A Quieter August

Everyone knows that I have a hard time staying put and enjoying the calmer times of life. Hence, I travel every break and most of the summer. I love to travel, but I tend to miss the little things about life at home that make "home sweet home" so sweet. I like to buck my mom's advice, but I think she taught me a good lesson this summer.

Sitting in her new glassed-in porch, she said several times, with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, "See how something so simple can be so beautiful. I could be anywhere in the world right now." Sitting out in the lawn chairs in her yard, she looked up in the sky and said, "Look how big and beautiful the sky is here.... a little like how it must be out west." I didn't really think the sky looked that big, but it was beautiful and the weather was perfect (and the wine or coffee was hitting the spot), and, this time anyway, I knew better than to ruin the moment with my sarcasm. After all, it was pretty nice to just sit there and be content.

So, I came home to Faribault with two little more widely opened eyes and tried to find the beauty around our little apartment in Mackall Hall in Southern Minnesota.

We planted tomatoes. We only had two plants, and both were cherry tomatoes, so we didn't have much fruit, but they tasted perfect. Matt's little red ones fared much better than my little bell-shaped yellow ones. Our basil plants and peppers didn't fare as well, but lucky for us, a generous neighbor replaced our teeny basil plants with a three footer!

We also planted wildflowers from seed and waited patiently for some to bloom among the weeds. Nervous to confuse a weed with a wildflower, I let the weeds bloom, too. After the flowers finally opened, I felt a pang of sadness when the turbulent August weather took it's toll.













We explored Minnesota with friends, starting the day at the farmer's market on Lake Street in Minneapolis; armed with a semi-random assortment of tomatillos, beans, chilies, cheese, and eggplants, we headed up to Chisago City. We explored the St. Croix River wineries, picnicked with our morning finds, and shopped in downtown Stillwater. The little book store had a friend of mine's book on display, the candy store was chock full of taffy, turtles, and sour patch kids, and the fancy paper store, Pulp Fashion, gave out free coffee and had a room equipped with a flat screen tv and recliners for the bored companions of shoppers!
Near the end of the summer, as school was gearing up, we carved out a day for the State Fair. A summer in Minnesota just isn't complete without a trip to the fair and a bellyful of snacks-on-a-stick. For me, the fried oreo was a thing of beauty.

And then, of course, there are the dogs. To travel, we had to leave them behind for 5 weeks this past summer and 5 weeks the summer before. It only takes a few days away for me to pine for their company. We spent afternoons at the dog park in Dundas, watching Hideki and Bernie lead the pack as they leap through the grass.

And so I realized that my mother is right. There's beauty even here at Mackall Hall in Faribault, Minnesota, and it's time I slowed down to take a look.

Snorkeling with The Shark

Coco Cay is one of those "private" islands that belong to cruise ship companies. I was completely confident that it would be one of the lamest days of my life. Stuck on a small, fabricated island with 1500 cruisers was not my idea of an authentic day on the ocean in the Bahamas. I knew that someone had sunk an airplane or two to create interesting snorkeling conditions, so I was a little suspect of the whole experience. Still, I happily donned my suit and flippers.

A snorkeling orientation was required of everyone who rented equipment. Matt and a whole bunch of other badasses skipped the talk, but Nervous Nelly here did what she was told. I didn't learn anything, but the "expert" showed us the snorkeling area. There was a marked off area about the size of a football field; buoys marked the end of the safe swimming area much like at your local lake, and three or four lifeguards sat atop giant chairs perched out near the outer boundaries. "There are lovely coral reefs heading out towards the area between this island and the nearby island, but the current is strong there," he said. "Only experienced, confident swimmers should snorkel in the channel between the two islands."

Well, now Walt Disney there was speaking my language. A little danger on the prefab island? Bring it on. You all know what a strong, confident swimmer I am. After all, I did place third in the 500 meter freestyle once in my four year varsity swimming career (against Stoughton, Mass, that's right). So I headed that way immediately. But someone (Matt) called me over to come look at some pretty fish in safer waters, and I didn't make it over to the channel.

Anemones, groupers, parrotfish, flounder, squirrelfish (yum, remember Suzhou?), jellies, and coral dazzled us as we swam over the fake plane crashes and shipwrecks. It was beautiful, and when we were done, I was content to wander to find lemonade and grapes. We slept in hammocks, chased roosters, and crept up on iguanas. I braved the presumably tame "nature trail" and was pleasantly surprised when I was terrified by noises in the brush (most likely more roosters); the trail ended at the far end of the island where no cruisers came, and I could pretend Coco Cay really was a deserted island.

Against all my prejudices, the day turned out to be really too perfect, and I didn't want it to end. I was so surprised that I was enjoying myself as much as I was that we waited until the last possible moment to board a tender back to the ship. Matt slept, mere inches from the ferocious iguanas and Caribbean cocks, and I snuck away for one more snorkel.

Whether or not it was safe to snorkel alone on Coco Cay never entered my mind. After all I was buoyed in and watched over by professional lifeguards. Flippers on, I headed out to that channel I had wanted to see earlier. Along the way, I saw the whole beautiful world of a protected coral reef...












... and I headed out, contentedly following the coral reef. I was floating around happily thinking Nemo thoughts when this scary bastard swam by me:

I thought it was a barracuda, and I was psyched. It surprised me, and I was a little scared, but I thought I was awesome for catching in on my camera. So I followed him and tried to take a few more pictures, and then - - -

- - - I realized there was no more coral reef under me, and I was in about 25 feet of water. There weren't anymore of those pretty reef fish around, and I didn't see anyone else snorkeling. I was in the channel.

But I wasn't alone.

Just a few yards away was The Shark. It was at least six feet long and surrounded by ramoras. Other than those hangers on, it looked alone in the vast blue. I panicked in the calmest manner, not sure what to do, but I didn't have time to deliberate. I turned and snorkel-equivalent-of-ran the hell out of there. Kicking those flippers good and hard like when we had to do kicking drills, I tore out of there, the whole time terrified that my kicking would attract the shark to my legs, ala Jaws. I couldn't look back.

I had momentary visions of clearing the beach with my dramatic cries of "SHARK," but I just kept kicking until I reached the shore.

Only then did I look back, and the buoyed snorkeling grounds were disquietingly calm. I told one of the men working at the snorkel shack, and he said, quite calmly, "You are lucky. They are here often, but most people don't swim out to that hole like you did." He smiled at me and asked, "Didja get a picture?"

My heart didn't stop bursting from my chest for another hour or so... a little bit I wanted to head back out there, not to get a picture, but to look without fear, but a little bit more I just wasn't sure if I had almost just chanced my life or limbs.

Lest you think this shark picture is really from my adventure, let me remind you that when you confront a shark and you are scared, um, taking pictures only occurs to you later when you are safe on shore and someone tells you that "that shark would never have hurt you." But I swear to you, this is exactly what I saw. Photo credit: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/24/Oceanic_Whitetip_Shark.png

Cortadito, Little Havana, Miami

Today is one of those magical days when I have a coffee that reminds me exactly why I love coffee as much as I do. Today I had my first cortadito. These days are few and far between: that coffee at the Smithsonian ten years ago, Iceland, Gibb's Farm at Ngorongoro Crater, Kopplin's Coffee... and now I have Miami.

As we finished our meal at Versailles (a popular Cuban restaurant and bakery worth its own post) in Miami, Matt told me that he heard that you can't leave this place without having a cortadito. Not that I would have, but I didn't know what I was in for.

This little drink is a pull of Cuban espresso, brewed into a decanter with sugar, and finished with steamed milk - mine was about half and half. The espresso was that perfect kind of strong - not bitter, not overwhelming. I'm not good at describing the notes and bouquet and finish of wine and coffee, so you'll just have to trust me that it was perfect.

We'll be going back before we leave Miami!

not my image.... my cortaditos were in little styr0foam cups, but I wanted to whet your appetite.... image found at: http://offthebroiler.wordpress.com/2006/11/30/florida-dining-latin-american-cafeteria-restaurant/

If you want to learn more about some of my other favorite cups of coffee, check out Kopplin’s Coffee in St. Paul and Gibbs Farm in Tanzania! Or, if it’s easier, you could check them out at these links, but you can’t drink any coffee that way:

http://www.gibbsfarm.net/

http://www.kopplinscoffee.com/

Another day, I’ll write about them!

I Haven't Got Time For The Pain

I hate bourbon. I don’t care if it is 51% corn, crafted with limestone water, and aged 20 years in virgin oak barrels in the unique Kentucky environment. It tastes thick and hot at first, and then it burns as you swallow. I don’t understand it, and I don’t like it.

Traveling the Kentucky Bourbon Trail, however, was pretty enjoyable. They don’t give you enough free samples of the nasty fire water to get drunk (when I imagine it doesn’t hurt as much to drink), but the bourbon distilleries we visited lived up to my romantic image of historic, classic Kentucky. We visited Buffalo Trace, Woodford Reserve, and Maker’s Mark. There was a little something different about each distillery that I enjoyed most. At Buffalo Trace, where I learned copious amounts of information from Dr. Don in our hour-plus tour of the grounds, I loved visiting the aging warehouses. They were dark and cool, with endless rows of barrels. Dr. Don showed us the “experimental” barrels, which were small enough for me to carry right out of there were I going to the gym like I am supposed to. In a moment of foolish humor, when I was spacing out a bit on the tour, I pretended I was in The Happening and banged my head against a barrel. I was just pretending, but in typical Courtney fashion, I actually hit my head. I must have looked like a jerk to the rest of the tour. But it made Nate and Matt laugh. That didn’t really hurt so much; however, when I tasted the bourbon, I thought I was going to die from the pain.

At Woodford Reserve, all I could think about was how perfect the grounds were for a wedding. We missed the last tour, but the main building was impressive enough – it was my favorite part. A wide porch surrounded the building, perfect for a reception, complete with rocking chairs and cocktail tables. And I liked the Bourbon Balls (a chocolate covered bonbon with creamy bourbon flavored filling) here best, and the free sweet peach tea was a welcome chaser to the hell-booze. Here, they served the bourbon with ice, so I could almost sip it.

Our last stop was Maker’s Mark, which is located on a beautiful estate with a historic toll bridge over a small stream. The black buildings have distinctive red shutters, and our tour guide spun a lovely tale of the founder of Maker’s Mark and his wife. She handled the marketing; he handled the distilling. Sounds like things went her way! She picked the bottle and led her husband to the name (after the distinctive marks on the bottom of pottery) and the wax covering. In the distillery, we were able to try the sour mash. Really, we were allowed to stick our nasty dirty fingers in the giant, hundred year old wooden drums to taste the foaming brew. Gross. Here, we were also able to try the bourbon before it is put in the barrels – that was truly fire water. The best part about this tour was dipping our own Maker’s Mark bottles in their trademark red wax (thanks, Mrs. Founder). I intentionally tried to overdip my bottle (an overdipped bottle is considered special, and one is placed in each case of whiskey… but most are scooped up by distributers and never make it to the packie), but they outsmarted me. They only made the dip pool deep enough to cover the neck of the bottle. Still, my overdipping zealousness resulted in a “foot.” The ladies at the dipping station told me that this was a good thing because a stable foot would come in handy when I was tipsy. Lovely. I still kind of thought my bottle looked like a kindergartner dipped it. Before we left, Matt and I both signed up to have our names engraved on a barrel; eight years from now, we will be invited to come back down for our barrel opening.

So, I still hate bourbon, even though I now know why it is such a special form of whiskey (there ARE rules: certain about of corn, certain barrels, certain water, and aged in Kentucky). But, when my barrel comes due at Maker’s Mark, I will come back and happily dip my bourbon. Even though I will be forty, I will probably still dip like I am four. And I’ll probably sip that way too.

Originally posted at He Says, She Says (http://travel-mates.blogspot.com/). Check there for pictures of our Kentucky trip.

Baseball Novice Learns Batting Gloves Are Not Just Fashion

I like museums, but I wasn’t super-thrilled about going to the Louisville Slugger Museum with Matt and Nate. Of course, we showed up an hour before the museum even opened, which was lucky (eh-hem) because we could take undisturbed photographs of the 120 foot tall bat that decorates the entrance of the museum. We had just stopped at Waffle House for smothered and covered hash browns, but I already needed more coffee.

But, once we entered the museum, I caught a little of the bug. A wall in the lobby is covered in metal plates carved with the signatures of all the ball players who have signed contracts to carry Louisville Slugger bats. The museum has two of Babe Ruth’s bats on display, one of which (imagine this) was found in the back of someone’s closet. An interactive pitching exhibit shows what a 90 mph pitch looks like, but the thing is, you can’t see it. I admit it did make me gain a little more understanding for how difficult hitting a ball in the Major Leagues is.

I did head into the batting cages, but my pitches were only at 40 mph. Or was it 20 mph? All I know is that I whined the whole time because my hands hurt each time I hit the ball (yep, that’s right – EACH time I hit the ball). I only saw the gloves afterwards.

And yes, even though I thought I would have rather looked for knick-knacks with a latte in my hands, I ended up chock full of questions for my tour guide and very happily took my free mini-Louisville Slugger.

Originally posted at He Says, She Says at http://travel-mates.blogspot.com/. Check there for pictures of our Louisville trip.

China & Taiwan: My Top Ten or So, Part One

It has almost been a full year since Matt, Andrew, Kelly, and I left Minnesota for Beijing, Shanghai, and Taipei last July. This week, we brought our friends Len and Brad to the airport to set off on their own adventure, and I couldn't help but feel a little bit jellish.

In honor of their departure and to ease my envy, I present my top ten or so experiences (in no particular order) from our trip to China and Taiwan... remember we were fortunate to visit Beijing, Shanghai, Taipei, and some of the surrounding areas near these cities, but there remains so much more to Taiwan and China that we were unable to explore.

1. The Rain

Every day that we spent in China and Taiwan, it rained. The heat and humidity was something I cannot explain to you. Stepping out of the plane presidential style (which you all know I LOVE to do), I couldn't bring myself to wave appropriately when I felt the thickness of the air on my skin and in my throat. The rain intervened every day. We had thunder and lightening over our heads in the glass-roofed pool at the Regent Shanghai, and we saw shopkeepers pack up Mao watches, Chinese zodiac mobiles, and tea sets in minutes as the sky opened over Wangfujing Snack Street in Beijing. If I were China, I would never try to cloud-bust to ensure dry days, not even for the Olympics.

2. New Foods

I love "Chinese" food in the United States, and I loved the food we had in China and Taiwan, for the most part. It was an adventure that I willingly undertook; food wimps should be cautioned. It's polite to try new things - plus it is part of the fun of traveling - and our hosts were clearly proud to share with us. I found some strange-to-me foods that I enjoyed, like lotus pods, gelatinous meatballs, pea flavored popsicles, stinky tofu, jelly fish, and tiny (thought they were noodles or sprouts at first...surprise!) river fish, native to Suzhou, I think. Of course I found plenty that I loved as well: moon cakes, steamed buns with sweetened condensed milk at Five Wheat, candied grapes, bubble milk tea, lychee tea, new mushrooms, green beer, wurst with garlic, shaved ice sundaes, Peking duck wraps, squirrel fish and other amazing whole fish dishes. There were some harder things to swallow, but Matt, Andrew, Kelly, and I tried everything we were offered. We had goose and duck feet (not so strange to my Hungarian grandmother), grilled cow stomach and intestines, duck knuckle bones, preserved black duck eggs, sea cucumber, and shark fin soup... and Andrew even sucked out the brains of a duck.

3. The Great Wall of China

Yes, we went to Badaling, where all the guides books say to avoid because it's so "touristy" and crowded. And we loved it. I loved the curving vistas of wall in the distance as well as the spectacular circus of the crowds. There is a moment of awe when you realize you are walking (sometimes climbing) The Great Wall of China. It's somewhat otherworldly, if it is possible to feel otherworldly. You know what I mean - one of those moments where you shake your head and ask yourself if you are really experiencing this!

And then I started to people watch. Soldiers requested photos with us, most likely because of our tall traveling companion Andrew. Shirtless teenage boys climbed the wall and posed for pictures that reminded me of a 90s boy band. Women in heels attempted to scale the steeper parts of the wall, and tee-shirt vendors followed tourists, looking for someone to haggle with. Photographers with authentic "Chinese" costumes lured sweating visitors in to take Disney-style "historical" photos. Small children held bottles of Coca-Cola, and a "One World One Dream" billboard dominated the view in one direction. A luge ride sped down to the parking area, but I couldn't be swayed. I wanted to walk back and take in one more time the sights and sounds of this too-touristy, too-crowded, too-well-maintained Badaling that everyone told me to avoid.


4. Breakfasting with Peter in Taoyuan City, Taiwan

Breakfasting at a local little hole in the wall restaurant, sure, but who would have ever thought that making this list would be breakfast at a 7-11 in Taoyuan?

Facing his impending high school graduation, Peter was clearly reminiscing about the good old days (much like I do each time I visit Cambridge, Amenia, Middletown, and Attleboro) and Matt and I were quite content to follow the breakfast tour! We started with a local place, where our host Peter tells us he used to stop for breakfast on his way to elementary school. The restaurant is literally a stone's throw from his home and for just a couple dollars, we sampled all of his favorite dishes... egg pancakes, steamed buns, breakfast burgers, sweet sandwiches. A young girl flipped her gaze back and forth between us and the television; commuters on scooters outside parked quickly to grab a bite. It was clearly the neighborhood spot.

Around the corner from his house is one of the many 7-11s in town; to Peter, it is a beloved institution. When he wasn't breakfasting at our first stop, he breakfasted here. So we did, too. Here's the pre-elementary school menu he recreated for us: more steamed buns (white and brown), a hot dog, iced Starbucks lattes, sticky rice "sandwiches" filled with chicken, stuffed buns, sweet breads, and more of those warm breakfast burgerlike sandwiches. I think Matt and Peter had icees with their breakfast. The best part about 7-11 was the souvenir potential... I found Chien-Ming Wang and Daisuke Matsuzaka cell phone charms for my two favorite baseball fans. Our breakfast was so cheap, but these official MLB charms were $10 each! You can eat breakfast for 10 days (less the iced latte) for the price of a MLB charm.

5. My Taiwanese Peach

This is simple. Eat the fruit in Taiwan. Have a peach. Wash it, relax, and enjoy it. Durian fruit, sure you can skip that, but eat the peach. Have dragon fruit and lychee while you are at it. I loved that peach.

Memories of Road Trips Past: An Homage to the United States

~ falling in love with a guitar player outside Cafe du Monde and a tour guide named Thom at Fallingwater ~ the knife stabbed into the table in the grocery on Grande Isle ~ Alfredo, with his catfish on a leash on the Rio Grande ~ those biscuits in Texas ~ being surrounded by bison in South Dakota ~ frozen ice at Niagara Falls ~ a room with no clock, no windows, no lock in Pennsylvania ~ a collapsed bridge detour that led to Hog Trough Liquors, Arkansas ~ the Spiral Staircase Store, Maine ~ spending Spring Break indoors ~ the red road ~ abandoned hot springs ~ lonely national parks with Senior Ranger Programs ~ sneaking pictures of signs, with eyes peering out from behind the curtain ~ local fabric stores ~ burros in the car window ~ watching Babel in bed instead of gambling ~ bathtubs and boats after a hurricane ~ the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway, closed 20 miles in ~ sunsets in the badlands ~ hiking to an oasis in Joshua Tree ~ ice cream-offs ~ peanut butter chocolate shakes at Sonic ~ stepping on seal bones in Newfoundland ~ perfect stones ~ driving across northern Maine with no gas ~ searching for moose ~ Matt on a horse named Panther ~ rafting between the US and Mexico ~ coffee in Moab ~ walking a ridge in Utah ~ fearing mountains lions called javalinas ~ Hannah, the little girl who swept the camp and cared for her big sister ~ the French Creole family ~ getting spooked and ditching camp in Perdido Bay ~ masa ~ bookstores and bagels in Savannah ~ Miss South Carolina walking the wall in Charleston ~ Innervisions ~ trivial pursuit ~ inevitable snow on Colorado highways ~ that fried chicken sandwich in Memphis ~ never stopping at Graceland ~ Black Mesa Winery ~ hail in Canyonlands, Utah~ Cadillac Ranch and the giant cross ~ spying mountain goats ~ taking an egg up the Arch ~ HaHa Cemetary ~ risking the storms at Green Gardens, Gros Morne National Park ~ Petites ~ the floral b & b ~ abandoning the tiniest car ever ~ spotting the Stanley Cup in D.C. ~ mooning a nonexistent crater, reminiscent of the Alhambra ~ sidewinders by the car ~ traffic in Arkansas ~ ~ falling in love over a bottle of wine that you could keep in Maine ~

Road Trip - July 2008

This Saturday Matt and I depart on another one of our road trips! Our plan is to leave Faribault and head to Kentucky, with a stop perhaps in Chicago to see the Pipers. In Kentucky, we will meet up with our good friend Nate, a corn-holing, disc-throwing, beer-drinking Michigander. We've got our eyes on a few bourbon distilleries, a few wineries, a famous bat museum (but rumor has it the bat making will be closed down during our stay), maybe a mammoth cave or two, and a stop at the Louisville Bats, the AAA team for the Cincinnati Reds.

From Kentucky, Matt and I will leave Nate behind to his quiet midwestern summer plans of beer and brats and head on to Atlanta for a taste of Classic Coca Cola and other liquid confections.

From there, our plan is to drive on to the perfect July destination.... Florida... where we will explore the Everglades, visit family, drive the Keys, indulge in Miami (Little Havana, Art Deco, and people watching), and maybe stop at Disney World. From Miami, we leave for the Bahamas for a few days to snorkel and sunbath and collect Matt some new currency.

Then we'll keep driving north to see our families in my beloved northeast. I'm sure each of these stops will provide excellent fodder for blogging, just as our trips have in the past.

Adventures with Hair Dye

After being talked out of it for years, I finally had my hair dyed red!

Husavik, Iceland

Somehow I knew I would love Husavik before I even got there but writing about it has been difficult. I partially blame this post for my stalled blog. I loved Husavik; it is like Moab and Terlingua - those perfect little towns where you could sit happily with a journal and a cup of coffee for days. You know what I mean -- you plan one or two days to visit these little places, and then you don't want to leave. So I can't figure out why I couldn't write about it back in April when I started this post. Everything I wrote seemed lifeless and didn't do justice to Husavik, but it is time to finish and move on.
This small, northern Iceland town sits on a harbor filled with small fishing boats, whale watching vessels, and dinghies. A lovely turn of the century wooden church with a distinctive blue and green roof sits up above the harbor. Whale watching is a major attraction in Husavik, and The Whale Centre is located in a former slaughterhouse adorned with a bright but simple whale mural; it’s a lovely museum but it is overshadowed by another museum in town… Next to whale watching, Husavik is probably most famous to tourists as the new home of the Icelandic Phallogical Museum, a slightly disturbing collection of male genitalia. I think I’ll leave that there. No more needs to be said, but you can discover for yourself at www.phallus.is.

The truth is I think I love Husavik because I loved the cafe in town, the Skuld Cafe. I spent most of my time here, where a kind red-haired woman poured delightfully strong coffee in white tea cups and entertained my questions about Icelandic culture and history. The café had plenty of outdoor seating and bleacher like seats built into the hillside that looked out over the harbor. Matt and I read and drank... here, coffee came served with chocolate and a free refill.

I adore whales, and the cafe was perched perfectly over the whale watch boats. The whale watch Matt and I joined WAS amazing, and with our fancy new camera in tow, we have proof. There was a chill in the air and more than a chill in the water that splashed over the sides, so we bundled up in insulated, waterproof jumpsuits and wool mittens & hats. I saw more humpbacks breach that evening that I have seen in my entire life, and you all know how about me and whale watches. Give me some Earl Grey tea or coffee and I am ready to go whether is is 6 am or 9 pm (which you can do in the summer in Iceland!) I love them all: big boats in Boston or Hyannis, little boats in Nova Scotia, or sail boats in Iceland. The Husavik trip didn't disappoint, and I would have happily gone several more times.

Iceland is chock full of idiosyncrasies & fairy tales. It's a hard place to write about, and it is difficult for me to find words that capture it at all. Go there, but skip, or at least don't stay too long in, Reykjavik. Drive the Ring Road instead and search out the coves & geysers, icebergs & elves, waterfalls & lava flows, and herding dogs & lounging sheep. Drink coffee and sit and be content.

More Photos From Iceland

Glaciers!







Skaftafell National Park, where I got electrocuted (briefly).

Latte from Heaven, Reykjavik







Whale Mural, Husavik







Puffin, Papey







Waterfalls!

Reindeer on the road to Seythisfjorder

Reliving the Sagas

Stones by the sea shore

More glaciers!
Matt diving into boiling hot mudpots at Krafla

Venice Beach, California

This past weekend, I left a jealish* Matt behind and hopped on a plane, trading Minnesota for Los Angeles. Three days in sunny and warm California with good friends (Aaron and Maria) is definitely good for the soul. Each morning, Maria, my gracious host, said that she wanted to go to the beach, but the weather just wasn't cooperating. For me, of course, the weather was cooperating just fine.

Finally, on Monday, the clouds cleared, and the sun emerged. Maria, baby Adrian, and I piled into the car and drove to Venice to eat lunch, walk the beach, people watch, and shop the street market. Venice has that strange combination of upscale and downscale, where life is just a bit more on the edge than life here in Faribault. You wouldn't know it from the Rose Cafe, a hip brunch spot with a funky little gift store --- you could picture wealthy folk munching lentils and veggie burgers here. But just a few steps away, Venice Beach was a different experience....

So let me see if I can create a snapshot or two for you. On the bike path, cyclists of all kind rode among the strollers, the rollerbladers, and the walkers: regular ten speed bikes, recumbents, bikes straight out of the Brady Bunch, tandems, and bikes chosen to catch and keep your attention. Who knew that bikes could so help us create an image for ourselves? Serious bikers scowled at us as the path was clearly marked "bikes only," but those with the hip handlebars only smiled. Along the path to the ocean side, surfers were struggling to catch a decent wave, early birds worked on their bronze, and one man set up house right along the path (complete with soap, stereo, and snacks). Along the path to the boardwalk side, children swung and slid, a young man trained his dog, and skateboarders navigated ramps. Handball courts (new to me) were empty save for one teenage boy and his onlookers. Sleeping bags, rolled and unrolled, marked the spots of those who wander. Lots of sleeping bags.

Back out on the boardwalk, we stopped to look for art and skull caps and jewels and henna tattoos. Dogs on leashes found each other, peacefully. An elderly woman cooed at Adrian, and a fortune teller cooed at me. We couldn't help but ogle the tropically tan body builder walking the streets in only tight swimming trunks (not exactly a speedo) and a bandanna on his head. We couldn't help but adore the little girl with shorn hair, her tattooed mother sitting on the steps, keeping watch. I couldn't help but wonder, as I looked at the pierced and dreadlocked teens, why they weren't in school. The street wasn't quiet by any means; the buzz and hums belonged together--there were no jarring sounds, no din.

I didn't buy much. No tin can airplanes, no salt and pepper shakers, no surfboard clocks. What caught my eye was a small piece of art, orange and simple. It was just a print of a small pup affixed to a tile, bordered in gold, labeled simply with the word joy. The artist snapped my polaroid with the pup - "for my website," he said, and I smiled.

Maria plopped Adrian down on the sidewalk to bobble his way a bit. Afraid of nothing but the sun in his eyes, he reached out to a cyclist pulling his daughter behind him as they stopped to shop, waddled after pigeons, and threw his hip little cap onto the road. After a bit, we scooped him up and headed off to the airport, and I prepared to trade this little taste of life on the edge back for khakis, dining hall coffee, and a regular Tuesday morning.

*jealish (adj.) kind of a little jealous, but not really; coined by Maria Magana, 2008.

Northfield, Minnesota

Over the hills and through the woods (through one really evil speed trap, past one haunted house adorned with an abandoned school bus, and beyond the home with clydesdales), there is a town that has helped ease our transition from Cambridge to Faribault.

Northfield has two cool colleges (Carleton and St. Olaf), a Taco Bell (Matt's ambrosia), a Target (as Jennifer used to say, Tar-jay) and a Caribou, which already makes it a wee bit more cosmopolitan than Faribault. But that isn't really what makes it great. This is the home of Malt-O-Meal, an industry that innocently makes the entire town smell of cookies. This is the town whose motto is "Cows, Colleges, and Contentment."

Here's what makes it great:

Chapati's... especially Chicken Korma. Having Indian food so close when you live in what feels like the middle of nowhere is pretty special. It's not the same as Cafe of India, but that's okay. Chapati's is located in this old, red & white, historic hotel, The Archer House, with a huge white porch, where I can just see a Henry James novel happening if only this wasn't Minnesota.

Jesse James... Do you know that Jesse James tore through Northfield, hoping to get rich off the First National Bank in 1876? Too bad for him that the tough local Minnesotans stopped the raid! In honor of Jesse James (hmm, or maybe those brave locals), we celebrate Jesse James Days each September. I ran my first 5K to celebrate.

Paul Wellstone... Wellstone taught here in Northfield at Carleton College for over twenty years before he became senator and later died in a plane crash. Minnesota is the strangest state in terms of politics (e.g., lots of pro-life billboards, a wrestler for governor once, a comedian running for Senate) but the work done in Wellstone's memory is pretty nice to have going on here. Wellstone!

Window shopping, or not... Northfield has everything I need. The Rare Pair, where I can stock up on Merrells and Privos. Digs, my favorite (oh, and Matt's too), where you can buy fabric and yarn and buttons and dish towels and eco-friendly cleaning products, where I found my Stitchin' Vixen shirt that I adore, where I can buy sushi themed stationary, and where I found a very special Dracula for a very important person. Of course there's antiques on every block - perfect for my mom to spend an afternoon.

Books... There's an independent bookstore, River City Books, whose owner loves David Brent as much as I do, and there's a used bookstore, Monkey See Monkey Read, where I recently found a 1937 Collier's World Atlas and Gazetteer for only 10 dollars!

Coffee & Cookies... How can a place called Quality Bakery and Coffee Shop not be great? I recommend the cookies. For coffee (and rice crispy treats reminiscent of the cafe at Wesleyan), it's Goodbye Blue Monday. I don't know if they are referencing Vonnegut or New Order or the simple fact that Mondays suck and would be even worse without coffee. Who cares. My favorite thing about Goodbye Blue Monday is that even when I am 30 seconds away from being late to my therapist's office, I can still order a latte and be on time for my appointment across the street. I think there is simply a difference between my car's clock and the office clock, but I like to think of it as a little Northfield magic realism.

Dog Park... need I say more? When is the rest of the world going to catch on to this?

So, even when I complain, even as I look out on 5 fresh inches of snow, even when my skin hurts from the cold, even when I miss my family and my friends, even when I long to walk the streets of Cambridge or eat sushi in JP, even when I want to swim in the ocean, it isn't that bad here after all.

Maybe next time I'll tell you why Faribault itself isn't that bad....

Livingston, Guatemala

Last week, my husband Matt and I spent the day in a small Garifuna town on the coast of Guatemala. Livingston is not accessible by roads, so everyone and everything must be brought in by boat. We took a short boat ride past beachside homes, complete with thatch-roofed bungalows. When we pulled into the harbor, we were met by a lush green coast, small sailboats, several water taxis, and brightly colored buildings. Local men gathered around the water taxi stand, waiting for charges. Sure enough, one soon came trudging down the main street. A young American man, with a heavy khaki pack on his back and several weeks' facial hair, emerged from Livingston, ready for his return to Puerto Barrios and his next stop. I was instantly jealous and thought back to my days hauling a khaki army-navy pack from Munich to Athens and back again.

Before we headed up the hill that the backpacker had just descended, we wandered through a local park where three giant crocodiles were kept. We had to stare at these three animals for several minutes for a sign that they were real, for they appeared to be more like animatronic monsters on a Disney ride than living breathing manifestations of the underworld. Eventually, when I stared long enough into the desolate stone pit the crocs called home, I saw movement in the nostrils. Matt remained convinced the crocs were not real.

Definitely real, however, was a lonely dog sunning himself on the basketball court. Once he saw us, he stretched and followed us up Calle Principal. Soon enough, he was met by several other local dogs, and together they wandered the streets as though they owned them. The streets were lined with brightly painted shops stocked with soccer balls, fruit, and embroidered cloth. Bright fuchsia rhododendrons, posters for Gallo beer, and beach umbrellas adorned the main street. Matt and I happily stopped for both coco locos, a combo of rum and coconut juice served in a matcheted green coconut, and Gallo beer, Guatamala's beloved brew.

I didn't know of the Garifuna before visiting Central America. The Garifuna people here in Livingston are a unique culture in Central America. Living on the Caribbean coast, they are descended from Africans who escaped slavery and intermarried with the Carib Indians of the island of St. Vincent. The Garifuna were deported to Roatan, one of the Bay Islands off the coast of Honduras, after they tried to rebel against the British on St. Vincent. Today's Garifuna are a people who represent a combined African, Carib, Mayan, and European ancestry and cultures. Walking through Livingston, this vibrant, complex culture was immediately apparent.

Once we walked to the top of Calle Principal, it was clear that Livingston was not a quiet or simple town. Indoor recess at a girls' school carried through the streets, and scooters sped past us. Police with automatic weapons slung across their back drove through town in a pick-up truck just as women carried baskets of fruit on the tops of their heads and elderly men wheeled bicycles with milk crates full of glass bottles. Two school boys caught my attention. Both wore Spiderman backpacks and neatly pressed school khakis. One boy walked with a stiff limp, and both boys' attention wandered from checking us out to checking out the noisy recess in the gym above their heads to checking out the pack of mutts following us through the town.

We stopped for mid-morning Gallo beers at a small pub with a traditional Garifuna band and dancers. The five men in the band traded instruments back and forth - maracas, drums, a turtle shell, and a conch shell - while two women and four young girls performed traditional dances. The girls danced to tell the story of the hard work of women while the older women wooed the pub crowd with fancy hip and foot work.

As we descended Calle Principal and returned to our boat to return to Puerto Barrios, I bought woven grass earrings and a roughly carved dugout canoe, and Matt collected quetzales and centavos. Much like the water taxis drivers at the dock, the policemen relaxed outside the station, no longer burdened with weapons. Instead, they traded police patches with another American couple. Two local teenage girls in flip-flops and sequined tanks began to climb the hill, and the not-so-lonely dog reappeared with his pack to lie back down in the heat of the afternoon.

William Carlos Williams Was Right

I don't care if being included in every high school literature textbook makes it trite, but William Carlos Williams is right. Plum is a wonderful word. Thick, round, hollow but full; strong, but inviting. It belongs on the page of the dictionary where succotash, succuba, succulent, and succumb live, but it can't. It's own page isn't too bad... pluck, plump, and plunge follow it (but then there is plug-ugly and and plumb bob).

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the ice box

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- William Carlos Williams, 1962
(http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535)