5K and Pancakes, Maybe

On Sunday, I'll be jogging my first 5K since 2006. Back on that day, I literally ran the race cold, having not run anything longer than a mile since I was about 19.

This time, I'm in good shape, but I still haven't run 3.1 miles on the road in a long time... Um, since September 2006, the aforementioned 5K.

So, I've been running a mile or a mile and a half every couple days. Today, I sort of ran 3 miles on the treadmill (sort of = walked a little bit every now and then).

I don't have much to say, but if I put this in writing now, than I have to follow through and show up on Sunday. Then maybe I'll have some nonsense about a personal journey and a post-5K pancake breakfast to blog about.

Broadening the Scope

Well, I'd like to keep this blog a little more often than only when I travel, so I've decided to broaden the scope a little bit. My title "Winding Roads and Close Calls" is still relevant because my goal will always be to focus on experiences in my life that cause me to step out of my comfort zone! Maybe this will simply mean that I will write about all those food pictures I like to upload to my facebook page, but I also hope to write a little bit more about my local adventures in Minnesota, my travels back home to my beloved New England, and my virtual explorations through the books I read, the movies I see, and the plays I attend. Of course, there are those journeys that don't require any travel at all but still move you forward: when a friend pushes you to reconsider your assumptions, when the approaching birthday creates angst and hope, when a day at the office makes you want to scream and laugh, or when a quiet moment at home reminds you to appreciate things just the way they are.

Cortadito Update

Last Sunday, my friend Isabel gave me the most wonderful thank you gift. She bought me a can of Cafe Bustelo and a simple moka pot and taught me how to make cortaditos. All along, I had a Mukka Express to make cappuccinos, but I never realized how close I was to making cortaditos at home.

Isabel started by putting a whole lot of white sugar in a mug. I mean, I knew there was sugar in a cortadito, but it turns out that there is a LOT of sugar in one. When the percolator bubbled up the first bit of coffee, she poured just that first tiny bit into the sugar to make a frosting-like mixture. She said that this step creates the foamy surface of the coffee, and that the Cubans say it has to be the first drips of coffee that you use. On the side, she boiled some milk on the stove. When the coffee was done, she poured it into the sugar and mixed it vigorously to create that foamy surface. She poured a touch of milk into the coffee, leaving that perfect little milk stain on top.

And that was it. So simple. When Isabel was done, she handed me a cortadito; I hadn't had one since last summer in Miami, and hers was perfect. When Isa tasted it, however, she said, "Oh! not sweet enough for me."

And so, every morning since then, I have been trying on my own, and yesterday, I did it! My cortadito tasted perfect, but it didn't look perfect. I still haven't mastered getting that little macchia on top, as you can see below. In fact, my version looks kind of pathetic. But I won't give up. I may need to get a little hand steamer for the milk. And, I may need to go back for some extra help from Mrs. Rodriguez...

ThighMaster, Waipi'o Valley, The Big Island

One morning while we were in Hilo, we decided to drive north on the Hawaii Belt Road to the Waipi'o Valley. I had read of this very steep walk down into the valley (supposedly 1000 feet descent at a 25% grade in one mile) where willing participants were rewarded with taro ponds, wild horses, waterfalls, and intense muscle burn from the walk back up. Lucky ones supposedly got picked up by Jeep drivers. Of course, I wanted to do this. Matt, on the other hand, was a bit hesitant. We both were afraid of blisters and chafing. Still we loaded up on musubis, coffee, and local bananas, and headed up there to see what it was all about.

On our way, we drove through Pepe'ekeo, which felt like a jungle - bamboo groves, vast banyan trees, and sun rays and ocean glimpses just sneaking through openings in the green. We drove up to Akaka Falls State Park, a drive that strangely reminded me of the drive to Welsch Village here in Minnesota. We followed the boardwalks to the falls, meeting the freaky monkey pods tree along our way. Akaka Falls was majestic. I realize majestic is a trite way to describe a waterfall, but I just don't know what else to say. It was tall and powerful, and as it fell, mist rose back up almost as high as the falls itself.

Soon we arrived at the Waipi'o Valley overlook. We parked our car and enviously watched the Jeeps barrel down towards the valley floor. In a fit of idiotic adult maturity, I had rejected our Jeep at the rental office in favor of a car with a secure trunk. Now, unless I was ready to hoof it, I wasn't going to get down to the floor. We saw a middle-aged couple walk up the steep road. I asked them how the walk back up was even though I could see the sweat on their faces and their arms on their weary hips as they took the last few steps. "Oh, we only walked down to the first turn," they replied.

Pouting more than a little bit, I snapped a few pictures of the valley from the overlook, and we returned to the car. Seeing sullen me, my sweet, indulgent husband drove to get some water and snacks and decided we would make the hike down. We were sure someone would offer us a ride back up.

The walk down was deceptively easy. Along the way we met a very sweaty family coming back up. The father and one of his daughters were scampering up ahead while the mother and another daughter lagged miserably behind.

When we reached the valley floor, we walked to Hi'lawe Falls, which I believe at 1200 feet is the highest freestanding waterfall in Hawaii. We then headed back towards the ocean, past a handful of houses. My trusty guidebook (which I stupidly carried down there) said that now only 50-60 people live down. A tsunami in 1946 destroyed the village, but not the people, who had evacuated. We noticed a "stone wall" made of the remnants of an old car and abandoned boats littering the yards. The valley floor was filled with small taro and lotus ponds; it was very much like the park in Northfield that always floods (sans the taro and lotus). The land was picturesque, but the residents made it very clear that they didn't like trespassers, so we kept to ourselves.

We followed a muddy road to the beach. Two men were surfing, and two older people were attempting to ford Waipi'o Stream, which splits the beach. Another two people were in the middle of a photo shoot, with a bikini-clad girl and all! We watched the crashing waves and the two hikers fall into the stream before we turned back to meet our fate.

I was disappointed about two things: the lack of mythical horses and the mythical kindly jeep drivers. I knew wild horses would have made the journey worthwhile. We saw waterfalls, taro ponds, and wild pineapples, but I couldn't really say that trip was really worth the effort. We kept joking that we could ride one of the mythical horses back up the road, but we hadn't even seen one, which kind of stunk for all the physical exertion we were about to go through. I saw horseshit everywhere, but no horses. On our way down, we also hadn't seen one car stop to help any of the pathetic walkers. We knew no horse nor man would help us. We were on our own.

And then Matt stopped walking and whispered, "Court." Just like the moose in Newfoundland, two horses climbed down from the valley wall. One froze in front of us, and the other chomped nonchalantly on leaves. Not sure what to do, I snapped a few pictures and slowly walked by the still horse. The horse, like a scared Hideki with his backpack on, stayed frozen in place.

And, so, we reached the base of the Waipi'o Valley Road, satisfied and ready. We climbed in 100 step chunks to pace ourselves and keep count. Half-way up, as we sat on a rock to catch our breath and swig our water, a Waipi'o local man stopped his pick-up to let his hitchhiker pause to take in the view. He told us that the road was the steepest paved county road in the United States. His passenger, most likely stoned, upon hearing I was from Minnesota, lunged forward to give me a big hug. He had reason to be happy; he had found the mythical ride. Too bad for him that it was in wrong direction.

About 1880 steps later, drenched in sweat, we made it back to the overlook. And then we ate a bag of chips.

A Hostel After All These Years, Hilo, Hawaii

Overwhelmed by the cost and pomp of the hotels we were checking out on-line, Matt and I booked a couple nights of our stay in Hawaii at the Hilo Bay Hostel in Hilo on the Big Island. The price was right (1/3 of our hotel costs everywhere else for a private room), and we wanted a change from the big chain hotels anyway.

Right off the bat, we both liked the place. There was a wide, open entrance that led up a staircase to a gathering space. Surfboards decorated the ceiling, and birds chirped a cheery welcome. A young mother made dinner with her toddler in the kitchen, and a young girl sat at the common table journaling, reminding me of me once upon a time. Our host reminded me of one of my student's parents, and I immediately liked him, too.

It only took one minute inside our room to untint my rosy memories of hostels past. The windows were without screens and locks, and my pillow was lined with plastic. We had only flat sheets and tired, thinned bedspreads. A box fan sat on the floor next to a white wicker chair. We were a far cry from the Hawaiian Hilton Village.

And, yet, that night, I slept just fine. And the next morning, with the hostel quiet and the parakeets still under cover, the only movement was the young mother back in the kitchen with her son. Happily, I walked down the hill for coffee from Hilo Sharkey's and to check out the surfers braving the cool, wet morning. Within an hour, I was back at the hostel, journaling happily in the common area.

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!