hang out, then this is where they send their guests. Although I didn’t have high hopes for The Chocolate Boutique Café, which I found listed in every guidebook on the city, I soon found myself drooling and pledging my fealty to their PMS-worthy Chocolate Pot. Further down the road, I found locally sourced merino wool, jade jewelry, and every other Kiwi must-have.

This oceanside city was most familiar to this wandering Canuck perhaps because of the people. During my daily walk up ~~Sisyphus Hill~~ Queen Street, I strolled past people from dozens of countries, streaming out of the local Korean barbeque, Indian-owned dairies, and ubiquitous sushi shacks. The pleasant symphony of languages assaulted me as a fresh reminder that I was no longer in the homogenous societies of Oslo or Cairo.

On the weekends, teams of people can be found in one of the numerous parks throughout the greater Auckland area playing games of pick-up rugby or football (soccer). The sidewalks of Queen Street, meanwhile, are dotted throughout the week with a variety of impressive buskers. More than an array of humble musicians, any given day can find a donation hat for street artists, magicians, or even Cirque de Soleil wannabes. Men and women in tailored suits rushed between buildings in the CBD while backpackers gathered on hostel steps and in cafes to discuss the latest party or the status of their working holiday visas.

From the softly accented politeness to the falsely familiar landscape, I came to see how so many international transplants have so easily called this place home. I do not wish to romanticize Auckland, yet I find myself embracing its faults and shadows as much as I enjoy basking in each of the new delights I find around seemingly every corner of this Kiwi city. Yes, it would be easy to call this small corner on the edge of the world my new home.

Days of Our Lives

2010-09-06T06:52:00.000-04:00

It takes time, and a certain level of comfort before a group of strangers are willing to call themselves friends. At first, they often don’t know the right word to describe the situation but the signs are there – the shared meals, common laughs, and occasional memories passed between drinks or during the adverts when watching someone’s favourite program on TV. Suddenly the strangers realize they know more about each other than they meant to or thought they to. Most of all, they realize that they don’t mind and even welcome those moments of togetherness that just a few days before had been vaguely awkward.

So it was in the house where I stayed in Auckland. After weeks of cocktail party-polite inquiries as to how work was or how blisteringly cold our rooms were, the ice started to melt between us. It began as a night or two of the group shivering in front of the TV in the chilly living room and then evolved into sharing pieces of our hearts with strangers who didn’t know us well enough to judge. No matter what was said or done no one said anything aloud as if acknowledging our someone's problems made them real.

Then one weekend, something changed. Friday night began innocently enough with small talk while someone prepared a meal in the communal kitchen. Somehow, within a few hours everyone was drunk (some Typ0s more than others), we were dancing, and we were being more honest with each other than sobriety probably would have allowed. Although we had all gleaned the basics about one another from snatches of overheard conversations, the talk that night opened windows onto the truth that a lack of grain alcohol probably would have left shuttered. The next night, despite promises from some people to never drink again, we were back at it. This time, however, the dancing was moved to K Road when supplies had to be replenished.

We weren’t about to become the Real World, New Zealand but as the weeks passed into months, and people came and went from the house, we all learned more about one another and somehow weren’t completely scared off. Although the likely didn’t realize it, the tears, haircuts, fights, dances, parties, movies, silences, smokes, salads, and those seven strangers helped the process of putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.

I know I blogged recently about friendship found on a drunken airplane ride, so finding it in a rooming house shouldn’t be any different I suppose. Yet this one took me by surprise. We were strangers who made a point to stay that way for weeks, making certain to never delve beyond the surface of politeness. Whether it was the passage of time and the forced proximity, the lingering effects of too much alcohol, or a simple of case of familiarity breeding insanity, walls were broken down and tenuous new threads of something greatly resembling friendship were formed.

“This is the true story of eight strangers paying to live in a house in Auckland, New Zealand. Find out what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real. The Kiwi World.”

Fighter

2010-09-03T03:52:00.002-04:00

Although I insist on having my iPod blasting my eardrums at the gym, and greatly enjoy dancing and singing along to random music while I wander around town, I have never been a person who expressed negative emotions through music. Rather, I have always used music to make myself happy and get my endorphins moving. Lately, however, I have found myself downloading songs and culling through my iTunes collection with specific ideas in mind.

When I get homesick, for example, I crawl into my oversized Toronto Maple Leafs jersey and listen to HomeSick; my all-Canadian playlist featuring everyone from Stompin’ Tom to Spirit of the West. Then I turn to You Tube to listen to the "Hockey Night in Canada Theme" (classic, thank you) and "I Want to Drive the Zamboni". I dare anyone not to dance like a gleeful child when listening to "Goin’ Up" by Great Big Sea.

My latest iTunes playlist is called Girl Power. Recent developments in my life, I realize, are probably explanation enough but that would make for a rather short and boring blog entry, so I think I’ll expand on the thoughts and emotions that led to the pounding and blasting of everything from Pink’s “So What” to Gloria Gaynor’s “I’m a Survivor.”

For the most part, these songs put me in a place of power and strength in my newfound singlehood. Every so often, however, I accidentally listen to the lyrics (Lisa Loeb, “Stay”) and find myself drifting toward melancholy. For every “Irreplaceable” by Beyoncé I seem to find a “Your Ex-Lover is Dead” by Stars. I never thought I’d be one of people who cried at telecom commercials or who broke into tears at the sound of “that song” and it bothers me.

Traditionally, the music I choose to download to iTunes tends to be my own personal sensory time machine. Garth Brooks takes me back to getting drunk with the girls in Hen House back in Halifax whilst Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family” flies me straight back to grade nine. Mention of Iron Maiden in “Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheetus always makes me think of my brother, BBA, and anything by Corky and the Juice Pigs reminds me of the fabulously bizarre night when I attended a concert of theirs in Toronto with a bunch of Pages from the library.

(Just as I finished that last paragraph “Gitchee Gitchee Goo” from Phineas and Ferb popped up on my Happiness playlist and I started singing aloud and dancing in my seat. Normally that wouldn’t be so bad except that I’m sitting in an outdoor patio in central Sydney and everyone in the bar now thinks I’m drunk, crazy, or [more likely] both.)

This vaguely pointless trip through my iPod makes me wonder what my readers are listening to. What do you listen to when you want to dance for joy down the crowded streets of your city? What songs do you listen to when you want to wash your face with salty tears? And what songs do I need to add to my collection to make my day brighter or bring me closer to your personal shade of bliss?

“Thank You For Creating Buffy”

2010-09-01T07:59:00.004-04:00

When last we left our intrepid fangirl she was drooling over every word Joss Whedon cared to share about the craft of writing. Although exceedingly brilliant in his awesomeness (I know that made no sense but it doesn’t make it any less true), Whedon also spoke about his other creative outlets like Buffy (the character he said was most like although he didn’t realize it for years), Firefly (the show that taught him about grief), and The Avengers (whose cast, he said, is devoid of egos.)

During the Q&A Whedon addressed that oft asked question about the possibility of seeing the brilliant Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode Once More with Feeling on Broadway. To the great disappointment of everyone present, he referred to his Broadway dream as a “pipe dream.” He rushed to point out that it was, however, “a really good pipe” that was unfortunately being clogged up due to time issues.

On the issue of his creations singing I have this one-off quote about regarding the Avengers: “Everybody wants to hear Thor sing!” I could put it in context for you but I think leaving it out there like that is far more amusing.

Later one of the audience members asked a question regarding the so-called “Joss Whedon Method” of writing wherein the audience falls in love with an amazing character only to have them killed unexpectely. Whedon joked that when people heard he was scheduled to direct an episode of Glee everyone’s first question was, “Who is he going to kill?” He defended himself saying this was not his “defining characteristic,” but rather that it simply made for more interesting reading and watching to when someone unexpected dies.

During one of the more amusing moments of the afternoon, the gifted artist was asked if he felt any guilt about the recent vampire resurgence in popular culture. Whedon “refused to take the heat” for this fangy development, and put the blame solely on Anne Rice whose “Interview with the Vampire” he read at 15.

Hours after basking in Joss’s presence, my roommates at the hostel told me I was still glowing but I can safely certainly wasn’t the only one affected by him. From the deafening roars of approval throughout his talk to the blind adoration I saw on the faces of the other people lucky enough to attend the post talk VIP event, Whedon need not worry about the loyalty of his Australian fans.

The VIP event was the reason my ticket cost so much and was well worth the money spent. I drank several glasses of sparkling wine and ate my share of canapés with 150 of Joss Whedon’s closest ~~fangeeks~~ friends after the general talk. We all gathered in the North lobby grasping for whatever brief moment the talented man could spare. You could always tell where in the room the room he was located by looking for the throng of people with their eyes glazed over while he addressed individual questions and comments.

Since I did not want to appear too eager I waited a solid 10 minutes after he first arrived in the room before making my move. I joined the adoring crowd and waited for the perfect moment to ask my question. I listened to him respond to questions about costuming on Buffy and take in the awesome fan tattoo pictured (pictured left), while I debated whether I should ask a fangirl question about the demise of his Wonder Woman project, or go with a smartgirl question about authors who inspired him.

My moment came when Whedon’s publicist attempted to disengage him from his current gaggle of fans and move him across the room to a new gaggle. “Mr. Whedon,” I said quickly trying to get his attention before he walked away, “I was wondering which authors intimidated you? The first time I read Nabokov’s Lolita I swore I’d never pick up a pen again. Who does that for you?”

He looked at me with what I choose to interpret as respect and said it was funny that I mentioned Lolita as he was going to talk about the relationship between his love of Lolita and Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Little Princess but felt that people would think that was weird. I laughed and said that he would have the whole audience that way: the women would think his love of The Little Princess was adorable and the men would high five his Lolita fixation. I glazed over much of the conversation that followed because I was too busy chanting, “He liked my question!!” over and over in my head.

Five minutes later my punkest move of the day unfolded. Whedon had dutifully followed his publicist across the room and was generously posing for photos with several fans despite earlier warnings not to ask him for any photos or autographs. The first photo marked the beginning of the end for the publicist’s control over the fangeeks – or at least over me.

Earlier that day I had visited a local comic book store to purchase a copy of the Buffy Season 8 graphic novel on the off chance I would have an opportunity to obtain Whedon’s autograph. With the book burning a hole in my purse I watched as another fan handed him a copy of the Whedon-penned Astonishing X-Men (Gifted), and asked for an autograph. That’s when I made my move.

“Since you already have an indelible marker in your hand would you mind?” I said in my most pathetic fangirl voice. With a sigh he did just that and made my entire freaking year. You will be proud to hear that I waited exactly 23 seconds during which I walked a suitable four feet away before I squealed with glee and jumped up and down, clutching the book to my chest. “Well played,” one of my new friends said admiringly. I simply nodded and continued my geeky happy dance.

As awesome-tastic as the entire Joss Whedon talk and after-event were, it was these newfound friends who were the highlight of the event for me. I hung out with five people who ranged from a recent high school graduate to a PhD candidate writing his dissertation about popular culture. These were well-spoken individuals whose love of an adolescent girl with superpowers had evolved into a love of her creator: Joss Whedon.

After partaking of the “free” alcohol at the VIP event three of us moved onto a bar in the Rocks where we proceeded to talk about the brilliance of fanfic, favourite Buffy/Angel moments, ourselves, and everything in between. Over snacks and a couple bottles of wine, we bonded with nothing more than the love a third generation television writer between us. We didn’t know “Rhonda the Immortal Waitress,” we weren’t about to be “Touched by an Equalizer,” and we had all forgotten to vote for Amy Ackers as Australia’s new Prime Minister, but none of that mattered. We were prepared to bring our number-2 pencils to work on Monday and we loved the man who wrote from his “dark place,” and that was enough for a day of friendship and Scooby bonding.

Joss Whedon: Literary Transvestite

2010-08-30T08:54:00.005-04:00

Sometimes awesome things happen when you least expect them. Last week while I was online looking for opera tickets I saw the words “Joss Whedon: From Buffy to Dr. Horrible, Infinity & Beyond” and my heart skipped a beat. Five minutes later I discovered the event was sold out and my heart stopped beating. That was when I started stalking the Sydney Opera House box office, calling every two hours in hopes that one ticket would magically become free.

I was one call away from threatening to hold my breath until they handed over a ticket when I accidentally found a ticket for sale on Gumtree. Not just any ticket mind you, a $200 ticket that included an awesome seat and a ticket to the after event where we could meet Joss one on one in person! I immediately emailed the seller to see if the ticket was still available and then texted several people and went on Facebook so my friends could talk me into spending my food budget for the next two weeks on a two hour Buffy-gasm.

Despite my fears that the ticket would end up being a scam I agreed to purchase the ticket at its rather high face value and meet the seller at the Opera House on Sunday where we would attend the event together with her boyfriend. The huge theatre filled quickly with eager fangeeks like me. Despite my deepest fantasies, I knew James Marsters wasn’t going to make a surprise appearance but that didn’t stop me from daydreaming about the possibility with a few other nearby fans.

Then the lights went down and the audience roared its approval. After a brief introduction by the host, Australian comedian Wil Anderson, Joss Whedon took the stage at approximately 3:10p.m. to thunderous applause. The hours that followed can safely be called among the coolest of my life and infinitely worth the money I spent on the ticket.

Whedon started by acknowledging that at the Melbourne Q&A on Friday he had been asked the usual barrage of questions he was so frequently subjected to: “Why do you write about corporate oppression? Why do you write such strong female characters? Why do you hate families?” In order to head off similar questions that afternoon Whedon talked for the next 45 minutes about writing, “the dark place,” and the cult of Whedon.

Since I obstinately want to be a writer some day, I thought I’d start with his brilliant and insightful comments about the writing process. Over the course of the afternoon Joss (we’re close so I can call him that) admitted to writing about helplessness, being alone, and, of course, adolescent girls with superpowers. It was the first two, however, that led to the latter. “Two things I understood when as a child,” he said, “that I was scared and that I was alone.” This, he pointed out is essential to writers. “If you want to become a writer,” and I do, “you have to have a certain aloneness in you. Guess what: you’re going to spend a lot of time alone!”

Being alone, helpless, and clueless is at the heart of “the dark place” for Whedon who said that everything he will ever write “will always come from the dark place.” He considers this to be essential for any writer. Being an author is more than simply “writing better,” he felt it was about getting to the dark place: “Get in with a trowel and write from that. Because that’s the only thing worth listening to.”

“Stories,” he continued, “can be a way to pass the time or they can get inside you.” The key to the latter is making sure that your tales tell the story of WHY “because if there’s no why in the story you’re telling then you’re spinning a yarn. And that’s fine. That’s a noble thing too. But I don’t want to be anything less than a storyteller. I’m proud of that.”’

Later during the Q&A Whedon demonstrated not only his love of the fans but also his respect for those amateurs who hoped to someday follow in his footsteps. So many authors nowadays respond derisively to fanfic, which make Joss’s comments about this popular fan pastime a fairly inspirational breath of fresh air. He admitted to having read some of it and related a story of one he read early on around the 2nd or 3rd season that stayed with him because the writer was “super invested” in what they had created. He went on to call these fan created universes a great compliment to him and his work: “I think it is maybe the most beautiful part of the whole process, is the fact that there’s fanfic.”

Today’s post is beginning to edge near “ridiculously long” even by my standards. I haven’t even talked about the future of Once More with Feeling on Broadway, the Whedon Method, why everything is Anne Rice’s fault, a singing Thor, the joy of Nabokov and Burnett, guerrilla autographs, or the awesomeness of meeting other fangeeks. Rather than make this the post that won’t end, I’ll just ask you to tune in again tomorrow when I will continue to write about Joss freaking Whedon.

The Important Questions

2010-08-28T19:10:00.005-04:00

Warning: If you are lacking a sense of humor or do not like vampires, the following post will confuse you and leave you wondering if the author has taken leave of her senses.

Don't judge me too harshly but I not only own all the books but I actually paid good money to see ~~Sparkle Vamps 3: TwiHard with a Vengeance~~ Eclipse shortly after it opened in July. I'll even admit I was pleasantly surprised with the film. Great one-liners (Jacob: “Let’s face it, I am hotter than you.”), bad special effects (Victoria’s laugh inducing beheading), and plenty of teen angst had people in the theatre squealing with delight throughout the film.

For those of you not familiar with its questionable charms, the ~~Sparkle Vamps~~ Twilight series, is, to quote my eternally hilarious friend Ceecee: “basically about an ugly girl who has to decide whether she’s into bestiality or necrophilia.” I am loathe to spoil the ending for those of you who haven’t read the last book yet but let’s just say that Bella isn’t a dog person.

Jokes about lame bedazzled vampires who prefer chasing deer to biting necks aside… No wait that was the point of this post. Anyways, as I watched TwiHard with a Vengeance, I started thinking about my two greatest vampire loves: Eric Northman and Spike.

Those of you familiar only with True Blood’s Alexander Skarsgård cannot begin to understand how painfully sexy Charlaine Harris’s Eric in the Southern Vampire Mysteries books is. Not that Skarsgård isn’t drool-worthy (I may like to read but I’m not blind) but the literary Eric literally melts the pages he’s so hot. Then there’s Spike – my first great vampire love. For fellow Spuffy-believers out there, I have only one word for you: Smashed.

Now that we’re all on the same drool-tastic page, I will leave it to you to pick the best fictional vampire (As opposed to actually vampire. 'Natch.). Just to clarify, Edward is not in the running because real vampires don’t sparkle! So vote now for your favourite Fanged One or leave a comment to join the long list of people who think I’m certifiably insane.

IMPORTANT NOTES: Today’s awesome and giggle-worthy photo is courtesy of my friends the Quarantine Kids who passed through Sparkle Town a few weeks ago.

Later today I will be attending a talk at the Sydney Opera House given by… wait for it… JOSS freaking WHEDON! I’ll post all my fangirl ravings about the event later this week so stay tuned!

The Chicken Joke

2010-08-26T20:15:00.003-04:00

I never thought I’d say this but I really miss Cairo… parts of it anyways. I developed so many bad habits in the Egyptian city that life on the straight and narrow in the Real World is driving me crazy. Of course, my walking in front of moving cars is probably making the drivers in Auckland a little crazy too.

Crossing the street in Cairo is like playing a real life game of Frogger. You wait for the moment when at least two lanes are clear and then walk sedately forward weaving, dodging, yelling, waiting, and occasionally hitting the fronts of cars as you go. The point of the game, obviously, is not just to get to the other side but also to do so in one piece. Sure, there were the occasional traffic lights (like the ones near the Institute’s old base), but people usually just crossed the road wherever the mood struck.

Now that I have returned to the Developed World, people seem to frown on jaywalking and walking in front of moving vehicles. See, what I didn’t mention before is that despite the fun of dodging and weaving around moving cars in Cairo the drivers usually know well enough to slow down or at least not aim for you. Here in Auckland, I swear I’ve had at least two people speed up when I dared to walk out in traffic.

Sadly, this means that I’m stuck waiting for traffic lights to tell me when I can and can’t cross the street. The other day, for example, I stood for three ~~hours~~ minutes waiting for the happy green walk sign to appear while watching a street that was practically devoid of cars. The fact I waited just proves that I’m slipping.

While my car dodging habits are making me twitchy in this law abiding new life, they aren’t the only skills that are growing rusty. Ever since those first shopping days in India, I perfected my negotiation skills and became something of an expert at bartering for everything from cloth for new shirts to taxi rides across town. Sadly, it turns out that when you get into a taxi in London they expect you to pay what’s on the meter and don’t believe in finding a middle ground between what’s in your pocket and their exorbitant fees.

I’m sure there are other questionable habits and skills I picked up over the last five years but I have to admit that negotiating the price of dinner dinner and playing chicken with buses are two of the things I find myself missing most here in the boring old, law abiding Real World. I guess that means that I’m simply going to have to go out and find some locals to corrupt to my way of thinking. After all, positive changes like these can only happen one person at a time.

City of Goodbyes

2010-06-17T20:58:00.004-04:00

The last vacation The Ex and I took was to Paris. The fact that it was the weekend before I left for New Zealand is neither here nor there. As I’ve said before, our divorce was weird and I think going to one of the most romantic cities in the world to “celebrate” our divorce just proves that we aren’t your average former couple.

The Ex had never been to the city on the Seine before except to fly through so it was a chance for him to gain a new country and for me to revisit a place where I made many happy memories as a teen. Sadly, we didn’t make it to the Musé D’Orsay (probably my favourite museum on the planet) but I did take him up Montmartre to see the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, a church I have long felt to be far more special and beautiful than the over-hyped Notre Dame.

Our day included a walk along the Champs-Élysées and a photo op at the Arc de Triomphe, which I think completely underwhelmed The Ex who rose to the occasion by cracking jokes whose punch lines all included the word Vichy. In other “crimes against Paris” not only did I not take him to the Louvre (don’t get me started on the postage stamp-sized tourist Mecca that is La Jaconde), but we also failed to visit the Eiffel Tower due to time constraints.

All through our walks along famed streets, past cultural icons, and through neighbourhoods that existed long before Canada even had a constitution, we both knew our time was short. This was the last day we would spend together before I boarded the Eurostar for London and we both hit the restart button on our lives. With our 12th wedding anniversary less than a week behind us our feet guided us to the last romantic meal we would ever share.

Located a stone’s throw from Les Invalides, Il Vino is a restaurant I would not hesitate to recommend to anyone visiting the City of Lights. The concept of this Michelin starred eatery is brilliant: diners order the wine of their choice and the chef presents the perfect meal to accompany their selections. There is an "à la carte" wine menu but The Ex and I both opted for different prix fixe menus that would guide us from starters through dessert.

I should note here why The Ex chose the menu he did: his first course wine was Sula! All of you in India are probably doubled over in laughter that we came all the way to France to drink this unspectacular Indian wine. When the sommelier brought over the bottle, The Ex and I both started laughing as he described the attributes of this imported wine. When we explained how we were familiar with the selection, he looked more than slightly abashed.

My prix fixe was a guessing game from beginning to end: the wines were poured and I was left to guess what I was drinking. After each course, our sommelier/waiter would come over to find out how I had fared in the wine version of blind man’s bluff.

From the excellent service to the exquisite food, the entire meal was pitch perfect. Perhaps my favourite part of the meal was the fact that had I been offered a menu with my courses as options, I wouldn’t have chosen most them. I would never have thought to order a tartare of ahi tuna and yet it was not only the perfect companion to my Chenin Blanc, but also the delicate flavours were a revelation to my palate.

Six glasses of wine later, we were both more than tipsy as we made our way back to the hotel. Neither of us spoke about what was about to happen as The Ex helped me pack my suitcase for the adventure that lay ahead. Instead, we discussed his business meetings that had obstinately brought us to the French capital.

Things were changing for us and yet we knew some things would always remain the same. As we parted company the next morning, I’m not sure which of those realities scared us more. Perhaps only time will tell.

Sláinte

2010-06-15T21:26:00.004-04:00

I awoke from my nap, cocooned in the soft blanket the airline had provided me. My body was curled into a ball at an odd angle on the flat bed and as I stretched and tried to awaken my limbs, I felt my toes hit the wall of the seat in front of me.

I looked around to see how long I had been out and noticed that most of my fellow passengers were still slumbering. A quick peek behind me showed where the few wakeful souls were gathered: the bar.

After making myself mildly presentable, I ambled toward the back of the A380 in anticipation of a snack and a perhaps even beverage or two. I popped a canapé into my mouth and asked the flight attendant who was currently playing bartender for a screwdriver. Orange juice, I reasoned, seemed a good way to start my morning and the vodka would help remind me that it was nighttime where I was headed.

With a generous serving of Grey Goose in hand, I looked around at my fellow passengers and searched for an opening. No matter how shy I felt like being, this trip was designed to break me out of my shell and just because I hadn’t arrived in New Zealand
yet was no reason to cower behind my usual reserved façade. I evaluated my choices: the parents from first class with their toddler, a group of business travelers chatting about their jobs, or two Indian gentleman who seemed to be conducting business in the corner.

I made up my mind quickly and jumped into the middle of the group who were, I think it is safe to say, a little off put my forwardness… at least to start with. Several hours and one bottle of Grey Goose later I felt I had known this group for at least an entire day. We laughed over travel nightmares, compared notes about tourist hot spots in Nairobi, encouraged each other to continue for, “One more round!” and at the beginning of the second bottle of vodka even started sharing pieces of our life stories. I realized that the intimacy of the business bar on the plane had been fully achieved when we started talking about people who had returned to their seats behind their backs.

I knew we would likely never see each other ever again, in at least two of the cases, was rather disappointed by this. These mile high friends were only fleeting but I vowed to myself that the dare I made myself to start talking to them would not be a figment of the dream I awoke from but rather a new stepping off point from which I would not look back. Making friends of strangers was not as difficult as advertised, I told myself. It just took a little courage and a couple of shots of Grey Goose vodka.

Sun Dial

2010-06-13T23:34:00.003-04:00

I always found it odd how the setting and rising of the sun seemed to dictate everything from children coming home from the park, to dinner time, to simple moods. When I lived in Kenya, it was the height of amusement for me to look at the clock at 6:25 p.m. and look outside the large windowed doors in my living room to a fully bright city. Literally five minutes later, dusk would have fallen and night would chase it a minute after that. Like clockwork, the sun disappeared every night at almost the exact same time year round.

It was comforting in a way. When The Ex was out of town, I would set my internal clock so that the disappearance of the sun meant dinner was ready to be eaten. When he was in town, I knew that shortly after sunset he would return home from the office. Half six meant nighttime in Nairobi.

Needless, to say, when I returned home to Toronto for a visit after living in Kenya for a year, I was in for a culture shock of the solar variety. During one of my first nights home, my sister-in-law stopped by to chat and I said that I would order dinner from one of my favourite Canadian chains whose food I had been craving. We sat in my parent’s living room and chatted while I dutifully waited for the sunset to tell me it was time to order and eat.

I finally noticed how hungry everyone seemed and looked outside the bay window to the still bright street, frustrated that it was obviously much earlier than my jet lagged self would have thought. When my sister-in-law pointed out that it was nine thirty, I was shocked. “It’s still light out!” We laughed at consternation over the sun’s non-equatorial habits and eventually made due with food from the fridge.

Several years later, this phenomenon would come to amaze me again. Sitting on the 59th parallel, Oslo, Norway is the furthest North I have ever lived and when we arrived during the cusp of winter, darkness embraced the city while children were still in school. By the time The Ex joined me from Cairo it would be fully dark by 2:30 p.m. Although I had been warned about the dangers of this seemingly perpetual darkness to people who endured the lack of sunlight day in and day out, I was smitten with it. I called friends and family and shared with them the daily progression of the sun’s waning.

Months later, both The Ex and I were at once in our awe at the reverse process. In May when I left Oslo, the sun didn’t set until almost eleven o’clock at night causing us to eat a rather late repast more than once. At the time, I was having difficulties sleeping and I was often still awake when the sun rose several hours later. The night before I left, I saw the first rays of light break across the city shortly before four in the morning.

My arrival in Auckland, New Zealand was like returning home from Nairobi all over again. Suddenly, instead of living in a perpetual state of daylight, the sun had returned to its once “normal” habits. My first week there, I peered at the clock in my room in the morning and saw it was still dark outside and was shocked to see that it was almost 8:00 a.m. One day early in my stay, I watched the night creep through streets at 5:30 p.m. and was pleasantly shocked.

My days of endless sun were over. It seemed like a metaphor for so much that was going on in my life at the time. Even though I had run away to the other side of the planet to escape the realities of life I knew were waiting for me, the orb of fire and light was still there to remind me that normalcy and reality were inescapable.

Vogue

2010-06-10T23:00:00.003-04:00

I want to make it clear up front that I too could be 5’10”, gorgeous, blonde, slim, athletic, and have incredible fashion sense, but I choose not to. I prefer to stand out from the crowd and be unique in my brunette, short, chubby brilliance. After all, in a land where the “ugly girls” are at least a seven and still rate a wolf whistle, it’s hard to compete.

Over the past many years, I have travelled around the world and seen some of the most beautiful women on the planet. Ethiopian women far and away top the list for me, while friends who visited me in Kenya put the local women in Nairobi in highest esteem. In India, I saw some true beauties but also a lot of women who put a lot of effort into achieving that “natural” look. Most European women I’ve seen also fall into that category.

Perhaps that’s why Norwegian women vex me so much. In any other country, they would be hounded by modeling agencies but here they’re just average. Yes, I lived in a country filled with Heidi Klum lookalikes. Isn’t that just great for a girl’s ego?

It never ceases to amuse me that in North America people joke about the “Swedish Hot Tub Team.” Obviously those men have never met the world’s genetic lottery winners – Norwegian women.

Yet it isn’t simply their tall, gorgeous, blondness that people notice. (And I have yet to meet a man who doesn’t drool over those qualities.) As a woman, what I notice is the fact that Norwegian women have an innate sense of style of fashion that I will likely never achieve even if taken in hand by Stella McCartney herself. Women there pull on a pair of casual leggings, a long sweater, and tie the outfit together with a pair of knee high boots with a casual elegance that appears to be second nature. I’ve seen women elsewhere try to pull off the fashion statements that Oslo’s inhabitants seem to wear with such grace but it simply doesn’t work. You can tell the also-rans are trying.

People more cynical than myself might point out that there are a lot of salons in Oslo that specialize in colouring hair, or that women are that thin because lutefisk just doesn’t taste that good. Women with a more salacious eye than I would also observe that the population distribution of hotness in Norway is spread equally between the sexes. But I think I’ll just bask in my uniquely short stature, brown hair, and complete lack of ability to match clothes knowing that I’m unique duck in this flock of swans.

Author's Note: It was only after writing this post I discovered that I didn't actually have any photos of hot Norwegian women in their natural habitat. Sorry boys!

Friendship

2010-06-06T12:18:00.003-04:00

It’s amazing how alone you can feel in the world until the walls come crashing down and you suddenly realize that people were there surrounding you with love and affection the entire time.

When The Ex and I split up, we decided to take the coward’s way out and tell people on Facebook – also known as the fastest way to spread bad news since the Pony Express. We never wanted people to feel they had to “choose sides” and this was a way to tell both sides in one fell swoop without actually having to tell anyone.

The people who reached out to me after that one brief keystroke struck me to my core with their friendship. From offers to slay dragons in defense of my honour and cyber hugs of sympathy, to offers of places to stay and shared stories of hard times, the love I felt from friends around the world warmed my broken heart and helped put it back together.

I always knew I had good friends but when my darkest hour was upon me my friends showed me the way toward the dawn and for that there will never be enough words of thanks or love. For the hugs, phone calls, emails, messages, posts, nagging, laughter, threats, knights in shining armor, and friends and family around the world: thank you. Your thoughts, wishes, and words meant (and mean) more to me than I can ever express.

The Runaway

2010-06-03T01:00:00.004-04:00

I know I’ve been gone for a while. I hope some of you are still around to read this: I’m sorry I disappeared. I didn’t mean to. Heck, I was still writing blogs in my head for at least some of that time. I simply wasn’t able to connect my thoughts to my fingers long enough to put a concrete and complete thought on paper.

Some of you may know, although many don’t, that my situation has changed. Despite the description in the sidebar (which I really need to change), I am no longer one of two on an adventure around the world. My husband and I have split up and I am now busy trying to wander the world in search of myself by myself.

Lest I get ahead of myself, allow me to clear something up: I’m not going to clear anything up. I spent 15 years of my life (dating and later married) with the man I called my best friend. Although we both inadvertently burned, bombed and decimated the bridges of that friendship he is still someone I care for and I will not dishonour him by ever speaking of what happened between us.

This separateness is new – only a few weeks old – and I miss having someone to call with something I know would amuse them. I miss the shorthand and second language that come with 12 years of marriage. I miss my friend and that is why I’ve run away from home.

After we left Egypt for Norway in November I thought I was starting a new phase of my life. Now, a few months later that new phase has been flipped and turned and rocketed into a newness I’m not yet accustomed to. Rather than returning home, as I probably should have, to start over, I decided to do the last thing a scaredy cat like me would ever do – I set out on my own.

I am currently in Auckland, New Zealand pulling my head together and enjoying the Kiwi scenery. From here I plan to head to Australia to see old friends and from there who knows. But I know that I’ll be doing it on my own and that’s scary for me. Sure I’ve travelled (and many of you have read about those travels) but I’ve always done it with someone. My wanderings have always been planned in quite some detail. This trip isn’t that. Heck, I’ve already inadvertently gone over budget and I’m not that far into this quest of self.

I plan to try to document my travels in this blog and hope that you’ll stop by once in a while to see where I am. Some of my posts will be about my new adventures but I also intend to write about my life Before. After all, I have six months of Norwegian wonders to catch you up on too.

There’s a song on the “Pricilla Queen of the Desert” soundtrack that has the following line: “I’ve been to paradise but I’ve never been to me.” Yup, that’s me in a nutshell. I’ve travelled all over the world and tried to be everyone else’s perfect version of me. This trip is about finding out who I am when I don’t have someone telling me first. I’m ready to find ME.

The Cairo Symphony

2009-11-30T22:34:00.005-05:00

The soundtrack of Cairo is two fold. First, there is the completely unmusical and inescapable sound of horns honking. They honk to inform people on the street that they're there, they honk to indicate people aren't moving fast enough, they honk to tell drivers to slow down. The horn, it is said, is the most important safety feature on a Cairene car.

The second sound I associate with Cairo is that of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer five times a day. Once you have lived in a Muslim country long enough, watches are no longer required as it becomes second nature to determine the time of day based upon the prayers called out over loud speakers all over the city.

Near my own flat, we have two muezzins - one in the front and one in the back. Despite the call to prayer being at set times of the day, these two men (or the Dueling Muezzins as we call them) never seem to start or end at the same time. The guy in back, in fact, always appears to have more to say, as his prayers seem to go on for much longer than the gentleman in front. Hubby has pointed out that this may simply be due to the proximity of one mosque’s loudspeaker over the other.

My favorite time of day in Cairo is around five in the morning. The air of Cairo is hauntingly silent at this time of day. Although this is a city that never seems to sleep, there are far fewer horns honking at this hour than any other. And then, off in the distance, a mysterious sound will announce the dawn. The sound becomes oddly more discordant and slightly louder as the minutes go by and I, unlike many of my neighbors, have the luxury of snuggling deeper within the folds of my duvet to await the approaching hum.

This rare, almost silent cocoon time is spent of listening for other echoes in the distance. Awoken by either his brethren in the distance or a simple alarm clock, my own muezzin will finally chime in with his chant. As he urges Muslims in the neighborhood to wake up and begin their prayer, I usually drift back to sleep.

When I wake up again, Cairo will return to its usual cacophony of horns and yelling. For those few moments at dawn, Cairo and I are at peace. That moment of silence broken only by the haunting sound of prayers is my favorite time of day in Cairo. And I will miss it.

Two Years of NaBloPoMo

2009-11-29T22:42:00.000-05:00

I began this month with a post describing the difficult process I went through last year attempting to successfully conclude National Blog Posting Month. This year, on the other hand, was much easier for the most part. After all, I hadn’t blogged in almost three months and had saved up lots of stories to share with you, thus eliminating the daily struggle of coming up with something to write about.

To those of you who have seen me through NaBloPoMo this year, and those of you who have seen me through two years of this month long slog: Thank you! You have no idea how much your comments helped me get through the last thirty days. From fodder rich days of recounting my trips to inspiration-free days of two line photo captions, I am proud to have successfully completed another National Blog Posting Month.

Congratulations to all my wonderful bloggy friends who concluded NaBloPoMo 2009 successfully. To those of you who didn’t quite make the mark, there’s always next year. More importantly, you (unlike some Typ0s I know) probably acknowledged that you have a life outside of blogging and for that I commend you.

Rest assured that while I may have caught up on my travelogues, I have still have many stories to tell. I think, at least for the immediate future, I will likely be taking the weekends off again. Too much of a good thing is still too much.

Ahh who am I kidding? See you tomorrow!

My John Hancock

2009-11-29T00:33:00.001-05:00

Although the Treasury dates back to the first century BC, Petra was only recently “discovered” in 1812. For this reason, it stands apart from many of the ancient sites we’ve seen in the region. Some of you may remember my photos of carved graffiti during my Nile cruise in January. In some places along the Nile, it was evident that there were professionals assisting those who wanted to leave their names in stone.

Here in Petra, there was far less graffiti to be found. What I found most interesting about the graffiti we did find was the language: the carved names were signed in Arabic rather than Latin letters. This may be due to Petra’s more recent “discovery” when contrasted with the pyramids, which have been tourist draws for centuries. I think it is also due to Petra only becoming famous due to Hollywood movies more recently than the sites in Egypt.

Saturday Escapes

2009-11-28T01:32:00.002-05:00

I have a confession: I’m not in Cairo right now. Don’t worry: I’m not on vacation or anything fun like that. I’m in the middle of moving. In fact, as you read these words, I will be busy settling into my new flat in Oslo. Hubby and I took advantage of the Eid break in Egypt to fly up North to begin the process of starting our lives over again. From buying boots (since I don’t own any) to visiting IKEA (for all of life’s little necessities), the next few days are going to be jam packed with all the small jobs that are encompassed within the reality of unpacking our new Norwegian lives.

I can’t wait to share my final impressions of Egypt and my first impressions of Norway with you. That, however, will have to wait for another day since I am first tasked with the job of sharing my latest website finds with you. That’s right -- I said, “finds” plural. Today I wanted to share two great blog networking sites with you. Many of you may already know about The Secret is in the Sauce and Best Posts of the Week but for those of you not in the loop: get with it!

The SITS girls are a great way to start meeting new bloggers. Whether you visit the spotlighted blogger of the day, or are simply sharing the comment love with another SITSa, this site never lets its readers down. I cannot tell you how many awesome blogs I have found through SITS. Even better, a lot of people have also discovered me thanks to SITS. All it takes is a couple minutes and a comment.

Best Posts of the Week is a site that does exactly what the title says. Each week bloggers send in a link to whatever post they are most proud of from the last seven days. Then on Saturday the wonderful Bettyl shares the linky love and sends readers directly to the best the blogosphere has to offer. Although they may not yet have quite as many followers as SITS, BPOTW is a great blogging resource week after week.

With love from Norway, this week's Saturday Escapes are The Secret is the Sauce and Best Posts of the Week.

Indiana Typ0 and the Walk of Doom

2009-11-26T22:39:00.005-05:00

The edifice before was literally hewn from the mountain. If Michelangelo had messed up his masterpiece “David” no one would have known if he started over using a second block of marble. You can’t really start over when you carve a building out of a mountain. The sheer scale of Al Khazneh combined with the fact that it isn’t merely sitting on, near, or against the hill but is actually a physical part of it makes it truly unique.

At 43 meters high, Petra’s great Treasury is truly an amazing sight to behold. Despite what Indiana Jones would have you believe, there is only one relatively small room beyond the doorway. That, however, in no way diminishes from the building’s exceptional majesty.

Although most people come all the way to Petra simply to see the Treasury, they soon discover that this valley has much more to offer its guests. An entire civilization lived, died, and was buried here.

A short walk from the Treasury is a small amphitheatre. Unfortunately we were unable to walk around this structure as it was blocked off with a metal fence. One of the things that amused me most about the amphitheatre was the sight of open tombs along the perimeter of the highest seats. My first instinct when I saw the rectangular holes was that these were the earliest luxury box seats. “For the ghosts perhaps,” Hubby replied with a withering look.

As someone who may or may not have complained about the amount of walking involved in this trip, I have to admire the people who built this area. They didn’t content themselves with carving beautiful buildings at the base of mountains -- they also went vertical. A short walk up the mountain, Hubby found several more cool buildings to admire. I say he found because at a certain point I knew we still had miles of horizontal walking to do and I was not adding walks up uneven stairs and sandy hills to those miles. (I’m inherently lazy; sue me.)

The quality of the stone in this valley is truly amazing. In some places it looked like boring grey stone. Mere feet away the grey gave way to browns, oranges, reds, and pinks making the stone seem alive and lit from within. This must have been one of the aspects that first drew people and artisans to this area.

Rest assured that the people who created these dwellings, tombs, and other assorted buildings were definitely artists. In addition to the small details etched into the rock that can only be seen close up, the facades also look incredible from a distance. (No Hubby I’m not just saying that because I didn’t walk all the way to see the Urn Tomb up close.) I was amazed at how often the natural aspects of the stone were used to enhance the manmade structures. So much so that I wondered more than once if what I saw was Mother Nature or Nabataean workmanship.

We walked for miles that day, heedless of the Jordanian sun beating down upon us. There was literally something new to see around virtually ever corner. Although we didn’t make it all the way to the Monastery (as featured in Transformers 2) at the other end of the valley we didn’t feel let down at all. We had followed in Indiana Jones’ footsteps and found far more than the Holy Grail – we found illumination.

Thankful

2009-11-25T22:57:00.003-05:00

Although I am not American, I did marry one, which means that every November we celebrate or at least acknowledge Thanksgiving. When we lived in the States, we did so with his family. (We won’t talk about the year I was uninvited to Thanksgiving. Not that I’m still bitter or anything.) Since moving abroad, Thanksgiving has become about celebrating our new family. The family of Hubby and I and our friends who help make each port feel more like home.

This year, we celebrated the Great Turkey a few days early with our friends Black Beard and Adelpha. Being the good expats we are, we ordered the whole meal from turkey and stuffing to veggies and pie fully prepared from a local hotel. That afternoon, we gorged ourselves on a giant, perfectly cooked bird and enjoyed the camaraderie and security of friendship over several bottles of wine, a viewing of Zombieland, and a few games of Wii Sports Resort.

Thanksgiving in Canada is pretty much a bank holiday. We do the turkey thing but it isn’t quite the BIG DEAL it is to Americans. I have always wanted to be a part of those Thanksgivings on television where the family goes around one by one to say what they are thankful for. Since we were slightly too inebriated on Saturday to do so, I thought I would share my thanks with you guys instead.

I am thankful for my family at home in Canada who never let me get too big for my britches.

I am thankful for this blog and all of my Devoted Readers for keeping me sane and happy. You have no idea how much you all mean to me.

I am thankful for the wonderful friends I have made all over the world. Leaving a new place is always harder because of you.

I am thankful for not only meeting Adelpha but also having her live just three floors down. No one understands the joys of living with a work crazed Doctor Cheapo quite as well as you. Sanity, thy name is Adelpha.

I am very thankful for being able to live the expat lifestyle. I know that I often come across as a bit of a brat in this blog but I really do appreciate how lucky I am.

I am thankful for my health. I have seen up close what a life without the comforts I take for granted is like. I have never had to rummage through the trash to feed myself, or huddle under a cardboard roof to keep myself dry at night. Poverty is a word I simply didn’t understand or appreciate fully until I lived in the developing world. I am thankful for that knowledge and the ability to help change the lives of people who are not as fortunate as I.

I am thankful for my wonderful husband who never forgets to point out my annual zit or tease me about my foibles. When I keep the reading light on until three in the morning on nights he as to be up at five, Hubby never ~~pouts~~ complains too loudly. And when I’m at my lowest, he always brings me back up with a hug, a funny song, a chuckle at my expense, and encouragement to always follow my dreams.

I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving. Happy Thursday. Happy life.

Petra I Can

2009-11-24T22:18:00.004-05:00

From the moment Hubby announced we were moving to Egypt, he talked about visiting Petra in Jordan. Petra is perhaps best known as being where the Holy Grail was hidden in the movie “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” This fact is not lost on the local vendors who would probably have copyright infringement suits on their hands if George Lucas ever visited.

Tickets were available for one, two, or three-day visits. While you definitely can’t see all of Petra in one day, the mere fact that you have to walk all the way in and out each time makes returning day after day a little daunting. Although there were plenty of guides waiting to be hired, Hubby and I once again elected to go solo on our tour of this historic site. We purchased our tickets and a small brochure, which laid out our route and gave brief details about the most significant things we would see.

We had done at least a little homework before heading out on this adventure. Hubby wore his Akubra (which totally looks like Indy’s hat) and I had a nice big floppy hat as protection too. We also packed water, snacks, and sunscreen. We supplemented the water as needed and ended up consuming three liters of water each in addition to two sodas each. The latter were mostly at my urging since the mini muffins I ~~stole from the hotel’s breakfast buffet~~ brought were not nearly enough sustenance to get me through our five hour walk.

More importantly, we also wore sturdy shoes to get us through the gravelly terrain ahead. By the time we left Petra our shoes and the bottoms of our trousers were coated in dust at least an inch thick. I was beyond words when I saw people starting their decent into the valley wearing flip flops and tank tops – even I put on sunscreen about half way through after Hubby noticed a decidedly pink tinge to my arms. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Based on advice from my parents who visited in January, we eschewed the horse drawn carts and began the decent downhill toward the Siq on foot. I am loath to sound flip but there was literally something to gape at every few feet. From the dwellings hollowed out of mountain to natural and made man carvings that looked like they may have inspired George Lucas’s Indiana Jones movies. And we hadn’t even reached the Treasury yet!

Around a few more corners we blissfully and finally reached some shady protection from the harsh Jordanian sun. The Siq is the long, narrow gorge that leads to the Al Khazneh (the Treasury). No more than three to four meters wide in places this long walkway is a natural split between two sandstone cliffs.

The cliffs themselves are worth the visit to Petra. Words cannot do justice to the natural beauty waiting to be found during this one-mile portion of our walk. From carvings in the sandstone to natural formations that, to this whimsical blogger, looked like faces, Hubby and I shot almost 100 photos in the Siq alone.

The stone here has a marvelous living quality. From the melting wax tops to the impression of roots just beneath the sandstone surface, I sincerely could have spent all day simply taking in the breathtaking sights of this one small portion of Petra.

I have a strict policy of not posting photos of myself or Hubby on this blog that I seriously thought about breaking for this post. The light quality in the Siq is stunning and resulted in some of the best photos we’ve ever taken of ourselves. I know that sounds braggy but finding photos of myself that I don’t want to delete immediately upon viewing is tough for me. Something about the reflection of the yellow rays of light off the orange stone created a unique play of light and shadow that was so subtly dramatic that it took uploading our photos for us to truly appreciate it.

Little did we know that by the time we reached the final steps of the Siq, we had barely begun our tour of Petra. Ahead of us, partially hidden by the cavernous sandstone, was what we had come all this way to see: the Treasury. The gleaming shaft of light that tore the cliffs in two beckoned us like the Grail itself. We had only to take those last few steps into the glowing radiance of the sun’s rays to fulfill the dream that had brought us this far.

Our Last Hurrah

2009-11-23T22:39:00.005-05:00

Hubby and I knew that once we moved to Norway, our ability to travel would be severely curtailed by, among other factors, economics and whatever job I get when we arrive. With that in mind, we promised ourselves one last regional trip before we left. We debated going to Spain, Greece, or even back to Zanzibar but eventually agreed that we would kick ourselves if we didn’t take the opportunity to visit Jordan.

So it was that we found ourselves in Jordan during the brief Eid vacation in September. Since Hubby had another business trip scheduled, we had only a handful of days to spend exploring this wonderful country. Sadly, that meant that we couldn’t explore many of the amazing biblical sites that abound in Jordan. We did, however, agree that we would each fulfill one Jordanian dream during our trip: I wanted to visit the Dead Sea and he wanted to go to Petra.

Being the amazing travel planner he is, Hubby booked us into a hotel right on the shores of the Dead Sea. From our room, it was a quick hop down a series of stairs to the vast salty Sea. Ever the water baby, Hubby was biting at the chomp to go for a swim within minutes of our arrival.

Before we could get into the water, we had to purchase an inexpensive pair of water shoes, as the shore was incredibly rocky. The stones situated at the end of the wooden docks that led into the Dead Sea created an uneven and slippery surface, making the initial steps slightly treacherous.

The lukewarm water was almost oily to the touch and felt almost slick against my skin as I waded further in. The infamous buoyancy of the Dead Sea was evident almost immediately. It took my feet from under me and made treading water virtually obsolete. The simple act of flipping onto my back or swimming further out to where Hubby awaited me became an effort worthy of Monty Python.

Of course, what makes the Dead Sea so buoyant is the salt. If you have ever had the chance to swim in the ocean, you know it is virtually impossible to avoid getting salt water in your mouth at least once while swimming. Although highly annoying, this isn’t normally too difficult a situation to rectify. The greasy liquid salt of the Dead Sea, however, had imbedded itself in all my pores and made wiping my mouth virtually impossible without making the situation worse. This meant that every time Hubby splashed me, I ended up having to get out of the water to rinse my mouth out.

When people aren’t playing beached whale by floating on their backs, the prime activity at the Dead Sea is to slather mud over every spare inch of skin. After waiting for the mud to dry, you return to the sea to gently wash it off again. The end result of this ritual is ridiculously smooth skin. The spa at our hotel offered the same service for $100. I’m always up for a good facial or massage, but even I thought it was ridiculous to charge for something that was free only a few steps away.

The heat of the September sun kept us in the water for much of our time at the hotel. Although I appreciated the cool blue waters of the pools, floating in the Dead Sea has always been on my bucket list so I was thrilled that Hubby and I had time for this final trip before we left Egypt. I also knew we couldn’t spend all our time in the Sea because another adventure awaited us 300 miles away.

Big Nordic Announcement

2009-11-22T22:21:00.003-05:00

Before I met Hubby, the closest I had ever come to moving was my trek to and from Halifax, Nova Scotia for university every year. Hubby, on the other hand, was a Navy Brat, and moved around quite a bit until he started high school. When we married he promised me we would not move around a lot. In fact, he even put a number on it: five. His promise that we would move no more than five times never came with consequences should that number be exceeded. That, it turns out, was a mistake on my part.

As the calendar turns from 2009 to 2010, Hubby and I will be moving from our desert home in Cairo, Egypt to the rather chilly climes of Oslo, Norway. Hubby has elected to leave his contractual post here at the Institution for a permanent position at The Company where he will be a researcher. His job here gave him a phenomenal love of teaching but various circumstances beyond his control have led us to once again to pack our things and leave behind the wonderful colleagues and friends we have made here.

One of our biggest problems in Cairo has been the air quality. We had been warned that Cairo was one of the most polluted cities in the world before we arrived but didn’t think much of it. After all, we thrived in Delhi – a city with an equally bad reputation for unbreathable air. Sadly, the air here has drastically affected me. When I cough, I sound like a crack addict with a six-pack a day cigarette habit and I don’t smoke. A local gentleman with TB, whom we called Coughing Guy, once heard me and told me to go see a doctor. It’s that bad.

Hubby has also had some work related problems including a commute that takes eight hours out of his life every week. Due to the state of traffic in Cairo, these are not even hours he can use to read or work. These eight hours are time he could be using to research, work with his students, or, you know, spend with me.

This decision was not easy for us as Hubby truly intended to stay here in Cairo and settle down into what has been a fairly comfortable life for the most part. The confluence of events that led to our mutual agreement is not easily explained in one post. Hubby and I have visited Oslo several times now and even met some wonderful people. We are looking forward to the challenges of living in the developed world for a change and are excited about the possibilities and challenges this new move has in store.

I will definitely be posting more about this more in the weeks to come. Feel free to ask questions in the comments and I will try to address as many of them as possible in a future post. Rest assured that this one time Delhi Typ0, Nairobi Typ0, and Cairo Typ0 will still be blogging from Oslo. After all, what would a blog about Wandering the World be without a new horizon to explore?

I Have Your Back

2009-11-22T01:03:00.001-05:00

Mid-August found Hubby and I once again in Oslo for work. We were lucky enough to meet up with some amazing bloggy friends at a local bar on Karl Johans Gate. American in Norway, Corinne, Quartz, Hubby, and I enjoyed numerous drinks, avoided buzzing bees, and passed a fabulous afternoon getting to know one another in the heart of the Norwegian capital.

Saturday Escapes

2009-11-21T01:14:00.002-05:00

When Hubby was offered his first posting abroad, we were filled with equal parts excitement and trepidation. We didn’t know anything about living in a developing country. We knew even less about living in a new culture so different from our own. We had traveled extensively prior to our move to India, but a short vacation is very different from moving to a place full time. Although there was an existing office for Hubby in Delhi, we would be the first expats to be part of this particular division and we had questions they simply didn’t know how to answer.

Expats from all over the world have oodles of questions they need answers to before agreeing to move to a new country. From schools for their children to whether or not there is affordable Internet access, people need to know what they’re getting into before they find themselves knee deep in moving mayhem. Luckily for all of us, Tales from a Small Planet is there to help.

Also known as Real Posts, this user-driven site offers answers from actual people who have lived abroad in a range of countries. You do have to register to peruse the site but that only requires an email address that they do not use for spam. (I never receive any unsolicited email from Real Posts and have been a member for almost five years.) Real people who have lived in a myriad of places from Washington, DC to Quito, Ecuador fill in questionnaires that address issues surrounding quality of life, day-to-day living, travel, and even what books or movies to check out before moving. If you have ever wondered what it would be like to live in China, Sweden, or even Canada, this amazing resource is the place to go.

Tales from a Small Planet is this week’s Saturday Escape.

Bake Me a Cake

2009-11-19T22:31:00.003-05:00

I love baking. For me, heading into the kitchen to mix together eggs, flour, sugar, and a variety of other ingredients is not only creatively fulfilling but also relaxing. Whether I’m grating carrots for my award winning Carrot Cake, or zesting lemons for my Double Lemon Pound Cake, there is nothing quite as nice as licking the bowl after popping what I know will be a perfect dessert into the oven.

Baking from scratch has always been a source of pride for me. I still remember the first time I was in a supermarket in Maryland with Hubby around Thanksgiving and eagerly yelled down an aisle at him, “Sweetie, you’ve got to see this! It’s amazing! They have canned pumpkin here! Have you ever seen such a thing before?” The withering look I received from Hubby was nothing compared with the scathing looks the women within hearing distance shot my way.

My mother, you see, is a do-it-from-scratch kind of lady. From making fresh pumpkin puree and pastry for pies to throwing the bones from dinner into a pot to make stock, prepackaged conveniences just weren’t the norm growing up. (Kraft Dinner is a sacred meal and therefore does not fall into the convenience food category.) Most people don’t have time for details like this anymore and my mother certainly didn’t when I was growing up, so you can imagine the guilt I felt the first time I picked up a box of Betty Crocker Brownie Mix.

It took me moving all the way to Kenya to discover this amazing dessert in a box. No matter what distracted me while I measured out the ingredients, they came out perfectly every time without even a hint of a charred edge that my homemade White Chocolate Brownies usually had. Even Hubby said he preferred them. Suddenly, I realized what my peers had been drooling over for all those years. Mrs. Crocker knew what she was doing!

This love of baking, whether from a box or beloved recipe, is yet another reason my life in Egypt has been somewhat frustrating. You see I don’t have an oven. Full disclosure: I do have an oven but out of respect for the people who live in my building, I choose not to use it.

My stove has five lovely gas burners that light with the aid of an electric starter. Click, click, click, poof! The oven, on the other hand, requires a match. Scratch, light, throw, boom! I know millions of people out there do this every day without blowing anything up but I’m not one of those people. I am neither coordinated nor lucky enough to manage to not cause someone (probably myself) bodily damage whilst lighting my oven with a match.

There have been no wafting scents of Triple Chocolate Cookies or delectable crumbs of Pumpkin Crumble Pie in the Typ0/Hubby household for a year and half. The only person sadder about my lack of baking outlet than me has been Hubby. While my neighbours Black Beard and Adelpha have kindly offered the use of their oven from time to time, I can hardly sneak into their flat at two in the morning to create a batch of Boredom Cupcakes.

As much as I love Egypt and the life we have in Cairo, I look forward to the day I once again have an oven that won’t kill the neighbourhood just because I wanted to whisk ingredients together. In fact, I think the prospect of baking may be reason enough to dream about moving again.

Letter to the Editor of Me

2009-11-18T22:51:00.003-05:00

Have you ever wanted to go back in time and smack your younger self upside the head? Or simply impart some wisdom that you wish someone had taken the time to whisper in your ear? I do. I would love to hop in a time machine and have a heart to heart with the skinnier, fresh faced, more innocent me.

I’d start by telling Young Typ0 to study more. If there was something on TV, a good book within arm’s reach, or later in university some hot guy on the Internet to chat with – chances were I would dump my homework out the window and claim it was done. I wasn’t very good at studying or paying attention in class, or starting essays more than 48 hours before they were due. When I did study, I did really well. Sadly I didn’t choose do so very often.

Of course, going back in time and teaching my younger self to study, not skip class, and do her homework would probably change the space/time continuum irrevocably and I don’t want to go that far. If I had studied the way I should have I might have had a career that would have made it impossible to move abroad with Hubby all those years ago. Heck, if I had studied even a little I almost certainly wouldn’t have been married when I was. So maybe this is something that worked out in spite of myself.

Next I’d tell Young Typ0 she needs to learn to trust the right people. Messing up and making out with boys she shouldn’t have wasn’t the problem. Confiding in the wrong people was the problem.

Oh, and while Young Typ0 and I are talking about talking – she needs to learn to stop interrupting so much! Sheesh! Not all stories are about the Typ0-ness of it all (although the best ones are) and listening before talking would be a good change. (That sound you hear is everyone I know singing a round of halleluiah’s at the thought of being able to get an uninterrupted word in edge wise.)

Finally, she and I would talk about our health. If Young Typ0 had gone to the gym, walked to the dentist, and learned to be happy for herself, the life I know now would be pretty much the same but so much better and more fulfilling. Working out is not a crime! Young Typ0, it turns out, was not fat. I became fat because I gave into that negative self-image and gave up too early. We do that a lot, Younger Me. We’re good at giving up. Stop doing that.

There are certainly other things I would like to fix or change but I don’t want to be greedy and do it all in one fell time traveling swoop. After all, if everything were perfect, I wouldn’t have anything left to complain about on this blog.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-11-17T22:21:00.003-05:00

Wordless Wednesday
Man fly-fishing in Lake Ness.
Inverness, Scotland

A Pile of Muck

2009-11-16T22:30:00.003-05:00

Hubby and I were in Inverness mostly because of his work. Despite his busy consulting schedule, our hosts made sure that Hubby and I kept busy and saw as much of Scotland as possible. The highlight of these excursions was the farm tour we attended during our first week. Hubby had already invited me along and understood that his city-bred wife was honoured to be included but would pass on the opportunity to attend a Farm Day in the Highlands. Naturally, I had to go anyways.

In our minds it was August – a month synonymous with warm weather. Scotland, it seemed, hadn’t got that memo. It was cold and rainy virtually the entire time we were there. On the day of the farm tour, it was particularly chilly and the pleasant drizzle we had walked through on the way to his office had turned into an almost constant downpour at some point during the day.

The only shoes I had were sandals, we didn’t have any raincoats, and we definitely hadn’t brought any sweaters with us to Scotland. Luckily, one of Hubby’s colleagues noticed our problem and loaned us some gear for the day.

Hosted by a local farmer on his property, the main purpose of the Farm Day was to bring researchers, farmers, and local businesses together to discuss and explore farming trends in the area. During the morning we walked from building to building listening to talks that ranged from kind of gross (unless you’re a farmer) to kind of interesting (especially if you’re a farmer).

The highlight of the day for non-farmers Hubby and I was yet to come. During the afternoon, we hopped on a trailer being pulled by a tractor for a tour of the farmer's land. Since the main product of this farm was cows, we probably shouldn’t have been surprised with what we saw at our first stop: a great big pile of muck.

Mind you, they kept calling it “muck” all during the wet twenty-minute presentation regarding the many uses of cow muck. I asked Hubby why they just didn’t call it what it was and his very thoughtful response stuck with me, “They don’t publish academic papers about great big piles of shit.” Well, that makes sense…

And that, my friends, is the true story of the great big pile of ~~shit~~ muck.

A Meeting of the Minds

2009-11-15T22:48:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I feel bad for my husband. He brought me on all these great business trips all summer long yet I am unable to write that his sweetness and our newfound togetherness was the highlight of my summer. You see, while I was in Inverness, I finally had a chance to meet the amazing Aurenna in person. ‘Ren, as she would tell you, trumps everything!

My second Internet meet-up of the summer (I’ll tell you about the first in another post) was the culmination of almost ten years of online friendship. We met through a Jean M. Auel fan board and despite our age difference we knew we were long lost twins. Our sick and perverted senses of humor have secretly amused (and not so secretly driven crazy) the board moderators and members for years.

I’ve met other people from ecfans over the years but somehow had never managed to hook-up with ‘Ren. Of course, that meant additional stress and nerves at least on my part. What if I’m not as cool in person as I am online? What if she doesn’t like me after she meets the real me? What if come off as old, fat, and stupid and she hates me? What if she finds me so distasteful she tells me to bugger off? Poor Hubby was lucky enough to hear me share these and other worries for weeks while the anticipation built.

The day ‘Ren arrived in Inverness, I was full of nervous energy and anticipation. I sat in the train station barely reading my Kindle and looking up every time a train made a sound. When she finally arrived, I resisted the urge to jump up and down and shriek like some sort of Woo Girl. We hugged like long lost sisters and our conversation immediately fell into the familiar rhythms of our online talks.

‘Ren’s hotel was much better situated than my own (a mere 2.5 mile walk into town) so after dumping her bags, we went to lunch at a local Italian restaurant I had a coupon for. Later, we went book shopping and eventually ended up a pub that had great cider on tap and super tasty chips and curry sauce on their menu. By the time Hubby arrived at the pub after work, we were ready for the second pint.

Numerous pints, nachos, and another pub later we noticed it was far later than any of us had realized. It sounds cheesy but time had literally flown by while we caught up on gossip and goings on in each other’s lives. Aurenna and Hubby even managed to form an alliance and ganged up on me more than once.

The following day, fellow bibliophile ‘Ren and I checked out a used bookstore in town I had heard about. For people who wondered if my love of Betty (my Kindle) had turned me off real books the answer is an unequivocal, “No!” The smell of those old books was like an addictive drug. I kept opening and perusing older and older items simply to enjoy the tactile pleasure of their pages between my fingers.

Eventually we started getting weird looks and left to find ~~another pub~~ restaurant for lunch. We plunked ourselves down and talked for literally hours until her train was scheduled to leave. We weren’t teary eyed as we hugged goodbye on the platform because we knew this time we wouldn’t wait quite so long between visits. Years of anticipation had blossomed into two bloody good days of fun. Just like I knew it would.

Carrying the Banner

2009-11-15T01:05:00.002-05:00

My father took this photo when we were in Luxor. You mean your local newsie doesn’t carry his papes this way? Weird.

Saturday Escapes

2009-11-14T00:46:00.004-05:00

This week’s Saturday Escape will be a little different than usual. Instead of telling you about one of my favourite websites, I thought you guys could help explain the global fascination with one to me. You see, there is a social networking site out there that I know millions of people are addicted to and yet I have no desire to sign up. In 140 characters or less, members can tell the world what they think about lunch, Fox News, or the latest episode of Survivor. I am, of course, talking about Twitter.

I love Facebook and have been known to spend more than my fair share of time updating my status and responding to other people’s comments and updates. Facebook simply seems to offer its members so much more bang for their buck than boring, one-note Twitter. Am I missing something? What is so great about Twitter that CNN has practically an entire hour every week devoted to people’s tweets?

Twits spend hours on Twitter tweeting. (Ok I wasn’t sure where in this post I could put that, but I desperately wanted to type that sentence.)

Twitter is this week’s Saturday Escape.

Yes Wii Can

2009-11-12T22:13:00.003-05:00

When we were in the UK this summer, we bought something that Hubby has been wanting for quite some time. He swore it would bring us together more and keep us busy during our long boring nights in Egypt. I was dubious because I thought he would just spend hours using it by himself. I eventually gave into his whim and haven’t looked back since.

I soon discovered that this device was far more than fun – it was a marital aid! We were spending more time together than ever and even invited our closest friends over to participate and join in.

Where we used to spend hours sitting on opposite sides of the room working on our laptops or watching television, we were suddenly energetic and urging each other to strive harder and do better. Thanks to the add-ons we bought, we were active and passionate about something new.

Naturally, we each wanted to be on top during those activities we considered our specialties. I loved the challenge of making Hubby submit to my superior skills. During those odd moments when he proved his dominance over me, I submitted meekly to his prowess.

I was really surprised at how quickly we took to this new activity. It wasn’t something we had participated in before. Nor was it something I did as a child – I always had to go over to someone else’s house if I really wanted to try it out on my own.

I never expected something so small to have such a big impact on my marriage. Sure, sometimes we use it to get out some aggression but most of the time it brings out our playful sides. When our friends come over to join in, it always turns into a big party with each of us taking turns being the center of attention.

I am, of course, talking about the amazing Nintendo Wii. What did you think I was talking about?

Super Zoom

2009-11-11T21:45:00.007-05:00

Sightseeing in London would have been fun even it had simply been Hubby and I holding hands, arguing about nicked napkins, and vociferously airing our grievances about line closures on the London Underground. Thanks to the nifty new toy we purchased in Dubai, it was even better. You see, our visit to the new Dubai Mall resulted in not only a much-needed pair of sandals for Hubby but also a new red Canon Power Shot SX200IS for me. The zoom on this camera is beyond amazing and we (or maybe it was just me) had fun playing with it whenever possible.

This is a photo we took of Big Ben while we were walking from Buckingham Palace along the Mall. The first is a photo shot simply through the viewfinder. The second is using the 48X Super Zoom.

Not convinced yet? This photo was also taken from a spot along the Mall. The first is a photo of the London Eye. (Can you believe they charge £17.50 per person for a ride? Needless to say we skipped this one.) The second photo is a photo of the people inside one of the pods on the London Eye. Now that’s what I call Super Zoom!

I wish I had photos of the same places taken with my old pink camera to better demonstrate the improved quality. To be fair, Super Zoom can appear somewhat pixilated on the screen initially and is incredibly difficult to focus. Despite relatively steady hands, both Hubby and I found the camera shaking uncontrollably whenever we narrowed the camera’s focus to use Super Zoom.

Of course, part of our trouble may have been the amount of alcohol we consumed in London. With the exception of our forays into Jamie Oliver’s restaurants, we relied almost entirely on pubs to provide us with sustenance. It did, however, teach me one thing: I could never, ever live in Britain. Between drinking endless pints of cider and enjoying countless plates of chips and gravy and other great pub fare, I must have gained at least half a stone while we were in the UK.

I can’t think of a single moment we regretted in London. Between riding the tube, playing with the camera between drunken sips of whatever was on tap, quoting AA Milne to the guards at Buckingham Palace, and walking for hours on end, we had an amazing time in the English capital.

Remembrance Day

2009-11-11T01:27:00.000-05:00

In Flanders Fields
Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae (1872-1918)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
 Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
To you from failing hands we throw 
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Jamie’s Redemption

2009-11-09T22:11:00.000-05:00

We left Fifteen feeling decidedly underwhelmed by the experience. It certainly wasn’t the first time we had ever eaten a disappointing restaurant meal but we had both held such high hopes and expectations for a place run by Jamie Oliver. We had plans to do some Real World shopping while we were in London but had not yet determined where to go. “As long as there are good pubs nearby,” was our mantra as we attempted to narrow down a location.

Never let it be said that I don’t have an awesome husband who loves and spoils me. Hubby knew how down I was about our meal and went out of his way to cheer me up. After a little research on the Internet, he discovered that Jamie had recently opened the first London branch of his chain of Italian restaurants. Located in Canary Wharf, Jamie’s Italian would, he promised, give us an opportunity to give Jamie a second chance and still leave us with plenty of time for shopping.

The differences between our first experience and our latest started at the front door. Jamie’s Italian is a laid back place that doesn’t take reservations. The warehouse-like space was bright and airy with large windows along the back wall. The room boasted innumerable tables but we didn’t feel crowded in or rushed during our meal. Admittedly, this was not a five-star dining experience and the space was meant to reflect the casual atmosphere Jamie wished to convey.

The staff too was a contrast: instead of cold automatons, we had upbeat waiters and waitresses with personalities who genuinely seemed to like their jobs. As at Fifteen, they were well trained and familiar with the menu and its myriad of choices.

We kicked off lunch with a selection of “artisan” breads and dish of olive oil, both of which there was a charge for. As a great lover of bread, Hubby did not begrudge the cost of the bread and inhaled it, pausing only to express his delight at the crusty offerings in the basket. I ordered a side salad of tomatoes and mozzarella to start and was quite pleased with the freshness of the flavours.

We both chose to have pasta for our main courses. Hubby’s sausage pappardelle was a delightful romp of flavours on his taste buds. The fresh homemade pasta was perfectly cooked and the flavors in the ragu were expertly combined. My bucatini carbonara was light without being too creamy and fresh thyme added a unique twist on this old favourite.

By now, our faith in Jamie had been restored and we were determined to order dessert even though this was far more food than we normally ate for lunch. Unsurprisingly, Hubby ordered a selection of sorbets. He declared each of the flavours tastily authentic and homemade. I enjoyed the Italian Bakewell Tart – a flavorsome slice of almond cake topped with crème fraîche.

Jamie’s Italian was not only a better dining experience than his more upscale Fifteen, it was also far less expensive. We enjoyed three courses each plus a soda and a glass of wine for Hubby for less than even one of our meals cost at Fifteen. This was definitely one time where price was not a sign of quality. More importantly for me, however, was that Jamie’s Italian renewed my faith in the British chef I had adored for so many years.

Naked Disappointment

2009-11-08T22:50:00.002-05:00

When I first started crushing on the Food Network, the first celebrity chef I stalked was Jamie Oliver. The Naked Chef created dishes that made my foodie mouth water, while even my picky eater husband thought his recipes were keepers. Over the years, I have purchased all of his books, even going so far as to have my brother send me them from England so I didn’t have to wait a year for their American release. I bought his latest book, Jamie’s America, on the day it was released.

When Hubby said we would need to spend a few days in London on our way to Inverness, the first words out of my mouth were, “We’re going to Jamie’s Fifteen! Yay!” I’d love to say that I gave Hubby input into this dining choice but he knows about my Jamie obsession and knew that our 48 hours in London would require a visit to this celebrity chef’s flagship restaurant.

We reviewed the website ahead of time and decided that since this was a once in a lifetime chance to drool over Jamie, we would forgo the trattoria upstairs and book ourselves into the dining room in the basement. Although the only offering was a prix fixe tasting menu, we weren’t worried as each course came with several options. Moreover, when we made our reservations online, there was even a spot to include Hubby’s food allergies so that changes could be made in advance for his selections.

The tables were close together but since it was a Monday night, the noise level wasn’t such that we could hear other diner’s conversations. Despite being still slightly drunk from our adventures at a local pub near our hotel, we decided to order a bottle of wine to accompany our meal. We perused the menu and found that with the exception of dessert, there were plenty of options for Hubby to choose from.

The tasty amuse bouche combined the flavours of citrus and pomegranate. The themes of fresh seasonal flavours would be present for the entire meal.

Hubby was delighted with his starter of a salad of prosciutto with figs, honey, and pea shoots. He repeatedly mentioned that the unusual combination of flavours worked well and looked forward to trying it at home in the future. My salad of a “gooey” mozzarella with peaches, almonds, and salad leaves was less interesting. It looked promising both on the menu and the plate but I found the flavours boring and uninspired.

I wasn’t willing to give up on my boy Jamie so it was with great excitement that we awaited our next course. Hubby ordered pasta in pork ragu finished with a gremolata and olive oil. Unbeknownst to him, I tried several bites of this mouthwatering dish when he was in the washroom. I’m glad I did though as my selection was yet another bust. I was torn between ordering the risotto and the “rotolo di pasta ripieno” – rolled pasta with spinach and ricotta served in a roasted pepper broth. I was convinced to order the latter and was devastated by the lack of power behind the flavours. There wasn’t a single bite that made me believe that the man whose cookbooks I so frequently turned to could have developed this boring recipe.

Our meat course was next up. Hubby ordered lamb with beans and beet leaves in a rosemary and anchovy dressing. This would be the first time all evening that Hubby felt his meal didn’t hit the mark. My roast pork loin aubergine with Swiss chard, and pan juices, on the other hand, was my first opportunity to enjoy a flavorsome dish. I was willing to overlook the somewhat greasy texture of the meat since I was too busy enjoying the contrast of flavours on my plate.

Dessert was the biggest disappointment of the evening for me. It wasn’t the long wait for our final course that bothered me (I enjoy a leisurely meal and loathe being rushed out of a restaurant), but the fact that there wasn’t a single option on the menu that Hubby could enjoy. Remember, we had told them ahead of time both in writing and over the phone that he was lactose intolerant. When it came time to order our dessert, the waitress seemed surprised by our dilemma and had to work with the kitchen to come up with a suitable option.

The fresh fruit with a scoop of lemon sorbet that was finally presented was nice if uninspired. Although I’m not typically a fan of panna cotta, I took a chance and ordered the heather honey panna cotta with apricot, smashed Amoretti biscuit, and shortbread. I made my selection based on what I had seen presented to other tables and was pleasantly surprised by the light flavours. The dessert was tasty but again suffered from what I had dubbed “Jamie’s one note-itis.”

To say that my experience was a disappointment would be an understatement. The service from the generically interchangeable waitresses was cold yet flawless. The décor and general atmosphere, on the other hand, was warm without actually being welcoming. I desperately wanted to love this restaurant and find every bite blissfully flawless for no other reason than my love of the man whose name is on the door. Instead, I had an expensive meal that served to not only diminish Jamie Oliver in my eyes but also prove the adage that celebrity restaurants are more about hype than quality.

The Local Milliner

2009-11-08T01:32:00.001-05:00

Across the street from the Khan Khalili, you will find the Tentmaker’s Bazaar. A short walk from the main road, toward the Bab Zuweila, is Mohammed Al Tarabishi’s small shop. Tarabishi is one of the last remaining fez makers in all of Egypt. Locally called a tarboosh, this felt hat can be purchased inexpensively as a souvenir.

Saturday Escapes

2009-11-06T23:46:00.000-05:00

I don’t like to admit this too often but the truth of the matter is that I have zero fashion sense. Let me put this into perspective for you: my husband (whose hotness is pictured here) dresses more fashionably than I do. It isn’t entirely my fault though: during those formative fashion years of high school, I was stuck in blue plaid day in and day out. Yet despite what many people believe to be a tragic case of bad taste mixed with a slight tendency toward colour questionability (I’m not colour blind but I seem to see different shades than everyone else), I adore fashion.

Lately that passion has been fed by the Red Carpet Fashion Awards. This fashion and style blog features photos and critiques of the outfits worn by the rich and famous at events ranging from Oscars and SAG awards to the latest movie openings and social events. Best of all, Fashion Critic not only shows how great (or tack-tacular) the stars look in their ensembles, but also includes photos of how the outfit looked on the runway. I love to vote in the random “Who wore it best” surveys that decide which identically clad celebs looked more impressive in their twice worn duds.

Even if you’re not a celebrity addict like I am, this is a great site to catch up the latest trends and styles in fashion. So click on over and check out what people wore to this week’s hottest events and who needs to fire their stylist. I promise the Red Carpet Fashion Awards won’t disappoint!

The Red Carpet Fashion Awards is this week’s Saturday Escape.

Allez Cuisine

2009-11-05T22:21:00.003-05:00

The highlight of my trip back to India was the week I spent with my friend Sunnymorn. And I’m not just saying that because she reads this blog and would kill me for saying otherwise. Other than amusing Facebook comments back and forth, I hadn’t spent time with her in ages and we were more than ready to make up for lost time.

Sunnymorn and I are good at many things, but two of the things we’re best at are shopping and dining. And much to our husbands’ chagrin, we don’t believe in budgets. After visits to numerous FabIndia outlets and the hunt for a new cell phone for yours truly, we could hardly be expected to celebrate our long awaited reunion at the local McDonalds or Sagar Ratna.

We lunched at some great spots both on our own and with her son, the Little Prince. The highlight of our dining adventures, however, was definitely lunch at Wasabi by Morimoto at the Taj Mahal Hotel. This was my second Masaharu Morimoto experience as Hubby and I had been to his Philadelphia restaurant several years ago.

The surprisingly well-priced sushi selection included a several fixed priced lunches, which included salad, soup, and lots of sushi. Much to Sunnymorn’s chagrin (and vague mortification), I requested to have their classic lunch set as a vegetarian selection instead of enjoying the tuna and salmon sushi she had been waxing poetic about all day. To be fair, Sunny was worried that I would be paying for the typical vegetarian sushi plate of cucumber and bell pepper rolls. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

When the wooden plank was placed before me, I couldn’t even identify most of the vegetables before me but I knew for certain that there were no boring cucumber rolls in the mix. Mouth watering, melt in your mouth, delicious, food-gasmic, amazing – I said this and more about the eight pieces of sushi I inhaled between snippets of gossip and shared memories. Even though the Iron Chef himself wasn’t there to oversee the restaurant, his vision certainly was – and it showed. Everything from the service to the tea was perfect and we weren’t even done eating.

I hadn’t come all the way to India to eat sushi and not have dessert you know! We ordered dessert and in the battle of who ordered better, I won hands down: my lemon tart came with instructions! First I had to bite into a special lemon. Then I chewed on a yucky tasting bean for one minute before spitting it back out. Then back to the lemon. Finally I was allowed to eat the bliss inspiring, orgasmic lemon tart. The idea was that this bean was able to change the flavour of the tart lemon into a sweet treat. I still tasted the divine flavor on the edges of my palate hours later. It was sincerely that good.

I love Sunny for many reasons not the least of which is that she’s super cool, let me do my laundry at her place, and knows many of my most embarrassing secrets yet doesn’t hold too many of them against me. (If she ever tells you about an extremely hung-over drive to Gurgaon where I probably permanently damaged a friend’s garden - I have no idea what she’s talking about. Really.) Most of all, Sunnymorn is always game – for sushi, for shopping, for hunting down dryer tubes or just chilling out and texting each other from across the room. I would have had a good time in Delhi anyways but thanks to Sunny, I had an awesome time.

(Note: Many of you asked me to blog about the food in India and this post was probably not what you had in mind. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten and I promise fulfill your request in the coming weeks.)

Still a Local

2009-11-04T22:37:00.002-05:00

Back when we lived in Delhi, I didn’t have to take taxis very often for which I was incredibly grateful. The rule for taxis here is that you either insist they use their meter or negotiate a fare before you leave. The latter was only a good idea if you knew where you going and around how much it should cost so you didn’t get gouged. The former could be tricky because taxi drivers often took the long way thinking you didn’t know better.

It may have been several years since I was technically a local in Delhi but thanks to my taxi training here in Cairo, I have mad taxi negotiating skills. On the rare occasions when I took taxis this summer, it was my job to make sure we got the best price. One night, a large group of us headed out to GK2 for dinner and before we got to the end of the hotel’s driveway, the driver and I had agreed that he would be waiting around to drive us back to the hotel after dinner, would keep the air conditioning on, and wouldn’t overcharge us for either of these services. (That driver would later try to gouge one of my friends in retaliation.)

Most of the time when we were in Delhi this summer, I avoided over-priced taxis and hopped on a three-wheeler to my destination. You may know these conveyances better as tuktuks, auto rickshaws, or death traps. Cheaper and slower than taxis, three-wheelers are how most Delhites get around town. The doorman at our hotel was shocked and vaguely scandalized that I kept leaving to find a three-wheeler rather than asking him to call me a taxi.

More westerners have taken to dressing in Indian clothes like kurtas and salwar kameezes since we lived there so drivers were puzzled for a moment trying to determine if my olive skin, dark hair, and local style of dress marked me as an Indian or a tourist. My lack of Hindi put me in the latter category but my hard-line on haggling definitely marked me as the former. I knew of at least one group of three-wheeler drivers who refused to take me anywhere after I insisted on paying local fares to my touristy destinations.

Although I was beyond glad when my friend Sunnymorn arrived back in town and loaned me her driver to get me to our mutual destinations, I kind of liked getting around town like a local. When we lived there, I never needed to flag down a three-wheeler in the pouring rain or negotiate for a taxi from the mall whilst sweat dripped from all my pores but I honestly felt less like a foreigner doing so this time around.

Namaste

2009-11-03T22:51:00.005-05:00

The first thing I noticed as we walked off our Emirates flight and into Indira Gandhi International Airport was the smell – it still smelled exactly like Delhi. This may sound like an obvious statement or an insult to India, but it’s neither. Delhi smells like humidity, slightly stale polluted air, and something unique that I’ve never been able to pin down. If it were ever bottled, it wouldn’t sell very well as a perfume but anyone who had ever walked into the blinding heat of this city would be able to identify it immediately.

That scent was one of the few things we recognized during our two-week stay. The hotel we stayed at and several of the restaurants we visited were familiar haunts but much has changed in the three years since we moved away.

Hubby had promised me back in May that he would take me to see the new Harry Potter film while we were in Delhi. We always loved going to the movies in Delhi because it’s inexpensive and there’s an intermission - an innovation I’ve only ever seen in India. During our first full weekend in Delhi, Hubby made good on his promise and we hopped into a taxi to a pedestrian mall about thirty minutes away.

We used to go to Saket every so often when we lived here so you can imagine our jaw dropping shock when we pulled up to a huge modern mall. We asked our taxi driver if this was the right place and he pointed to the sign in a rather insulted fashion. Gone were the uneven pavestones and outdoor bookseller who could always be counted on for inexpensive used books. In its place was a series of four two-storey malls that boasted at least two separate movie theatre complexes, a Hard Rock Café, great shops, and even underground parking. We were in shock.

Saket wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Construction was evident almost everywhere we turned. Our former local shops at Khan Market had also undergone a transformation: gone were the Bengali Sweet Shop and affordable stores, and in their place were dozens of restaurants and high-end shops. One of the few vendors I still recognized was the Soup Nazi and I was in such shock I completely forgot to visit and drive him crazy.

I don’t know why we thought things would be exactly as we left them. We’re not naïve – after all Toronto has changed more since I left than it did the entire time I grew up there. From the newly completed flyovers to the myriad of new faces at our old haunts it appeared that Delhi had moved on without us. Which is, I suppose, as it should be.

Incredible India

2009-11-02T22:10:00.006-05:00

I know you didn’t think my travel posts were over just because I finished telling you about Europe. Hubby had a lot of business travel planned for the summer of 2009 and he knew better than to think I was going to let him leave me behind in Cairo while he jetted around the world.

The end of July found us back in a place I still think of as a home away from home: New Delhi, India. Some of my newer readers may not know this but we lived in Delhi for a year, (Check out the blog archives from September 2005 through July 2006.) That was an amazing year during which we met awesome friends, had amazing adventures, and got very, very drunk very, very frequently.

Whenever we find ourselves back in Delhi, we always have fun visiting old haunts, seeing old friends (No Sunny, I’m not calling you old), and generally making a nuisance of ourselves. This trip was no exception.

Delhi is a city to eat your way through. Whether it is freshly made samosas and jalebi from the local shop around the corner or the incredible light flavorsome dishes that make up Southern Indian cuisine (as opposed to the North Indian curries most of us are more used to), there is no shortage of to-die-for cuisine in this town. Many people who visit India will return with tales of what the locals call “Delhi Belly” or as Hubby calls it “severe intestinal distress.” Since Hubby and I are seasoned travelers, we avoided this typical tourist pitfall by bringing our own local variety of “Mummy Tummy” with us.

The cure for these ailments that make the washroom your best friend is a simple course of antibiotics. The downside is that you can’t drink while you’re on this medication. “But we’re in Delhi – we have to drink!” I pouted. Due to this devilish predicament, we drank far less than we normally would. Which is not to say that we didn’t visit the all you can drink Sunday buffets or that we didn’t find ourselves at our favourite vodka bar, Aura, but we did so far less than usual since we had to time our bevvies around our individual courses of medication.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Hubby had two weeks of work in front of him, and I had two weeks of shopping in front of me. Delhi had no idea what it was in for!

Note: Most of the photos of India for the next few days are from previous trips. For some inexplicable reason, I forgot to take more than a handful this year.

Drum Roll Please

2009-11-01T22:42:00.007-05:00

A little over a week ago, I noticed that I had 99 followers. To commemorate that momentous occasion, I decided to host my very first contest. I can’t send or receive mail here in Egypt and I adore reading so the answer was obvious: an Amazon gift certificate.

After four years, 674 posts, and a total of 137 followers, I think it is safe to say that I’m starting to get the hang of this blogging thing. I couldn’t have kept it going without all of the wonderful encouragement and fabulous comments from all of you. You guys are the best followers a girl could ever ask for. Thank you.

I determined the winner using a random number generator and lots of Hubby’s patience and help. Each of my followers was granted one entry, as was everyone who commented on the contest’s initial post. Although that amounted to oodles of entries, as the Highlander taught us “there can be only one.”

Without further ado, I will now announce the winner of the Thank You for Being My Follower Contest:

Congratulations to: American in Norway !!!!!!!

Please leave me a comment on this post with details on how to contact you so that I can email you your $25 Amazon gift certificate. Thanks to everyone who entered!

NaBloPoMo

2009-11-01T00:36:00.005-04:00

It is with mixed feelings that I am once again joining National Blog Posting Month. When I joined up last year I was filled with excitement for the challenge of posting every single day for a month. By the end of November 2008, however, I, and several of my readers, noticed that I was literally churning out posts and my writing was become stale with the forced effort of fulfilling the promise of NaBloPoMo.

Hubby was also officially “over” NaBloPoMo last year since it is his job to give my posts at least a cursory glance and edit before I post them. He kept complaining that he had a real job that required his attention and wanted to know when my month of constant blogging would be over. Thus you can imagine my surprise when he was my biggest cheerleader for joining this year. “You took off three months from writing. You’re doing this!” It may sound like an ultimatum (and kind of was), but he was right. I was a lazy, unhappy slacker for three months and now I’m a lazy, contended blogger again. And I like me better this way.

I blog because I love it and the lesson I learned last year is that if, at any point in the month, NaBloPoMo has become drudgery or my writing starts to suffer then I will pull the plug. Surviving the entire month would be great but not at the cost of driving my wonderful Devoted Readers crazy with half-assed writing.

So wish me luck, guys. We’re all in for a long month!

Don't Forget

2009-10-31T05:38:00.002-04:00

Today is the final day to enter in my Thank You for Being My Follower Contest. If you haven’t yet entered the contest, check out this post for details. I will be announcing the winner on Monday.

Good luck and thanks again!

Saturday Escapes

2009-10-30T23:55:00.001-04:00

This week’s Saturday Escape is the reason I am now incapable of watching movies at the theatre and why I have my computer within reaching distance whenever I watch television. IMDB is one of the single greatest websites on the Internet bar none. I don’t think I’ve gone more than a day or two at a time without looking something up on this site and marveling at incredible information to be found in this one place.

The Internet Movie Database is the answer to every question you have ever had about that guy who was run over in the opening sequence of your favourite movie or show. From, “Isn’t that the guy from Eight is Enough?” to, “This actress is really talented. I wonder what else she’s been in.” IMDB knows why the folks at Police Academy seem to be defending the city of Toronto when they claim to be in the States and that there are 43 churches in Sunnydale where Buffy Summers lives. Whoever came up with the idea for the Internet Movie Database needs a Nobel Prize or knighthood or something to acknowledge the brilliance of this time sucking website.

I took today’s photo in February of 2005 during a brief trip to Scotland. The Wallace Monument is at the top of a long and winding hill. This Mel Gibson, Braveheart ~~eyesore~~ statue sits at the base of that hill and isn’t very popular with the locals. To be fair, the torturous walk up that hill, fighting the brisk Scottish winds wasn’t very popular with me either.

IMDB is this week’s Saturday Escape.

IMHO

2009-10-29T23:51:00.001-04:00

I’m afraid that today’s post will take the form of a slight rant. You see, I just finished watching yet another sitcom where the main conflict between the main characters was someone forgetting a birthday or anniversary. That person then had to figure out why their Significant Other was mad, apologize, and then spend the rest of the program making up for their “mistake.” When I told my friend Adelpha how stupid I found this set up, she said I couldn’t possibly understand since Hubby had never done anything as lame brained as forget an important holiday.

I’m going to let you all in on a little secret: I don’t star in a situation comedy with lame recycled scripts because I have learned to nag with subtlety and unwavering persistence. My husband has never forgotten our anniversary because I start talking about it months before it rolls around. My birthday is a holiday worth celebrating in style so I give Hubby gift ideas dozens of weeks in advance. (He usually ignores these hints but that doesn’t stop me from sending links to important online shopping sites.) I also have a calendar with all of our important dates written in bright indelible ink, hung in a prominent place in our kitchen.

Men need reminders to go to the supermarket on the way home to pick up ingredients for dinner. They need to be nagged about putting the toilet seat down and replacing toilet paper on the roll. What made you think they would remember something as simple as the day their lives changed for the better? (That would be your wedding anniversary, for the singles out there.)

The lesson here is if our man forgets your special day, don’t get mad at him, yell at yourself! Why didn’t you remind him? Why didn’t you present him with a selection of restaurants to take you to celebrate your big day? He loves you but chances are he’s more concerned with football scores to worry about something as “unimportant” as the day his beloved came into this world. So nudge him! He’ll appreciate it later when he’s not the main character in next week’s episode of Lame Sitcom’s R Us.

Sorry for the rant, folks but it’s just my humble opinion.

It’s Almost Time

2009-10-29T06:35:00.002-04:00

The contest with the longest name in the history of blogs is about to close. If you haven’t already entered the Thank You for Being My Follower Contest, go read this post and find out how you can win a $25 Amazon gift certificate.

Thanks for being awesome readers and good luck in the contest!