Ultra Fine Flair

One Week

2012-02-10T03:11:00.000-03:00

I still haven't figured out how to tell people.

"Last Friday we had to make the decision," or, "We took her to the vet, and it was time."

We had to put her to sleep.

We lost her.

She died.

She's gone.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted a cat. My mom didn't like the hair, so we had poodles instead - but I coveted creatures of the feline persuasion. I collected All Things Cat: stuffed, ceramic, sticky - anything I could get my hands on. Finally, in 1997, having recently graduated and started my first Real Job, I decided it was time to adopt a kitty. My then-boyfriend Greg had friends outside Ottawa (where we lived at the time) whose cat had recently had kittens, and he arranged for me to have one. I didn't care if I got male or female - I just wanted the orange one.   On the eve of Mother's Day at around 8 p.m., I drove out to the McDonald's on Carling Ave. to meet a man with a cardboard box in the trunk of his car containing a tiny orange kitten who fit in the palm of my hand. She came with a can of cat food and a note telling me that her birthday was April 1 and that they'd been calling her "Morris." As we'd recently visited Graceland, Greg & I decided on the name Memphis.

She was also known at various times as Mempher, Memipher, Memiflower, Memphy, Furball, The Furb, FOP (Furry Orange Pussy), Orangey (her bad-cat alter ego), Beast, Beastie, La Beast, Little Girl, Punk, Punker, Monster, Adventure Kitty (when she discovered our fenceless backyard in Brooklyn), as well as myriad variations on "Kitty LaRoux" (see: Purry LaRoux, Pesky LaRoux, and, in the later stages of her abdominal cancer, Lumpy LaRoux). She was deemed the "Softest Cat in the World" on more than one occasion.

When I first brought her home, no more than a tuft of a kitty, she tried to nurse from the inside of my elbow. She traveled with me back and forth from Ottawa to Waterloo, usually sleeping in her litter box for most of the drive. When we moved to California, she ate the pansies I planted on the deck. On one visit to Waterloo, I found her on Sunny's kitchen floor, rolling around hedonistically in a bundle of catnip that had been drying on the back of a chair.

Memphis co-opted many a lap of unsuspecting guests. She woke me at ridiculous hours. She once left a dead mouse in Ken's shoe. She was even Pet of the Week.

For the past year or so, Memphis greeted me almost every single time I walked through the front door. Ken said she'd even go downstairs when she heard my voice outside, and on more than one occasion reported that she waited on the stairs at about the time I'd get home from work. Even if she was ensconced on his lap, as soon as my hand touched the door knob, she came.

Since she's gone, there are physical gaps, like the spot where we used to keep a glass of water for her on the coffee table, and the nook in the kitchen where we kept her food bowl. I have weird brain gaps, like when I think about cleaning the litter or opening the curtain so she'll have that afternoon patch of sun. And then there are emotional gaps: Holding her, petting her, and talking to her were as much a part of my life as waking up in the morning, and oh-so-very happy-making. Having her curled up on my lap was massively comforting.

I loved her madly, and I miss her so, so much.

The Most Wonderful Time

2011-12-22T22:30:00.000-03:00

Our furry friend Memphis, a mainstay here on Ultra Fine Flair, hadn't been feeling well, but I should have known something really wasn't right when I opened her bag in the exam room at the vet and she didn't hiss or growl or swipe at the vet (or me). This is a cat who had a "Caution" sticker on her chart at our vet in Brooklyn, and who generally required two vet techs with a towel and a pair of chainmail gloves to just listen to her heartbeat. This time, she placidly let the vet examine her eyes, teeth, and even take her temperature the, uh, old-fashioned way.

I really wish I could say that everything looked fine; that it was probably just a flair-up of her pancreatitis or her aversion to a recent stay with a couple of apricot poodles that was causing her to feel so down.

The sad news is, an x-ray later that afternoon showed a mass in her abdomen that is probably cancer.

At the ripe old age of 14, there isn't much we can do for this sweet girl, except love her to bits - a project that's well under way. With Christmas just a few days away and my preparations woefully behind, I still come home every day to this furry beast and feel madly grateful that she has been with me through thick and thin, for almost 15 years. And also, that she still promptly shows up at the door whenever I come home.

I'm also much more patient with the two - or three - nighttime requests for food.

Wild Wild West

2011-10-12T20:59:00.000-03:00

A certain 80-year-old is in Alberta this week to join her nursing school classmates for their 55th-year reunion.

As KG was a huge hit at Sunny's birthday party in May, he's been invited to play backup to her lead guitar and vocals at Friday night's sing-along. (Between you and me, I think some of the ladies are also looking for another opportunity to touch his hair.)

We arrived in Edmonton last night, and tomorrow morning we'll pile ourselves and various guitars and cameras into classmate Barb's SUV and drive to Canmore, where two dozen or so graduates of the University of Alberta's School of Nursing's Class of '56 will gather to reminisce.

And with a subject this photogenic, obviously I will be taking lots of pictures.

Bushels

2011-08-29T20:09:00.006-03:00

Somehow, I blinked and missed August.

It's solidly a summer month, and yet, yet, all of my summer fun ended before August even began.

California, Italy, and Chicago, came and went. Swimming and dogs and ice cream were all jammed into June and July, and by the time August rolled around, I was securing x-rays and buying crutches and making sure our stairs had the requisite railings. And with a mere few hours in the hospital I was fully committed to a season (or two) of braces and rehabilitation. There's no Ctrl+Z in real life.

And so, here we are, not even September and already my tan is fading. It was a good summer, if abbreviated. (Let's not forget that there are technically still three whole weeks left, even if Labour Day is always and forever the seasonal demarcation in my mind.)

Late summer is lovely in these parts for its abundance of harvest. This year, being in the know, we easily secured a half-bushel of crab apples (the good ones, in case you were wondering). Whilst at the market we couldn't pass up the peaches, green beans, and red peppers, all of which are currently available at ridiculously low prices. We brought all of these things home and then marveled: What to do with them?

Sunday Supper this week involved a tomato and red pepper tart, curried green beans, and a peach-blueberry cobbler. And that barely made a dent. With an overstuffed fridge, alternate preservation was obviously in order, so we fired up the grill to roast some peppers, Abel-style.

Abel is a porteño, and one of our first and best friends from Buenos Aires. When we had asados, or bbqs, with him, he made red peppers this way - grilled until charred, seeded, then layered, while still warm, with garlic, salt, and olive oil in a sealable jar. We added red pepper flakes, too, which might make up for our use of the gas grill instead of charcoal. The real secret of these peppers is to seal the jars, then turn them a few times a day for a couple of days. The peppers will be delicious wherever you'd use roasted red peppers (sandwiches, salads, pasta), and the oil will be some of the most flavorful you've had.

Best of all, they'll extend summer for a little while.

One year, nine posts

2011-08-22T22:03:00.007-03:00

We've been in Canada for exactly one year, 28 days.

I've posted on Ultra Fine Flair exactly nine times (10, if you include this post) since we landed.

It isn't exactly that lots hasn't been going on - au contraire. Sure, there's been domestication, including the rental of a humble abode with a driveway and a backyard and a washer/dryer in the basement. But there have also been travels to New York, Amsterdam, Paris, California, Italy, and Chicago.

There were celebrations with friends, and two babies were born!

We celebrated a certain someone's 80th birthday with a weekend of parties. I could barely keep up with her.

I ate the best meal of my life, with one of my best friends. (I didn't take any photos of the food. I'm not exaggerating when I say that interrupting that meal to take pictures would have been akin to pausing during a series of multiple orgasms (18, to be exact), to take pictures.)

Some not-so-great stuff happened, too. My favourite cousin was diagnosed with breast cancer. She's totally prevailing, because that's how she rolls, but it's still the suck. And other things have happened, life things that aren't mine to write about. Suffice to say I'm blessed to be surrounded by some really strong human beings who are getting through some tough stuff.

Which brings us, as it often does, back to my knees. My third ACL reconstruction (second in the left knee) was two weeks ago, and was, according to Dr. Chris, successful. I'm taking it easy with this one, doctor's orders, and will hopefully be back in the figurative and literal saddle (bike, that is) come spring.

All that in a year and 28 days, and still, only nine posts. Hopefully I can improve that count in the next year and 28 days.

And The Livin' Is Easy

2011-06-24T19:53:00.005-03:00

I recently went on a yoga retreat in California. Yes, that is as wonderful and outrageous as it sounds. In the morning after the fog burned off, there was a view of Santa Barbara and the Pacific Ocean. There were dogs and kids and a hot tub on a cliff. There was fresh goat cheese, and there were spectacular sunsets. There were upwards of five hours of yoga each day, taught energetically and lovingly by one Miss Kerri Kelly. There was a class with a dance party (featuring Lady Gaga, natch), and a class in a field around a nectarine tree. There was a class with a soundtrack of classic love songs, and 25+ spry yogis decked out in their Lulus enthusiastically singing along.

Unfortunately, there was also a trampoline. Scratch that: Unfortunately I decided to jump on the trampoline, and even more unfortunately, I landed on the off-bounce and tore the ACL graft I had repaired just last year. Wah wah.

But before we start wallowing about that, let's talk about the food. The yoga retreat was about detoxing, but that didn't stop us from enjoying homemade pear ravioli. Or wine-tasting in Los Olivos. No retox is complete without a stop at In-N-Out Burger for a cheeseburger, animal-style, and a superthick chocolate shake. Similarly, no California trip is complete without fresh salads (liberally sprinkled with bacon, of course) and sushi and a cocktail made with sake and watermelon and cucumbers and sweetly named the "Hello Kitty."

As for my knee, well, it looks like it'll be another summer of rehab fun. Thank god for wine and percocet.

The Break-Up

2011-03-06T13:55:00.004-03:00

Dear Winter,

I don't know how to put this delicately, so I'm just going to come out and say it: I need to start seeing other seasons. I know, when we saw each other back in November after almost two years apart, I'll admit that after a few weeks together, I was smitten. As much as your fluffy white snow fell for me, I fell for you. I was infatuated with your crisp mornings and frosty branches, and I thought your insistence that I buy new boots just for you was charming. I even forgave the more challenging parts of our relationship, like the driveway-shoveling and car-window-scraping and the occasional slip on an icy sidewalk, because I felt that on some level they were good for me, that that stuff made me stronger.

But Winter, we've spent a lot of time together this year, and I really think we both need a break. What I'm trying to say is, you're getting on my nerves, and I'm starting to resent you. It all has to end: The snow, the scarves and sweaters and mittens, and even all that cuddling under cozy blankets. I know, I know, it's typical. The things about you that I found so novel at first now grate on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. That's always the way, isn't it? The other part of it is, you've been keeping me away from Spring and Summer, but it's time for me to see them again. They're good for me in ways that you can never be.

When we reunited this time we talked about it only being temporary, and frankly, you've overstayed your welcome. Please know that all of this doesn't mean we can never see each other again. I suspect it's inevitable that we'll spend more time together in the future; after all, we always rebound after Fall seduces me with her pretty leaves and then leaves me out in the cold.

Warm regards,
Gillian

Scenes from a Brunch: Get Fresh

2010-12-29T16:44:00.004-03:00

We visited New York twice in December and, apocalyptic snowstorm notwithstanding, I could get used to frequent weekend jaunts to the Big Apple, especially for the eats. When we were there a few weeks ago, we rallied a bunch of Brooklyn friends for brunch - not really that difficult, considering all of the delicious options. On Bri's recommendation we settled on Get Fresh, which was particularly handy as a) Bri lives just a couple of blocks from the restaurant, b) I was sleeping in her spare room, and c) I was oh-so-slightly hungover. Coffee and eggs in close proximity were critical, and Get Fresh did not disappoint.

I ate huevos rancheros, which I cannot resist ordering when I see them on a menu. They were simple and delicious, and I was reminded that I should really make them more often at home. I also managed to sample the Louisiana crab cakes, steak and eggs, and french toast, and all satisfied. Get Fresh is a lovely space with covetable solid wooden farm tables, and overflowing with equally-covetable cookbooks. They graciously seated our group of 8, or maybe 10 (we lost count), including babies and toddlers and their various accoutrements, and kept the coffee flowing. An afternoon of manicures and pre-Christmas shopping in Park Slope made me extra-miss living in Brooklyn, and reminded me that it sure is handy to have a boyfriend whose family lives in a place you love.

Benjamin Eitan Farkash

2010-10-31T23:23:00.004-03:00

I'd like you to meet Benjamin.

Benjamin's mom, D, is one of my besties, and she and Benjamin's dad asked me to be with them while he was born. They even asked me to cut his umbilical cord, which is pretty much the highest of all honours. Benjamin arrived, amid much laughter and general merriment, on Friday night, which meant I didn't even have to miss work to meet him. How considerate!

I expect we'll be seeing a lot more of him around here (and here, too). And if I may, I highly recommend holding a newborn baby as many times in your life as you can. It's breathtaking.

The Amazing Race Part Deux: Roneni

2010-10-29T18:35:00.003-03:00

Remember waaay back when, in April of 2007, when I abandoned all sense of reason and hopped on a plane from New York to Toronto, and then defied all speed limits on the 401 to arrive in Kitchener just in time for a certain very sweet boy's birth?

Well, it's time again for an Amazing Race to welcome a new baby - this one will just involve a bus (and probably some running) to get to Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto, where my lovely friend Sparkly D is labouring with her first child - a boy! - as I write this.

I can't wait to meet the little guy.

The (Crab) Apple Saga, Part 2: I Think I Can, I Think I Can

2010-08-31T00:29:00.007-03:00

Alternative titles for this post: "We Can Do It," "Yes We Can," and "I Think, Therefore I Can."

Apologies, Dear Reader, for the delay in continuing this tale of love, lust, and the quest for rare and exotic fruits. We took a day off today and went to the beach. Can you blame us? Yesterday at 4 p.m. the thermometer hit 37°C (99°F). Lake Huron beckoned, and did not disappoint.

Anyway, when we last left the story, our misidentified fruit had been cast aside and the search for Genuine! The Real Thing! Do Not Be Fooled By Cheap Imitation! crab apples continued. Our Lady Friends went back to the (obviously blind and probably also stupid, I mean, duh, who doesn't know what a crab apple looks like?!?) Mennonites to berate them for their ignorance regarding crab apple identification. After more driving around K-Dubs we hit paydirt in St. Jacob's in the form of a vendor who said she'd bring us a bushel of crab apples on the next market day. Sure enough, she did, and I toted that sack of crab apples across the parking lot so I could deliver it back to the Ladies for their jelly-making endeavours.

In the unlikely case that you should ever need to identify crab apples, here is what one of the (two, I think) varieties looks like:

[Pause for discussion. Discussion point #1: Crab apples are heavy. They're about the size of cherries, only much harder and denser, and I can only assume heavier (although, full disclosure, I've never carried a bushel of cherries anywhere). Discussion point #2: As far as I can tell, the only use for crab apples is to make crab apple jelly, which is why most of people with crab apple trees in their yards just let the fruit fall and rot, because it turns out making crab apple jelly is extremely time-consuming and, depending on who you talk to, a giant pain in the ass.]

And finally, what became of our rejected non-crab apple apples? I'm glad you asked: I made good on my promise to turn lemons into lemonade, or in this case, to turn unwanted apples into applesauce.

I mean, how could I not? The total cost to me was $7 for a new peeler (I got blisters anyway - that was a lot of apples) and $2 for a box of jars at a garage sale. That's $9 for 15 jars (some huge!) of unsweetened applesauce. Let's not talk about how much applesauce costs at the grocery store, please, because I'm pretty sure it's going to mean my time is worth about $2/hr.

The (Crab) Apple Saga, Part 1: A Drive in the Country

2010-08-26T00:15:00.013-03:00

It all started last Thursday when I somehow got roped into driving into the country to a Mennonite farm (past Conestogo, for those of you familiar with Waterloo's surrounding areas) to pick up a bushel (or a half-bushel? I don't know, but it was a lot) of crab apples for a couple of my favourite ladies, one of whom (Lady #1) came along for the ride. The drive, it should be mentioned, involved several additional stops at other Mennonite produce stands and the like, and then a detour through St. Jacob's to Heidelberg, just to "see if they have Concord grapes." I briefly wondered whether a phone call might be more efficient than a 15-minute detour to suss out such information, but decided to let that one go.

Anyway, an hour later, we arrived home with heaps of fruity goodness. I carted it all down to the basement to await its canning fate, when Lady #2 (the older and ornerier of the pair) came down to inspect the goods. She picked a crab apple out of one of the (three full) bags and looked at it. Critically.

"These are not crab apples."

"Oh, hm, OK. Do you want me to take them back or something?"

(Tossing the apple back into the bag in disgust.) "These are not crab apples."

"OK, well, all of this only cost $7, so maybe we could do something else with them, and get crab apples somewhere else?"

(Shaking head.) "These are not crab apples." (Mumbling in disgust.) "How could a Mennonite farmer not know what a crab apple is?"

At this point, Gentle Reader, the euphoric effects of my recent country drive had worn off, and not only was I faced with an abundance of rejected non-crab apple apples, I was late for my lunch date. So I did what any over-committing person in my position would have done: I vowed to take the lemons (read: non-crab apple apples) that life (read: an ignorant Mennonite farmer) had handed us, and make lemonade (read: applesauce).

Stay tuned for The (Crab) Apple Saga, Part 2, in which our protagonist visits at least two farmers' markets in search of the elusive produce, and turns rejected fruit into your Christmas present.

Little Red, Juliette Lewis, and Round Sprinkles

2010-08-12T15:25:00.009-03:00

The big news this week is that our car, which will henceforth be known as Little Red, is road-worthy! Little Red is the most basic of basic cars: a 2005 Toyota Echo two-door hatchback, standard transmission, no AC or power anything. She's very clean and very shiny, and so far her only noteworthy problem is that the passenger window doesn't roll down all the way.

Next up: Quiz time! What do Juliette Lewis and I have in common? Answer: Our birthdays are both June 21, and we have both banged (or wanted to bang) Brad Pitt. And, we were both at the Starlight Social Club last Monday night. I'll leave determining which one of us was wearing a leopard-print catsuit as an exercise for the reader.

And finally, please let us talk about round, or ball, sprinkles. I LOVE THEM. They are just so superior to their stick-shaped cousins. A little bit of sprinkle trivia, for the curious amongst us: Round sprinkles are called non-pareils, and stick sprinkles are called Jimmies. I want to love the Jimmies just for their name, but the round ones are so satisfyingly pretty and crunchy. And they're everywhere in Canada, including on Tim Horton's vanilla-dipped rainbow-sprinkle doughnuts, and mixed into President's Choice Sprinkle Party Cake ice cream. Delish.

Probably a Huge Improvement

2010-08-05T11:44:00.008-03:00

We arrived in Waterloo last Monday to welcoming toddlers and seniors and deliciously hot and sticky summer weather. During our first week as Canadian residents we had two job interviews, bought a car, baked a wedding cake, and drove six hours to Ottawa (and eight hours back; see also: scenic route). We've eaten Ontario's best summer produce: insanely juicy peaches, tiny, bursty wild blueberries, and the sweetest of sweet corns (from Herrles, natch). Ken has already been recruited by a frisbee team, and we've both started swimming lessons at a nearby community centre.

Of course, we're still adjusting. Even though the days are technically longer here, we'd grown quite accustomed to the long nights in Buenos Aires. Canadians are certainly friendly, but they don't gesture (or curse) nearly as frequently or enthusiastically as their Argentine counterparts. We love being back in the land of cheap and plentiful maple syrup, but dulce de leche is a little more scarce in these parts. And we're still finding and gathering our people, and missing our most-excellent friends in Argentina.

Last night we had Canadian-Chinese takeout (yes, that is a thing), and my fortune read, "Today is probably a huge improvement over yesterday." I'm not sure that's true yet, but we'll get there. Probably.

Mundial 2010

2010-07-12T19:52:00.008-03:00

When we were booking our flights back to Canada, yes, those ones, the ones where we move to Canada, to live, we had a few factors to consider in choosing our return date. Ken wanted to finish his frisbee season and I wanted to finish fixing my knee, and of course we wanted to maximize our consumption of cheap steak and wine.

And then there was the World Cup. Eight years ago I watched a World Cup game at 4 a.m. in a Korean BBQ restaurant in NYC. In 2006 I may have snuck out of work on occasion to watch a game (...sorry, Kate) at the local pub with a few other truant souls. But nothing can compare to the experience we've had here in Argentina in the past month.

During Argentina's games, the streets were empty. Every time the team scored, we muted our TV and opened the windows to hear whoops of joy (and the occasional vuvuzela) from our enthusiastic neighbours. We watched games with friends, in bars, in parks, and sometimes in our pajamas in bed. We smiled when we saw festive white and sky blue stripes decorating every window and balcony in the city. We made pancakes and toasted the selección with Bloody Marys. And we understood completely when our porteño friend described the national team as "an illness" for Argentines.

We also rooted for the United States, and even England, and donned orange shirts for the Spain-Holland final. But we stayed in Buenos Aires to cheer for Argentina, and we caught the fever, too, the one that makes your heart beat a little faster when you see Maradona kissing his rosary on the sidelines and feel a little bit bursty when you watch Messi deftly handle the ball through half a dozen defenders. It's the fever that makes you root extra hard for Carlitos Tevez when he's barreling down the field 85 minutes into the game, with just as much energy as he'd had only 5 mintues in, and cheer a little bit louder when Palermo scores his usual goal when he's subbed in with only 15 minutes left in the game.

And no matter where we're watching in 2014, our hearts will be with the selección. Vamos Argentina!

The First Day

2010-06-21T14:59:00.003-03:00

After celebrating 34 June 21sts in the Northern Hemisphere and one drinking coconut water on a beach in Brazil, a girl gets kind of used to summery weather on her birthday. I'm quite sure this is the first time I've worn mittens to the party. It's also the first time I've had mate on my birthday, not to mention choripán, medialunas, and a conversation in Spanish, and if the tradeoff is that I have to bundle up a little, I'll take it.

Happy Solstice everyone, whether you're celebrating the first day of summer or the first day of winter. I'll be celebrating the first day of being 36. So far, so good.

Scenes From A Brunch: bBlue

2010-05-30T23:00:00.007-03:00

One of the first things I did when I arrived back in Buenos Aires was email Norma to arrange brunch. In fact, our Sunday brunch tradition is one of my new Favourite Buenos Aires Activities (tm). This morning we met at bBlue, one of about a zillion new organic-slash-brunch joints located in - you guessed it! - Palermo.

Confusingly, bBlue's weekend menu doesn't include the same breakfast fare they offer on weekdays, however, you can order toast with scrambled eggs and smoked salmon (yes, please), and a regular lunch menu of sandwiches and salads. Happily, the aforementioned scrambled eggs bruschetta and our grilled veggie salad (with goat cheese! hooray for goat cheese!) were both delicious, and bBlue's prices are quite reasonable. As an added bonus, the coffee is strong, and I do like to kick off Sunday afternoon with a strong cup of coffee.

For the record, I won't turn down a glass of Malbec, either.

Where in the World is Gillian?

2010-05-27T22:01:00.003-03:00

I know, I can't keep up, either.

Monday morning I arrived back in Buenos Aires. Despite only an hour time-difference, I blame jetlag for my tiredness since I've arrived. Strangely, it's fall here. Strangely, I lost five whole hours of daylight. FIVE HOURS. Per day! Canada may be cold, but its northernness has some benefits. Strangely, I have already shifted from waking up to the sound of toddlers (or, as I like to call them, Nature's alarm clocks) at 7 a.m., to dining at 10 p.m. and sleeping until 10 a.m.

I've been all hedgy about writing our plans and things regarding our whereabouts here, because the Internet has stalkers and predators! And also, what if someone thinks that my plans might have any validity at all? We've already discussed that. Finally, I've started to think about ways I might convince someone to give me money in exchange for goods and/or services, and I certainly don't want to deter any potential offers by mentioning that I might be moving to India next Tuesday.

My recent sojourn to Canada wasn't all babies and bacon and cakes and kitties. I also did some investigation into housing in the Waterloo region. Because, yes, we're planning* to move to Canada, and it appears that starting in September, we'll be renting an entire house. With a driveway and an upstairs and a downstairs and a backyard and even a front yard. And laundry. And, get this, a deep freeze, which means that we can play Communist Russia and stock up on meat every time it goes on sale at Zehrs.

To further aid in our transition to suburbia, I signed up to collect points at Shopper's Drug Mart and Petro-Canada. Apparently suburbanites love to collect points, and stores love to reward loyal shoppers with points. City people always say that life in the suburbs is boring, but that sounds just like a video game to me!

All this is to say, if I missed you while I was in Southern Ontario, I'll make it up to you with a backyard barbeque in September. You guys in NY are invited, too. If everything goes according to plan, we'll have plenty of room for guests.

*The usual caveats apply.

P.S. I'm not moving to India next Tuesday. Probably.

Happy Mother's Day!

2010-05-09T10:51:00.004-03:00

7 Days to Domesticity

2010-05-06T00:33:00.008-03:00

I arrived in Waterloo last week and took up residence in my BFF's basement. I wake up daily at 7 a.m. to the sound of kids having breakfast (unfortunately, toddlers don't come with snooze buttons). I drive around the 'burbs in a station wagon with child safety seats in the back, and at lunchtime I let the dog out in the yard. I unload the dishwasher. I know who Fireman Sam is.

To think, a few months ago I thought Bolivia was surreal.

I also thought that climbing mountains was exhausting, but even hiking to 4600m is nothing compared to preparing for (and attending) a 1- and 3-year-olds' birthday party.

I was pretty sure that Salvador de Bahía, Brazil, was the happiest place in the world, but that was before I attended a toddler music class. Pure joy, people. Pure joy.

And I didn't know anything could compare to the natural beauty of glaciers and penguins at the end of the world, but Springtime in Southwestern Ontario might just be in the running.

Scenes From A Brunch: Oui Oui

2010-04-19T16:08:00.000-03:00

I think I could get used to summer in January, and even winter in July.

But I can't quite wrap my head around fall in April. While all of you in the Northern Hemisphere are breaking out your skipping ropes and sandals, down here we're putting away our summer dresses and digging out sweaters and jackets. While you're finding early-season berries at the farmer's market, we're thinking about root vegetables and hearty stews.

And while you're watching the whole world blossom, we're watching the leaves fall.

Last week it rained steadily for three days, and I don't think the temperature went much above 15°C. But on the weekend there was plenty of sunshine, and at one point on Sunday the thermometer read 27°C. Maybe I could get used to this kind of fall weather, especially when there's Sunday brunch involved - this week at Oui Oui in Palermo Hollywood.

Are you sensing a trend here? On Sunday afternoons, Palermo Hollywood is the neighbourhood in Buenos Aires to find a Sunday brunch worthy of New York's Upper West Side. And in the case of Oui Oui, by 2 p.m. there's also a queue of hungry locals and visitors - just like you'd find Sunday mornings at any brunch spot on Amsterdam Ave.

While I'm not sure that I'd stand in line for Oui Oui's eggs or bread, their Bloody Mary is worth waiting for. And the potatoes are more delicious than I'd imagined breakfast potatoes could be.

After brunch there were cupcakes, across the tracks at Muma's Cupcakes in Palermo Soho. We sampled La Muma, a yellow cupcake piled high with too-sweet-to-finish passion fruit frosting but charmingly decorated with red fondant stars. At a spendy AR$9 (around $2.35) per cupcake I won't be picking up a dozen anytime soon, but that won't stop me from window shopping--I suspect these beauties would cheer up even the dreariest of fall days.

DJ G-Money

2010-04-17T01:55:00.006-03:00

Our recent spate of visitors means I have come into possession of something more valuable and rare in Buenos Aires than maple syrup, almond butter, and flared jeans: English magazines. (Aside: Skinny jeans were not designed to flatter my body, and harem pants were not designed to flatter anyone's body. At least throw me a boot cut, Buenos Aires! First stop when I get to Canada: the Gap--via Tim Horton's, natch.)

Having English magazines has given me the chance to stop reading celebrity gossip online and instead read a slightly outdated version on paper! What can I say, I like kickin' it old school sometimes. All of this is a very long and convoluted way of telling you that I was reading something about Gwyneth Paltrow and was reminded of her lifestyle (?) website, Goop. I perused, as I'm apt to do, and found lists of party jams, each a playlist of 10 songs recommended by some celebrity or DJ or celebrity DJ.

It should be noted that every time we have a party, Ken is tasked with creating the playlist. The only way I learn about new music is at the gym, which worked in NY where my gym actually had a DJ on Tuesday nights. In Buenos Aires, however, you're most likely to be leave your workout humming "Tarzan Boy" or some phat reggaeton beats. At right: Even I'm not sure that was ever cool, Baltimora.

Much to the surprise of the love of my life, I took an interest in these playlists, and have been downloading them in bits and pieces. (When I described to Ken what I was doing, he said it was akin to me looking up the best clubs in Buenos Aires, which, I can assure you, is not going to happen, unless I'm on the losing end of a very expensive wager). I have now compiled the playlists suggested by Samantha Ronson and DJ AM, I'm halfway into Guy Oseary's 80s playlist, and guys, they all make me want to get down, earnestly and enthusiastically.

In the process of finding these songs I have learned the names of songs I previously liked but couldn't pick out of a lineup, not to mention the value of a good remix. I even feel like my iTunes is slightly less embarrassing.

All of this isn't to say there isn't still a lot of White Girl Music in my repertoire, but after this little exercise, at our next party I may be to thank for more than just the cupcakes.

Scenes From A Brunch: Tartine

2010-04-12T10:04:00.002-03:00

Yesterday, Norma and I resumed our weekly brunching with a visit to Tartine Crêpes & Bakery.

Do you like Sunday brunch as much as I do? Do you like to rub the sleep out of your eyes around noon and tie your hair into a ponytail before venturing out to find a steamy cafe con leche and a plate of eggs, maybe scrambled, with bacon? How about a basket of toasted homemade bread and a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice? Still hungry? Try this pain au chocolate, you won't be disappointed. And oh yes, I'd love a glass of rosé, thank you so much.

Oh, I couldn't eat another bite. But that fruit salad does look delicious. Yogurt with homemade granola? OK, I'll try some. And maybe just a small plate of greens with flax seeds and sun-dried tomatoes, and did you see the cheese plate?

This, friends, is my ideal Sunday brunch, and Tartine delivers, better than anywhere else I've tried in Buenos Aires. It's a friendly, airy space on a quiet corner in Palermo Hollywood, and if you're anything like us, you might not even notice that more than two hours have passed before you think about ordering la cuenta.

The best part? Tartine's Sunday Brunch costs a mere 55 pesos per person (that's less than $15), including that glass of rosé.

The Best Laid Plans

2010-04-11T14:09:00.005-03:00

As my very wise yoga teacher used to say, planning is priceless, but plans are useless.

Last March, we planned to live in Buenos Aires for a year.

Then in September we whittled our possessions down to fit (snugly) in two backpacks, and set off for six months of buses and bunk beds.

In January, Fate had other plans for us, and a certain knee injury and its subsequent rehabilitation suggested that we make Buenos Aires our home for a few more months. Ken joined an Ultimate Frisbee team, and was invited to play on another one that might go to Prague in July. And he found work, or rather, work found him, and he's spending around 25 hours per week writing iPhone software. (I spend about that many hours per week playing Scrabble on my iPhone, which unfortunately doesn't pay nearly as well.)

We've talked about extending our stay here indefinitely, but it turns out I can't wait quite that long to see my family (when did I turn into such a softie? Stupid 30s), so on April 27 I'm flying to Canada to bake birthday cakes and wedding cakes and to smother a certain feline with very large amounts of affection.

I booked my (one-way!) ticket last week, and when I clicked the final Purchase button, I teared up: It hit me that this is the first time in what seems like forever that I'll be traveling alone, and I have to tell you, after a year of mostly being within arms' length of someone, you kind of get used to him being around, especially when you like him oh-so-much.

So that's what's going on around here. Ken will stay in BA while I'm gone, and we'll reunite in some hemisphere or other in late May. At this point it seems pointless to make plans that far in advance.

North America Visits, Volume 2: Leslie & John

2010-04-10T12:52:00.008-03:00

Last night we bid farewell to our New York visitors. Leslie and John were our neighbours in Brooklyn, and I was over at their apartment so much that one day my mom asked me if I'd moved in. They arrived in Buenos Aires on Easter Sunday and we kicked six days of carnivorism to be reckoned with. There were four, count 'em, four, visits to Desnivel, during which we consumed approximately eight bifes de lomo, two provoletas, half a dozen empanadas, a chorizo, a panqueque con dulce de leche, and several litres of both Quilmes and Malbec.

Having guests gave us the impetus to do touristy things that even after a year of living here we hadn't done, like walk around the famous and very colourful Caminito in La Boca.

We did other stuff, too, like visit Evita's grave in the Recoleta Cemetary and cheer for River Plate in their home game against Newell's Old Boys (Best. Team name. Ever.). We ate at a new (to us) puerta cerrada restaurant. We shopped for leather goods: Leslie scored in the purse department, and all week I have been enjoying erotic dreams involving these shoes, which are probably meant to be purchased by people who are gainfully employed but I might have to make an exception, because seriously, look at them.

But I digress. Even with all the action and delicious, delicious meat, the best parts of the week were the times when we sat around debating hot topics like Facebook and Lady Gaga and babies and life. We're lucky to know these guys. And yes, maybe we're a little bit glad they're not vegetarian.

One Year and Sixteen Days

2010-04-03T23:00:00.009-03:00

On March 19, 2009, we moved to Buenos Aires. I've already told you about all my favourite Buenos Aires activities, and the list is mostly the same, really. Ken might add playing Ultimate Frisbee to the list (he's now on two different teams and ~~parties~~ practices with them half a dozen times a week) and I might sing the praises of physical therapy (but that's maybe just because it's my current hobby). Leaving is still not among our favourite things to do here, which is probably why we've drawn our stay out beyond the planned year, and still aren't exactly sure when we're returning to North America.

Fortunately, North America is coming to us! Our first guest was my cousin, Katherine, who came from Ottawa for two weeks. She brought a few treats from the Great White North.

For a girl with no sisters, I have a lot of sisters in the world, and Kath is one of them. She's funny, smart, and pretty! Maybe the best thing about Katherine? She always wants to order dessert.

And tomorrow morning when we wake up, the Easter Bunny will bring us even more treats: Our friends and Brooklyn-neighbours Leslie and John will be here.

Too bad I didn't save them any of those Mini Eggs.

Thursday Afternoon at the Post Office

2010-03-18T18:37:00.007-03:00

If you're in Buenos Aires for any length of time, you might have to pick up a package at the international post office. You'll hand over your claim form and your passport and pay the post office's fee for housing your package, then be sent to wait in a big room for your particular six-digit number to be called, in Spanish, of course, over a loudspeaker that is not unlike the PA system in most NYC-subway cars. In other words, unintelligible.

And when you do find yourself in this particular predicament, here's a tip: Wait for a few rounds of numbers to be called, then go to the counter and explain in your bestest Spanish that you couldn't understand the numbers (note: this will not be a lie). The very nice post office employee will probably ask you where you're from, tell you that you speak Spanish well, and say something else that you might not understand. Then he'll call specially for your package.

As you walk out of the post office, package in hand, you'll be filled with pride that you have accomplished this daunting task, and you might feel a bit like a kid on Christmas morning. You may even be tempted to open that package while you're walking to the bus stop. (It's OK. I did.) If you're lucky, it will contain some food item or other that's hard to find here in Argentina. (Last year I retrieved from the post office more chocolate chips than should ever be in my possession at the same time.)

And if you're really, super lucky, that package will be full of surprises that will make you smile for the rest of the day.

Thanks, Mersal!

Scenes From A Brunch: Ølsen (And Other Miscellany)

2010-03-17T17:45:00.013-03:00

On Sunday, Norma and I went to Ølsen in Palermo Hollywood. The grilled veggies were especially tasty, but sadly, the Bloody Mary wasn't quite as good as its counterpart at Home Hotel--I like my breakfast-vodka nice and spicy. The company was excellent, as always.

The brunch soundtrack at Ølsen was Lady Gaga. It may come as a surprise to some of you that until very recently I hadn't listened to any Lady Gaga. I'm not sure why, exactly, considering my musical tastes.*

After all, this: isn't exactly a far cry from these:

Anyway, I'm now planning a Lady Gaga dance party with LFar, natch, in our underwear. And I'm going to teach this boy all the words to "Boys Boys Boys".

In other news, last week we had dinner with some friends and mentioned to them that we'd never tried chocotorta, a kind of ice-box cake that's practically the national dessert of Argentina. A week later one of them made us our very own chocotorta and I have not been able to keep my face out of it since it arrived. It kind of tastes like a McCain chocolate cake (the dessert of my childhood), only better, because it's made with dulce de leche.

Also, there WILL be Deep 'n Delicious at the Lady Gaga Underwear Dance Party.

* At one point not long after Ken and I started dating, I started to apologize for subjecting him to so much white-girl music, then stopped myself, because, hey, I AM a white girl. "It's true," he replied, "it's not false advertising."

P.S. HI LEE AND JEN! If you're not Lee and Jen, allow me to explain: Lee(roy) was my roommate for five gloriously formative months, back when I was oh-so-young and impressionable. He's the coolest, for reals, with the only possible exception being his grrlfriend, Jen. I'd been thinking about these guys a lot lately, and then they leave a comment right here on Ultra Fine Flair! Strange, only not really, because this is how the Universe gets things done.

Scenes From A Brunch: Mercado Amenabar

2010-03-10T11:20:00.003-03:00

Breakfast in Argentina is traditionally coffee and a pastry - café con leche y medialunas, anyone? - and after living and traveling abroad for almost a year (!), a pile of bacon and eggs and various baked goods slathered in maple syrup is among the things I miss the most, not to mention the rejeuvenating effect of a bottomless cup of coffee.

A recent article in Oh La Lá! magazine highlighted a few of the brunch options in Buenos Aires, and I started making dates to satisfy my Sunday-morning cravings. We started at Home Hotel, a boutique hotel in Palermo Hollywood where the huevos rancheros left us wanting more. I could easily have whiled away the afternoon sipping their very satisfying Bloody Marys poolside.

This past weekend marked a trip with a good friend to Mercado Amenabar, also in Palermo Hollywood. We shared scrambled eggs with toast and bacon, a proscuitto and Brie sandwich, and enough ideas and inspiration to last us at least until next Sunday's brunch date.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2010-02-14T19:09:00.004-03:00

Sprink Pinkles, originally uploaded by Kitty LaRoux.

I don't care if Hallmark did invent this holiday to sell more cards. I hope Valentine's Day is just one of many this year that are filled with chocolate, kisses, and pink sprinkles.

I love you guys.

Is That An Exclamation Point In Your Pocket?

2010-01-31T18:00:00.006-03:00

Preface: Upon our departure from Waterloo last Fall, I left my trusty MacBook in the capable hands of my best friend's husband, Gregoire. Since the recent series of unfortunate events dictated that we would no longer be roaming the wilds of South America for the next three months and would instead be safely ensconced in some apartment or other in Buenos Aires, I decided I would be able to use my computer after all, and asked my mom to bring it with her to Argentina. I emailed Gregoire to tell him the news, and the following is his response.

To: Gillian
From: Gregoire
Subject: Confession

Gillian, how are you? How are things? Good. Good. Say, I've got something for you to consider. Take a moment and ask yourself, honestly, how attached are you to the numbers 1 and 2 (and while considering this, throw in the ! and @ signs also for consideration)?

When you take the time to really think about it, aren't these some of the most overrated numerals and symbols at our disposal. Wouldn't you agree that we'd be better off without them. That difficult choices would be made easy, that life would be simpler if you no longer had to rely on these alpha-numeric crutches? Why start way back at 1 or 2 when there's the option of starting at 3. 1 and 2 are static and slow. With 3 you're warmed up and already on your way. Is there ever a need for the exclamation point? Must we raise our voices, be it in anger or joy? Are we not adults? Can we not discuss things calmly and rationally? Can we not celebrate with a certain amount of restraint? (And let's be honest, doesn't the @ symbol remind you of an asshole?)

Great. Then you'll be happy to hear that I spilt beer on your laptop and the bastardly 1 and 2 keys no longer work! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. :-(, :-(, :-(. (I've resorted to emoticons--I'm seriously sorry.)

I had planned on replacing the keyboard before your return (the rest of it is working fine) but now that your Mom is taking the computer with her there won't be time. (I called the shop here, but they don't stock replacement parts and have to order them in.) If you want to order a new keyboard from Apple, I'll send you my card #. If your macbook is like my ibook, they're easy to replace. Again, I'm sorry.

In other unrelated news, I saw the doc on Friday and everything is going to plan. I can walk (although with minimal flexion in my knee -- imagine Frankenstein had a baby with a zombie) and I've already started physiotherapy. I swear on my mother's birthday (which is Tuesday) that my next post will not be related to my orthopaedic challenges.

Like Riding A Bike

2010-01-27T11:50:00.006-03:00

Everyone's fine. My family and friends are all, to the best of my knowledge, safe and healthy. I wake up every morning beside the most gentle and kind human being I've ever met. My mom flew all the way to Buenos Aires (Richie!) to help me wash my hair and get dressed and ultimately help me preserve a tiny bit of dignity in front of the aforementioned gentle and kind human being (to whom I would still like to appear even remotely attractive). We're staying in a beautiful apartment that belongs to another kind and generous human being, and for the most part, I'm comfortable and pain-free and grateful that this is a known, temporary setback and in six months, give or take, everything will be back to normal.

And still, over the past two weeks, I have felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

At first it was just the loss of the rest of our planned travels. We were on our way to Brazil, to sit on the beach and work on a farm and travel down the Amazon River and, of course, taste myriad new and exotic fruits. But let's face it: After the experiences we've had in the past 10 months, it's hard to feel deprived of these things for very long.

There is, however, a more personal loss. Six years ago I went into surgery with a partially-torn ACL and a bucket-handle tear in the meniscus. I came out of surgery with a reconstructed ACL and a repaired meniscus, which meant that eventually, after a lot of blood, sweat, and yes, tears, in rehab, my knee was even better than it had been before the operation. Apparently so was my ambition, as within a year of surgery I completed an Olympic-distance triathlon and have since run three marathons.

Last week I went into the OR with a ruptured ACL and a bucket-handle tear in the meniscus. I was wheeled out with a reconstructed ACL, but this time the meniscus couldn't be repaired, and part of it was removed. I'm not sure how much, exactly - a third? A half? And really, people walk around all the time with no meniscus at all, so why the fuss?

I'll never run another marathon. In fact, I probably won't do much running at all. There are all sorts of medical reasons why it isn't a great idea to run, especially on pavement, after a partial meniscectomy, and I'm kind of hoping these knees will be around for a while. So there's short-term loss, like right now I can't walk or even get out of bed by myself, which sucks. But then there's the running thing, an activity with which I fell in love just a few years ago, after hating on sports for 30 years. For me, that's the real loss. As I look at the pictures taken during the 2007 NYC Marathon, one of my most favourite days of all time, I am filled with gratitude to have had that amazing experience, and at the same time, so very sad to have lost that potential.

I start physiotherapy on Friday, the exciting and sometimes gruelling rehabilitation period during which I will relearn to walk, run (slowly, and on a treadmill), balance, and climb stairs. Before I know it I'll be riding a bike (as a friend of mine says, cycling is like running with even tighter clothes and cooler gear), and of course I'm already planning my first century ride in 2011, because you know, that's how I roll.

In the meantime I'm reminding myself, as one of my best friends reminded me just the other day, that just as she had to after her ACL reconstruction, I need to "let myself grieve for the things I lost (including the potential things I lost in the future)." And OK, I'm also daydreaming about the shapeliness of my future cycling legs.

Surgery Recap

2010-01-22T12:21:00.006-03:00

Final Score

New ACL: 1
Meniscus: -1/3*

Highlights

Dr. Metallica Bourdain has great beside manner. He also smells good, which is probably more than can be said for either James Hetfield or Mr. Bourdain.

There was no dulce de leche to be had! What a travesty.

All that kissing that goes on here in Argentina? Even happens in the OR! Like, all the assistants and the anaesthesiologist greeted me with a kiss before they knocked me out.

Epidurals are where it's at.

I had surgery in a hospital run by monks! Yesterday before the operation a very adorable (and small) priest came into my room and said a little prayer. Today we saw many small and adorable nuns roaming the halls, wearing all-white habits with a big red cross on the front. Of course I was not-so-secretly hoping that they would break into song (I've only seen "The Sound of Music" about 200 times). It didn't happen, so I thought I'd get them started with a few lyrics.

Knee Surgery Songs for the Sisters of Clínica San Camila in Buenos Aires

How Do Fix a Tear in the Meniscus?
(to the tune of "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?")

How do you fix a tear in the meniscus?
How do you reconstruct an ACL?
How do you get a girl who's very active
to relax for a while
so that she can heal
and walk?

ACL
(to the tune of "Edelweiss")

ACL
ACL
You were torn so we fixed you

Made anew
With a screw
And a graft from patella

New ligament won't you stabilize
Stabilize
Forever

ACL
ACL
You were torn so we fixed you

* I am actually in possession of the removed meniscus. I know, gross! But the good doctor seemed excited to give it to us, in its little vial of fluid (grosser!). Do you think I could sell it on etsy? I mean, technically I made it, right?

Oh, Hello, Doctor

2010-01-18T22:44:00.004-03:00

I admit it: On the weekend I was having a hard time seeing anything resembling a bright side. I sort of intellectually knew one was there, but after a week and a half of not walking, not to mention the dignity one loses every time she utters the words, "Can you please help me put on my underwear?" - well, you get the idea. Anyway, on Saturday night I pulled myself together enough to go to one of the two bars in Buenos Aires showing NFL football, hoisted my leg up on an extra chair, and drank a few half-pints of beer (pacing!). At some point I started talking to an American guy sitting at the table next to us. I learned that his Argentine friend, also at the table, had had ACL reconstruction six months before, and had a surgeon he really liked. Score!

The next day I Googled said surgeon and found an email address for him. I wrote him a note explaining my situation and asking how I could best schedule an appointment with him. Amazingly, he replied that evening to tell me he could meet me at 5 p.m. on Monday. I wrote back to ask him if he speaks English, because while our mad Spanish skillz enable us to telephone-order pizza, we're not quite at the level of discussing soft tissue repair. Happily, he does.

We went to meet the good doctor this afternoon. He looks like Anthony Bourdain, and on Friday night he's going to see Metallica! I think I have a crush. He showed us some informative-yet-slightly-nauseating diagrams of how the surgery will go, and on Thursday he's going to fix my knee. I'll spend the night in the hospital (fingers crossed for dulce de leche-flavoured Jell-O), and on Friday my mom's coming! Hooray!

I don't think we'll make it to the Metallica show, though. Next time.

I'm Not Fluent in Spanish, But...

2010-01-15T15:00:00.003-03:00

According to Google Translate, ruptura en asa de balde means "bucket-handle tear," which also means "bad news knee surgery times." Of course that's just from the letter that was helpfully included with the MRI images; maybe the doctor will have a different interpretation?

A girl can hope. Futilely, maybe, but still.

P.S. I just told a new Irish friend the news over chat, and she says she's going to get me "locked" tonight. I don't know what that means in regular English, but I suspect I'll be even less able to walk tomorrow.

Tengo dos tornillos de titanio en la rodilla derecha.

2010-01-12T17:32:00.004-03:00

Trip updates are much more boring when they're about busted knees.

When we arrived at the hospital for the MRI on Saturday morning, we were informed that the machine was broken, and that it had been for 10 days. Clever readers will note that this means the machine was also broken two days previously, when I made the appointment in the first place.

Anyway. We went to another hospital and made another appointment and I successfully had the test on Monday morning. The results will be available Thursday evening and I hope to see a doctor or three on Friday to figure out my options. In the meantime my diet consists of things I can carry in a bag while using crutches (yogurt, apples, granola bars), and hobbies include checking Facebook status updates, learning Spanish words for knee anatomy (menisco! ligamento cruzado anterior!), and thanking Ken for bringing me the ice pack.

* "I have two titanium screws in my right knee," a potentially important Spanish phrase when you're about to be put into a giant magnetic tube.

Back to the Future

2010-01-08T12:38:00.004-03:00

Welcome to 2010! I was initially disappointed that this year started off sans jet packs or The Chip, you know, the one implanted in our brains that will grant us instant access to the interwebs using only cerebral prowess, but then I went to see Avatar in 3D and holy-effing-crap am I ever on that bandwagon. I hope the future involves a lot more theatres full of Buddy Holly clones, because wow, 3D movie technology has come a long way since House of Wax.

And it seems that in 2010 I am fated to experience a bit of déjà vu as well. Back in 2003 I stepped on a branch - a harmless little branch! - and wretched my right knee, tearing the meniscus. Within two weeks of the injury I had surgery and started a rather gruelling regimen of physical therapy that lasted around four months. Have you figured out where this is going, yet?

On Wednesday afternoon I twisted my left knee. I'm in a brace and walking with crutches and the MRI is scheduled for Saturday. Of course this time isn't exactly the same as last time: There were no branches involved. Oh, and this time I get to do it all in Spanish.

On the bright side:

1. We're not on a mountain in Bolivia.
2. We have amazing friends here in Buenos Aires who have already been beyond helpful ("crutches" in Spanish is muletas, in case you were wondering).
3. Three words: Ice cream delivery.

I'm trying to make this not suck, but when three more months of travel, not to mention marathon #4, were on my list for 2010, let's face it: this is the pits.

New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T22:07:00.006-03:00

I don't like New Year's Eve.

It's weird, because I love holidays, in general. I love colour themes and food themes and dressing up and presents and desserts, and New Year's Eve has all of these, if you apply yourself. I also love unbridled optimism, which is New Year's Eve all the way. Not to mention gratitude. And resolutions! I pride myself on these things!

But New Year's Eve? No thanks.

I admit I'm into the food themes. I can't argue with pork for luck and fatty wallets (not to mention that pork is delicious, in any form) and black-eyed peas, symbolizing coins for wealth. And colours, yes! But gold or silver for New Year's, maybe kind of? And black and white? It does have a certain cache, but it isn't universal like Halloween's black and orange, or Chrismas's red and green, and I just can't fully commit. Optimism is awesome, for real, but can't you make that resolution on November 15 just as well as you can on January 1?

Scrooge much? I know. Maybe it's the expectations; that you're secretly hoping that your party will turn into a Bacardi ad. Also that your arms should look fabulous in that shimmery tank top, even after all that Christmas morning bacon.

I'm way grateful for everything that happened in 2009. I've been unemployed - by choice! - for most of the year. I've made amazing new friends, and, mostly thanks to Facebook, reconnected with people I haven't seen in 10 years or more. I lived in Buenos Aires. I learned to speak Spanish, más o menos. I opened a restaurant. I tasted 40 new fruits! I trekked to Machu Picchu, had my passport stolen - and replaced! - in Bolivia, and spent the Winter Solstice in the southernmost city in the world. Gratitude, anyone? And yes, here I am in Buenos Aires on New Year's Eve, celebrating with a wonderful human being (with whom I plan to spend many a New Year's Eve!) and two sweet sweet kitties (who aren't Memphis, but are still lovely).

OK. Maybe gratitude trumps, because I have a lot for which be thankful, and after writing this post, maybe even a newfound affinity for December 31. Happy New Year, friends, and may your 2010 be that much better than your 2009. xoxo

Slam, Fight, Bright Light

2009-12-21T22:06:00.000-03:00

Feeling pretty psyched.

Ushuaia is the world's southernmost city, and at a distance of 1000km, the closest to Antarctica. In other words, the end of the world as we know it. We timed our trip to be here for the solstice, and here we are. We aren't quite far enough away from the equator to experience a midnight sun, but it's now after 10 p.m. and the sky is still light.

And I feel fine.

Ice Ice Baby

2009-12-19T20:07:00.003-03:00

Last night we arrived in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world, where daylight lasts for a disconcertingly long time this time of year. Last night Ken reported spots of brightness in the sky past 1 a.m., and I'm pretty sure sunrise was around 4 this morning.

It's something of a challenge to maintain Monk Mode here in Southern Argentina. Apparently the cost (in pesos) of a hostel dorm room in Argentina is indirectly proportionate to its latitude. And although we haven't slept in the same bed in over two weeks, we have splurged on a few tourist attractions, including a visit to the Perito Moreno Glacier in the Los Glaciares National Park near El Calafate.

Some of you may be shocked to learn that even though I hail from Canada I've never seen a glacier. I know! I had no idea what to expect. I anticipated only that: a) it might be cold, being next to a glacier and all, so I brought an extra sweater; and b) since we'd be gone for around six hours I might get hungry, so I also brought a ham sandwich.

What I did not anticipate was that the glacier would be so cool (pun intended) that I wouldn't even have enough room on my camera for all the pictures I'd want to take. The Perito Moreno Glacier is vast: it's 30km long, and rises 60m above the surface of Lake Argentina. Falling chunks sound like thunder as they break off and when they hit the water. (Apparently this happens with some regularity, as we saw several in the few hours we were there.)

Glaciers. Who knew?

More glacier pics on Flickr. Coming soon: Rainbows, penguins, and overuse of R.E.M. lyrics.

The Bus Diaries

2009-12-14T18:35:00.006-03:00

Since we crossed the border into Argentina we've been travelling south along Route 40, with stops in Salta, Mendoza, Bariloche, El Chaltén, and now El Calafate. (Click map, at right, to enlarge.) Along the way we've walked through beautiful parks filled with lakes and wildflowers, and been awed by views of snow-capped mountains. Last night in El Chaltén, after a day of hiking, we dined on delicious Patagonian lamb and marvelled at the daylight that lingered well past 10 p.m.

From here we'll continue south through Rio Gallegos to Ushuaia, Argentina's southernmost city, to celebrate the Winter Solstice. For Christmas and New Year's we'll be in Buenos Aires where we're housesitting (and catsitting!) for three glorious weeks, during which I expect highlights to include unpacking for more than three hours, and cooking.

That is, unless someone wants to buy us a trip to Antarctica for Christmas. We're flexible.

More pics on Flickr.

Adios, Bolivia

2009-12-02T01:27:00.005-03:00

Pictures from our last two weeks in Bolivia are on Flickr. We toured a working mine in Potosí (claustrophobic), spent four days driving around salt flats, geysers, and lagoons near Uyuni (surreal), and rode horses through the canyons and valleys around Tupiza (pretty, and painful).

Tomorrow we head to Salta, Argentina, and while I'm not exactly excited about the 24-ish hours we'll spend on buses to get there, I am excited about the delicious steak and wine that await us across the border, and we're both looking forward to reviving the mate habit we developed in Buenos Aires!

Doin' the New Passport Dance

2009-11-30T14:38:00.002-03:00

We're back in La Paz, for the third time! This is two times more than we expected (OK, wanted) to be in La Paz, but here we are. We will fetch my passport and enjoy cheap street eats one last time before we bid farewell to Bolivia and make our way to Argentina on Wednesday.

We've been killing time on various tours throughout the country, from which I will post pictures shortly. Also coming soon: A post with highlights from our many bus rides so far. To whet your appetite, here is an anecdote from our 16 hour bus ride last night from Tupiza (a nice little town in the south of Bolivia) to La Paz. As we were just on the outskirts of Tupiza, the bus stopped, apparently requiring some maintenance. We pulled into some sort of maintenance yard and Ken, who had the window seat, gave me the play-by-play as he watched a guy go over to a pile of scrap metal to look for something. Possibly something to fix the bus.

"What do you see now?"

"Apparently the piece of metal was the wrong shape so he went back to the pile to find another one. But he was distracted when his shoe fell off and when he bent over to put it back on I got a nice view of plumbers' butt." Pause. "They're not just hairy on their heads."

Thanks.

2009-11-18T18:04:00.004-03:00

I can't thank you guys enough for your supportive comments (on UFF and Facebook) and your beyond-generous offers to send me replacement items. Seriously, you guys helped put this loss into perspective. The world is full of bags and books and sweaters. I think Caroline put it best when she wrote, "It helps me to think of all of the unexpected things that have walked INTO my life, balancing out all the things that have walked/(been walked!) OUT of it." Word. And while I'm still angry as hell at the fucker who took my backpack, I'm also supremely grateful that neither of us were injured in the process.

Just last weekend I was chatting with Bri, and told her, "I could spend a month in [Bolivia]... it's so interesting." Be careful what you wish for, right? We're back in La Paz and after a couple of visits to the Canadian Embassy we learned that it'll take at least two weeks (and $240! aboo) to get a replacement passport. So... it looks like we'll be in Bolivia a bit longer than we expected. Fortunately we like it here, and it's the most inexpensive country we'll visit on this trip, so we'll just add a city or two to our itinerary.

Did I mention thanks? You guys rock. The most. Unlucky moments notwithstanding, I feel really lucky to have you in my life.

P.S. While I love gifts almost as much as I love getting stuff in the mail (i.e., A LOT), I don't think we'll be anywhere long enough to receive anything, and anyway, I wouldn't count the postal services around these parts for much more than post cards. Thanks for the offers though, so much.

Why I Love Ken: Reason #463

2009-11-16T23:46:00.003-03:00

Tonight, after my backpack was stolen and I was lamenting the things I lost, including my passport with its plethora of stamps (including Machu Picchu!) from South America, Ken hugged me and said, "We have a lifetime to collect more stamps."

We had just boarded a bus to take us from Potosi to Uyuni, about a 6-hour journey. The bus was very small (our knees touched the seat in front of us), and as a result I made the unusual (for me) decision to stash my daypack in the rack above our heads. A few minutes (5? 10?) later, I stood up to help someone else squeeze in a bag, and realized my pack was missing. Gone. Here's the thing about buses in Bolivia. When they're not moving they are full of people, travelling or not. People selling empanadas. People singing songs for money. And, apparently, people who board the bus a few minutes before it leaves and then get off said bus with a bag to which they don't rightfully have ownership.

Just after I noticed it was missing, another passenger confirmed that someone had indeed sat beside him for a few minutes, then stood up, grabbed the pack (my pack! my super-comfortable Osprey Talon-22 daypack! in citron!), and left. I grabbed my remaining possession (a water bottle, PET, 2L) and headed onto the chaotic sidewalk, hoping to catch a glimpse of my bag, but of course it was long gone.

The rest of the evening was spent checking into a hostel in Potosi, filing a police report, making weepy phone calls (to credit card companies, and my mom), and downing a couple of litres of beer. Tomorrow we'll head back to La Paz to find the Canadian Embassy so that I can get a replacement passport (...I know).

Regularly scheduled programming will return after I've finished mourning the loss of my favourite Lululemon zippie and a book that I was REALLY into.

Catching Up

2009-11-14T18:06:00.005-03:00

Internet access, especially reliable wi-fi, is bound to vary from place to place, especially when by "place" you mean "the cheapest possible accommodation with something resembling a bed." Fortunately the Ireland-France soccer match this afternoon means that we're comfortably ensconced in a Dutch bar in Sucre, Bolivia, with smokin' Internet access. Here are some recent highlights.

1. The Bob Marley Effect
When we were in Brazil a few months ago, people frequently greeted Ken as Bob Marley, shook his hand, and/or offered him something to smoke. Not one of our five days in Cuzco passed without Ken being offered some illegal substance or other ("Smoke? Sniff?"). Several times I've noticed someone taking a stealthy picture of Ken, and twice we've been stopped by someone who'd like his or her photo taken with our favourite Bob Marley doppelgänger.

2. Hostels
As we anticipated, $2.50 per night for our room in Copacabana was too good to be true. After a brief, half-hearted negotiation we paid about $4.25 per night (still a bargain, obviously, for a private room). On the Isla del Sol we paid just under $6 per night for a private room, and here in Sucre we're splurging: $13 per night, and we even have our own bathroom. Generally the hostels are safe, clean, and warm, and even have hot water (although my showering standards are certainly on the decline).

3. Monk Mode
Monk Mode (i.e., a budget) certainly makes things more challenging, but it has its advantages. I'm pretty sure we eat less ("1 Boliviano [15¢] for cheese? Forget it!") and bargaining is more fun when you're willing to walk away from a scarf that with an asking price of $3. (Inevitably you'll get it for $2.) Yesterday we boarded the "Dino Bus" to see some fossilized dinosaur footprints just outside Sucre, and soon learned that the 15 Boliviano (each!) ride didn't include entrance to the Dino Park and its 8 dinosaur replicas (30 Bolivianos! Each!). We took the bus ride anyway and amused ourselves with the dino replicas outside the park while we waited for the rest of the group. How frugal!

P.S. More pics from Peru and Bolivia are on Flickr.

Fruit of the Day: Tumbo

2009-11-14T10:54:00.004-03:00

While most of our food shopping so far has been done at outdoor markets, we did stop in at one supermarket in La Paz. That's where we picked up the tumbo. It's small and oval, a lovely pale yellow, and very subtly fuzzy.

I cut a tumbo open length-wise to discover a very pretty orange, passionfruit-like cluster of seeds and pulp. (Turns out another name for tumbo is banana passionfruit - how appropriate!) I tasted the fruit as I would passionfruit: by eating the pulp around the seeds. At first I wasn't a fan. The taste is mild but a bit chalky, and certainly not as juicy as I'd expected. A few more seeds in, though, and the tumbo was starting to win me over. I've since seen tumbos stacked up at juice stands and I'm curious to try them blended and strained and maybe mixed with a little sugar (or pineapple juice).
UFF Fruit Rating:

Tasting Notes: La Paz, Bolivia

2009-11-09T18:54:00.006-03:00

First, a map! The pins indicate where we've been so far: Lima and Cuzco (both in Peru), and Copacabana and La Paz, Bolivia. Click to enlarge.

Yay Geography!

We've been in La Paz for three days and as usual, our favourite part of the city is the food, especially the street food. On our first morning we passed a woman selling fruit salad: chunks of papaya and banana piled into small plastic cups. I bought one for a single Boliviano, or a whopping 15¢. (It turns out banana is especially delicious when it's marinated in papaya juice.) Fifteen cents will also buy an ice cream cone (with a scoop each of grape and banana or vanilla and coconut, and drizzled with chocolate sauce), a good-sized hunk of banana bread, a slice of the sweetest watermelon ever, or a cinnamon popsicle. Or you could use that same 15¢ to buy a couple of oh-so-fresh donuts, made by a woman sitting on the sidewalk with a pot of hot oil, a bag of dough, and a shaker of powdered sugar.

We've also enjoyed fresly-squeezed grapefruit juice (45¢), salteñas and tucumanas (delicious empanada-like pastries originally from the Salta and Tucuman regions of Argentina, respectively) for about 30¢ apiece, and this afternoon we ate a tasty pork sandwich replete with carrots, tomatoes, and spicy pepper sauce. It ran us 3 Bolivianos--the equivalent of 45¢.

Our favourite breakfast is at the Lanza Market, where a dozen or so women each have small stands, each with a table about the size of a diner booth tucked in behind it. Any of these women will make you a mean fried-egg sandwich with avocado, garnished with slices of ripe tomato and fresh white cheese on a crusty French roll. Two of these with a couple of cups of café con leche can be had for just over $2.

Tonight we splurged on dinner at our Irish-run hostel, and ordered up some very non-Bolivian bangers and mash. The huge (and very delicious) plate set us back $4, and it was worth every Boliviano.

Layered Dresses and Bowler Hats

2009-11-03T19:36:00.003-03:00

Yesterday around lunchtime we arrived in Copacabana, Bolivia (not to be confused with Copacabana, the beach in Rio, or Copacabana, the club in NY). It's a small town at a high altitude (3841m) in a peninsula on Lake Titicaca (go ahead and giggle; I still do every time I say the name). Lake Titicaca (hee) is gorgeous, and tomorrow we're going to hike 17km to a place called Yampupata, from where we'll take a boat to the Isla del Sol, and maybe stay a night there. My browser capabilities are currently limited, but you can find a map here if you're so inclined.

Our accomodations here are by far our cheapest yet--we reserved 2 nights, online, for $5 (for both of us!). We expect there'll be some haggling over the price when we check out tomorrow, which is kind of a tricky situation: Even if it cost twice as much it would still be a bargain for us, and at the same time we don't want to be taken advantage of as gringos.

The food here is delicious and cheap. For breakfast today we had coffee, bread, and freshly-fried donuts (bañuelos) with syrup for about $1.50. Lunch was grilled lake trout with french fries and rice and ran us under $3. (We later splurged on a brownie with ice cream that cost as much as the trout!) Most of the women here don't come up much past our waists. They all wear layered dresses and bowler hats, and the majority have a baby slung on their backs.

More updates when we get to La Paz; as one might expect, $1.25 per night doesn't include wi-fi.

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T19:21:00.000-03:00

There's a very special (read: frightening) new Fruit of the Day available to get you in the mood. In case you're wondering, we're dressing up as backpackers this year, and I think our costumes are very convincing. Happy Tricks or Treats!

Day 5: Machu Picchu

2009-10-30T00:47:00.006-03:00

We set alarms for 3, 3:15, and 3:30, and by 4 a.m. we had begun our flashlight-lit walk from Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu. It was a steep climb of about 1700 very uneven stairs (Ken counted), and at 5:15 or so, as the sky lightened, we were among the first 50 people to arrive at the entrance gate. We had our tickets stamped and received our passes (only 400 are distributed daily) to climb Waynapicchu, a mountain with literally breathtaking views of the ancient Incan city. At about 6:30 we began a two-hour tour of Machu Picchu with Enrique, then Ken and I set off to climb Waynapicchu. For me it was one of the most difficult parts of our trip. The "steps" were steep and uneven, and to get to the top took almost an hour. It was worth the effort. I stopped at a plateau near the top and Ken continued another 10 minutes or so to the peak. While I sat waiting for him in the sunshine, overlooking Machu Picchu, I felt incredibly peaceful.

We arrived back in Cuzco late Wednesday night and spent most of yesterday scratching our bitten legs and resting our tired feet. Today we treated ourselves to hour-long massages at the bargain-basement price of $7 each, then had lunch at the central market, where a huge bowl of soup and a generous portion of rice, salad, lentil stew, and fried fish costs all of $1. Including a glass of juice.

On Wednesday I swore it would be weeks or even months before I did another trek, but today I'm reconsidering. After all, in life, as in Peru, anything can happen, but nothing is for sure.

In Peru, Anything Can Happen...

2009-10-29T19:08:00.010-03:00

...but nothing is for sure.

These were the words of wisdom imparted to us by our guide, Enrique, as we embarked on our 5-day trek to Salkantay and Machu Picchu. It was amazing, and it was really, really hard.

Day 1

A bus picked us up at our hostel at 4:45 a.m. After a few more stops in Cuzco (alt. 3350m) to pick up about 14 other adventurous souls, we drove on very curvy roads to the town of Mollempata (alt. 2800m) where we disembarked, slathered ourselves in sunscreen and bug spray, and started walking. We hiked, mostly uphill, for about 5 1/2 hours. After lunch (soup, rice, and delicious lomo saltado (beef stew) the road was blessedly "boring" (read: wider and flatter). We arrived at our first campsite at the base of Salkantay (alt. 4100m) around 5 p.m., just in time to beat the torrential downpours. Luckily there was a shelter in which we could set up our tents, so we stayed dry. We drank coca tea, ate dinner and were huddled in our sleeping bags by 8 p.m.

Day 2

At 5 a.m. our guides Enrique and Saturnino "knocked" on our tents and presented us with hot cups of coca tea. We packed up our gear and after a delicious breakfast (pancakes!) we were back on the trail. Day 2 would involve about an hour of switchbacks, or zig zags, up a steep mountain, a brief plateau, then another 40 minutes or so of steep uphill climbing to reach our highest altitude (4650m). By the end of the final climb Ken and I were resting after every 50 steps. It was beautiful and brutal, and when we got to the top we celebrated with cookies and apples and much picture-taking. Walking down the other side of the pass we passed completely different terrain: Huge rocks surrounded by mist that reminded us of "Lord of the Rings." After lunch we walked about 2 hours more and arrived at our camp, nestled into the side of a lush hill and also home to various chickens, dogs, and pigs. Bedtime was again early, and we slept soundly after our long walk.

Day 3

After another 5 a.m. coca-tea wakeup call and a hot breakfast of oatmeal and omelettes, we started out through the forest. We crossed a small river and then hiked a steep, rainy, and very muddy uphill for about 50 minutes. As we started to make our way down the other side, through the Andean cloud forest, we passed a small home with a yard full of wild turkeys, giggling away in the fog. These were some of the funniest beasts I've ever heard, and each time they gobbled (in unison!) I laughed and laughed. It was one of my favourite parts of the trek.

We continued our descent until we reached a dirt road, at which point we were also low enough that the rain had stopped and the sun was strong. The dirt road stretched on for many hot kilometres and included a small river crossing at which we had to strip off our boots and socks. The icy water felt wonderful! Unfortunately there were swarms of small blackflies waiting for us on the other side, and we all ended up with countless small, red, and indescribably itchy bites on our calves and shins. We finally reached Playa (alt. 2400m) and were finished our hike for the day: After lunch, a bus took us on the most treacherous road EVER to Santa Teresa (alt. 1800m). After we set up camp (and continued to slather on insect repellent in a feeble effort to fend off the relentless biting flies), we continued our scary bus ride (seriously, I was sure we were going to be part of a "there were two Canadians and an American on the bus" article) to soak our tired bodies in the loveliest of hot springs. On our return to camp we dined, and several members of our group celebrated into the wee hours of the morning. Ken represented on our behalf; I was in bed by midnight. (Apparently Ken's representation was strong, as the next day, Saturnino frequently sought him out to provide reggaeton beats as we hiked!)

Day 4

We slept in until 8, despite Enriques's warning the previous night: "If it's sunny, I know you're going to be up at 6:30, because inside your tent it will be hell." Breakfast included a birthday cake for our amazing cook, Isidro, who turned "at least 50" and who could climb a mountain faster than any of us 20- and 30-something gringos. After breakfast, we walked at a leisurely pace through a valley in the blazing hot sun, stopping for lunch at the Machu Picchu hydroelectric plant before continuing our walk along the railroad tracks to our penultimate destination, Aguas Calientes, a small town through which almost all Machu Picchu visitors pass. Ironically, our hostel in Aguas Calientes didn't have hot water. It did, however, have beds, and toilets. With seats. Glorious, glorious seats. Dinner was a very mellow affair at which we received our tickets to Machu Picchu and were instructed to begin our climb of approx. 400m (vertically, that is) at 4 a.m. the next day.

Gone Trekkin'

2009-10-24T06:03:00.003-03:00

After a rather uncomfortable 23-hour bus ride from Lima to Cuzco, and two days in Cuzco (alt. 3300m) spent sleeping, drinking coca tea, and catching our collective breath, we're embarking this morning on the Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu. I confessed to Beto, the guide with whom we booked the trek, that I was a little afraid of the 5-day journey. He told me not to worry; that I could ask the spirits in the mountains for help, and that they would be there.

OK, Mountain Spirits, here we come.

Ceviche in Lima

2009-10-22T12:28:00.004-03:00

On our last night in Rio with Frenchy and Dutchy (aka Audrey and Eric), we asked them for a list of the best (and worst) parts of their six months in South America. They recommended cities and sites to see (and some to avoid), and told us their favourite places to stay. In Lima, they had been the first guests of the brand-new Kokopelli Hostel. Audrey advised us to ask Paolo, one of the proprietors, to point us to the ceviche restaurant to which he had taken them. Paolo offered us one better: To take us there for lunch on Monday.

(First, though, on Friday night, we went to a club. I know: I'm too old for that shit. We went with a few people staying at the hostel, all decked out in our best backpacker chic. At one point someone commented, "I'd never wear this to a club at home," to which I replied, "I'd never go to a club at home." It's true.)

Anyway, Monday rolled around and we were both very excited for lunch. Paolo rounded up a group of about 15 people from the hostel to join the festivities, and we piled into a few taxis to go to the neighbourhood of Barranco. Once there, he led us into a little market, past stalls selling raw chickens (with the feet still attached!) and even a little barber shop. The "restaurant" was a bunch of plastic tables under tarps, and we assembled enough chairs to fit our posse. We unanimously agreed that Paolo should order for all of us, and soon food started appearing on the tables.

We started out with chicha morada, a sweet and very tasty dark-purple juice that's made from purple corn. Small metal bowls of salted, roasted corn kernels also appeared on the table. We snacked on those until our first course arrived: A bowl of almost-clear broth with a mussel in each bowl and a generous sprinkling of cilantro leaves on top. It was refreshing and flavourful (especially with the addition of squeeze of lime and a rather potent hotsauce), and the mussel was particularly good.

Next came a dish called tiradito apaltado. Tiradito is like ceviche (fish marinated in lemon or lime juice with onions), but sometimes with oil in the marinade, and without onions. This particular tiradito was served with corn, a hunk of sweet potato, and half an avocado on top. The fish was incredibly fresh-tasting and the avocado was one of the best I've ever had, fresh and perfectly ripe. While we were devouring the tiradito, plates of crispy fried seafood (pescado frito) arrived, garnished with yuca fries and a bowl of mayonnaise for dipping. These were a mix of calamari, shrimp, and other fishy bits that had been battered and fried.

We continued the feast with ceviche - once again a mix of seafood, this time marinated in citrus and garnished with sweet red onions and more sweet potato. I loved the tiradito (especially the avocado) but the ceviche was probably my favourite dish. The fish was sweet and a little bit salty and oh-so-tender, and the thin slices of onion and sprinkling of corn added a perfect crunch.

Just when we thought we were winding down, two rice dishes appeared. One was very similar to seafood-fried rice, only not there was definitely no need to fight over the shrimp. The other was more like seafood risotto, with a lighter flavour than the fried rice but still packed full of fishy goodness. I limited myself to small portions of those (both were delicious!) so I could finish the remaining ceviche for dessert, and Ken busied himself with the leftover fried bits from the pescado frito.

Finally, Paolo announced the grand total: 14 soles (about $5) each, including tip. And we thought beef was cheap in Argentina!

More pics on in our Peru set on Flickr.

Cross-posted on Ultra Fine Food (there are a bunch of new fruits over there, too!).

Four Things We Love About Lima

2009-10-18T23:55:00.003-03:00

4. The coast reminds us of San Francisco (so does the weather (foggy), but it's a lot warmer than our last week in Canada!).

3. The parks are beautiful and oh-so-well maintained. Last night we were walking in Parque Kennedy and came across a salsa party! Today we walked a few kilometres of park that run along the coast in Miraflores, and passed dozens of walkers, runners, families, and lovebirds taking advantage of the foggy-yet-mild afternoon.

2. Fruit is plentiful and cheap: In addition to our new fruits-of-the-day (chirimoya and granadilla, tonight we bought 5 bananas at the grocery store for about 20¢. We also bought a guacamole kit containing 2 ripe avocados, small containers of hot salsa, corn kernels and cheese, a lime, and a small pack of Doritos for all of $2.60.

1. The people are happy, chill, and so helpful! On Friday night when we tried to hail a cab a stranger stopped to tell us the taxis wouldn't stop on the corner on which we were standing, and pointed us to the correct location. And yesterday when I stopped to ask a municipal security guard about the salsa party (which apparently takes place every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights) he encouraged us to dance!

This half of our South American Adventure is starting out with great success! We've slept more in the past three days than we did in the month before, and we both feel like we packed the right combination of items, more or less. We're planning to stay in Lima until Tuesday and then embark on our first looooong bus ride (22 hours, over the Andes) to Cuzco. OK, I'm not sure I'm fully prepared for *that* adventure.

Vamos Ahora

2009-10-15T03:11:00.005-03:00

We've been in Waterloo for over a week, and I'm sure you're all wondering how the much-hyped reunion went with our beloved feline, Memphis. While there wasn't exactly the slow-motion running across a field of daisies into each others' arms/paws (although I do appreciate the imagery, Tyler!), there has been much cuddling. There has also been a startling revelation: It turns out I don't have the "bad sinuses" I've been claiming to have for the past 12-ish years. That is to say, I am severely allergic to this furry orange beast. The first morning back I woke up with my eyes looking like I'd cried all night, and within half an hour of being out of the house I was back to normal. In fact, when Memphis curls up on my lap (or chest if I'm lying down), I can feel my throat close up. Good times. So far I've dealt with this situation by taking a Benadryl before bed every night. Denial rules! When we come back for good maybe I'll also try to stop rubbing my face in her belly, but I can't say for sure (guys, she's SO soft!).

Anyhoo, tomorrow we fly off to Lima, via Miami, for the second half of our South American Adventures. In honour of this special event, I have prepared the first of many very basic* maps to illustrate our whereabouts.

YYZ is the code for the Toronto Airport, and now you know where the Rush song name comes from! We have a five-hour layover in Miami, and we arrive in Lima at 4:30 a.m. on Friday with our knapsacks on our backs**. Let the games begin!

We've pared down our belongings to one backpack of about 45lbs each, containing mostly quick-dry pants and underwear (and in my case, enough sample-sized products to have my very own spa day at least once a month). The blogging will continue and I'll keep putting pics up on Flickr.

*I'm not bringing my computer. On a six-month trip. I'm already experiencing withdrawal.

**Val-deri,Val-dera, Val-deri, Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha***

***Holla Onkel Hans!

Canadian Thanksgiving

2009-10-12T15:23:00.001-03:00

Turning Leaves, originally uploaded by Kitty LaRoux.

That three days of sleep I keep promising myself still hasn't come to fruition. We've been bouncing around Waterloo since we arrived a week ago: Walking dogs and kissing babies and dancing the Chicken Dance [<--awesome Lawrence Welk video alert!] at Oktoberfest.

We're heading off to our third Thanksgiving celebration this afternoon, and the list of things for which I'm thankful this year just keeps growing. Happy (Canadian) Thanksgiving!

No Sleep In Brooklyn

2009-10-05T02:23:00.005-03:00

It's our last night in New York until May 2010. Give or take.

That seems like it's really far away, but then, so did September when we left for Argentina back in March. Somehow, though, it doesn't feel any easier to leave this time than it was back then, even though now we have practice.

We've had the most amazing two weeks, shuttling between Brooklyn and Manhattan, not to mention Cape Cod and Stamford and New Haven. I postponed any weight-loss efforts and thoroughly enjoyed all of our NY-favourites (bagels: check! pizza: check! burritos, sushi, bacon and eggs: check, check, check!). I practised yoga and ran in Prospect Park and took pictures of babies and dogs and perfect peaches. At times I felt like I hadn't been away more than a week or two, and other times I walked around all agog, like I was experiencing the crazy-awesome-weirdness of New York for the first time.

Tomorrow afternoon we're flying to Toronto, at which time we will immediately drive to Waterloo and smother Memphis with affection. (Friends have suggested that she might ignore me at first, as it goes with those of the feline persuasion, but I think that will be difficult as I don't plan to put her down for at least an hour.) Then I'm going to sleep for three days.

My mom always used to ask me why I was so tired when I went home to visit, and I always thought it was just because I stayed up late to pack. This time though, it's because I stayed up late to hang out with New York. We had some catching up to do.

It Takes A Village

2009-09-20T10:17:00.004-03:00

Huge sugary thanks to Bri & Geoff, Leslie, John & Joe, and Anna, Pete, Nola & Nick, for the use of their kitchens (and stand mixers!). Thanks to Ann & Rob for transporting two tired travelers toting a disassembled cake and buckets of buttercream from NYC to Cape Cod. Thanks to Meredith & Philip for trusting their wedding cake to a crazy person. And thanks to Ken for his ongoing patience with my, um, ambitious commitments.

I'm going back to bed now. Possibly for three days.

Gillian & Ken in NYC: FAQ

2009-09-17T01:56:00.005-03:00

Q Why are you back? I thought you were staying in Buenos Aires/South America for a year!

A We came back for a visit! This weekend we'll be at a wedding in Cape Cod, then we'll be in NY for 2 weeks. On October 5 we fly to Canada to see our peeps (and kitteh!) up north, and on October 15 we fly to Lima, Peru, to start another 6 months of South American Adventures (not to mention a full 15 months of summer).

Q Is it true that you are baking the cake for this wedding?

A Yes. Because I have a condition known as "insanity." The buttercream frosting, however, is some of my best work, so no regrets.

Q When can I/we see you?

A We have few plans after this weekend. Email us! If you're in Waterloo, we'll be at Oktoberfest at ~~the Aud~~ Queensmount (thanks Leigh!) on October 10. Two words: Walter Ostanek.

Q In your last post you referred to Ken's brother as your brother-in-law. WTF?

A Relax. It was a term of endearment, not legally binding <cough>Marc</cough>.

I ♥ NY

2009-09-16T08:14:00.002-03:00

We've been back in the States for 24 hours and in NY for 18 and I can't believe how happy I am to be here. While I was waiting in line for US Immigration in Dallas I watched the US's new "Welcome" video, with montages of American landscapes and very deliberately multicultural people. I almost wish I could be cynical about this blatant PR effort but, I have to admit, it made me tear up a little. (Shut up! I was really tired, OK?)

Ken's brother picked us up at the airport which was the best possible scenario, given our 250 lbs (!!!) of luggage and general states of mind after 2 flights totaling almost 14 hours. Then, because he is the best brother-in-law ever, he took us to our most favourite diner in Brooklyn (Tom's - go there, please, it is the best) and not only did we eat bacon and eggs, we drank coffee out of huge mugs (with free refills) and used giant, soft, luxurious napkins. I didn't even realize I'd missed these things!

Later, Ken and I went into the city to buy wedding-cake-making supplies. We ate slices of thin-and-oh-so-crispy-crust NY pizza and watched the weird and beautiful people of NY go by at the corner of 22nd & 6th. Later, on our way back to the subway, we saw Janeane Garafalo in Union Square.

Last night I went to a friend's and we ordered chicken shwarma (so delicious) and now I'm off to another diner for more bacon and eggs and more mediocre-yet-bountiful coffee, and before I'm up to my elbows in cake frosting I just wanted to gush about how much I love NY. And I haven't even had a bagel yet.

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #1: Eat Dessert

2009-09-14T01:45:00.013-03:00

Let's be honest: Eating dessert is pretty much at the top of my to-do list anywhere, not just in Buenos Aires. I've lost track of how many times I've mentioned my lust for dulce de leche, the rich caramel spread/sauce that is to Argentines as Nutella is to Germans, or maple syrup to Canadians - in other words, essential. However, I have yet to describe the myriad desserts in which it is contained (or accompanies), not to mention the dessert-menu items that don't even contain the magical substance.

Two classics that are often served with dulce de leche are flan, a firmish pudding not unlike the crème part of crème brûlée, and panqueques, which are really crêpes. The former is usually served with a generous dollup of ddl alongside, while the latter is filled with the stuff and either rolled or folded into a triangle, so that when you cut into it the ddl oozes out delightfully. Panqueques may also be ordered de manzana (with apples) or al rhum (with rum). The only time we tried panqueues de manzana they were extremely carmelized and so sticky that they were kind of unpleasant to eat. The rum pancakes, however, are fun because they're flambéed at your table, and everyone likes an open flame.

If you need a quick-fix of ddl, grab an alfajor. There are a few different types, of which the most common are the dulce de leche (filled with ddl and covered in a sugary meringue coating), and chocolate (also filled with ddl, but covered in chocolate). Then there are alfajores de maicena, which are the homemade varieties in which ddl is sandwiched between two cornstarch cookies then, optionally, rolled in coconut or dipped in chocolate.

Every ice cream store also has a plethora of variations on the dulce de leche theme. There's straight-up dulce de leche, which is ddl-flavoured ice cream, and dulce de leche super, which is ddl-flavoured ice cream with a ddl swirl. The other day I had dulce de leche bombom: ddl-flavoured ice cream with chocolate bonbons containing dulce de leche scattered throughout. Luxurious! And of course, you can order ice cream for home delivery, which is even more dangerous than the selection of Ben & Jerry's at an NYC bodega.

Lest you think this post should have been titled "Eat Dulce de Leche," there are a few other ubiquitous desserts in Buenos Aires that deserve a taste. Queso y dulce is fresh, salty cheese served with a hefty slab of dulce de membrillo (quince paste - quince was recently a Fruit of the Day), or dulce de batata, made from sweet potatoes. It doesn't look super-appetizing but it's tasty and a good compromise between dessert and cheese courses. Frutillas y crema (strawberries and cream) is usually Ken's first choice, and the Don Pedro is another favourite: It's a scoop (or three) of vanilla ice cream, doused in whiskey.

P.S. On Tuesday we'll be back in NY and on Wednesday I'll be baking the Queen Mother of all desserts: A wedding cake, for our friends' Meredith and Philip's nuptials in Cape Cod next weekend. Blogging (and sleeping, I suspect) may be limited for the next week or so, but I'm sure you'll survive, somehow. ¡Besote!

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #2: Exercise

2009-09-12T15:49:00.002-03:00

As I've mentioned, cheap food isn't always healthy, and anyway, who can resist the siren call of dulce de leche? To mitigate the more undesirable effects of too much steak and wine (and my inability to refuse the dessert menu in a restaurant), we signed up at a gym and hired a personal trainer within a few weeks of landing in Buenos Aires. While I've paid as much as $80 for a personal training session in NYC (Richie!), here we paid just over $10 for a session that included a 10-minute massage (!).

Buenos Aires has a surprisingly large community of runners, and even though I decided back in June to forego marathon training this year, I ran a handful of times in Palermo parks, which are beautiful and safe. I also ran a few races in these parks, and even PR'd in the last one I ran, in June.

Walking around the city is also great exercise; you just have to be vigilant about watching for dog poop. Consider it additional training, like an obstacle course! You could also walk your own dog (or 12).

And of course, there's dancing. Tango is the most obvious choice, but in the four months we lived here, we never made it to a class, let along a milonga. We did, however, try out Zouk-Lambada, a French-Brazilian dirty dancing, and tomorrow night will be testing our mad Samba skillz at a bar in San Telmo.

Links:

Gym: Always Club in Palermo

Running Clubs:
Club de Corredores has a group that meets weekly. The club also organizes regular races in Palermo Parks.
BsAs Runners also organizes races around the city.

CHUI'D!!!1

2009-09-10T17:08:00.016-03:00

Here is the story of how we chose to take a 5 hour bus ride to a city that sells towels with images of enthusiastic-looking naked ladies on them.

(Click to enlarge; NSFW.)

Last week, on the day our Brazil visas expired, we reluctantly boarded a bus to leave the country. (OK, that's a lie; we'd just spent a very rainy day in Puerto Alegre and were pretty psyched to swap the glamour of playing cards at the bus terminal for another 12 hour bus trip.) During our preliminary immigration check with the bus company we were asked about slips of paper that we were supposed to have filled out when we entered the country, not to mention stamps in our passports - neither of which we had received. The woman at the bus company assured us that we'd be fine.

Cut to: 3 a.m., the border crossing at Chui, Brazil, also known as Chuy, Uruguay (both pronounced "choo-ie"), at which time we were asked to step off the bus and explain the deficiencies in our passports. In Portuguese. Or, in my case, in Spanish with very poor Portuguese pronunciation.

After about 20 minutes of "explaining" to the Brazilian Federal Police that we hadn't received anything when we crossed the border, we were asked to write down our parents' names--never a sign that things are going well. A few minutes later we were handed forms. Mine read, in Portuguese, natch, that Gillian Gutenberg, daughter of [parents' names witheld to protect the innocent], committed the heinous crime of not having her passport stamped. (Thank god they didn't catch me smuggling coconut chocolate bars out of the country.) After a half-hearted attempt to read the forms, we signed them, which may mean that we'll be on an upcoming episode of Locked Up Abroad. We were also instructed that should we desire a Brazilian visa in the future (...duh), we would need to pay fines of $93 each.

Obviously the Brazilian Federal Police are not familiar with Monk Mode.

We arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, about 5 hours later. The next day, after a fruitless attempt to pay our fine at a bank, we hit up the Brazilian Consulate, where I had the following conversation (in Spanish; illustrated here in BASIC) with a woman working there.

10 Me: We need to pay this fine. Do you know where we can pay it?
20 Brazilian Consulate Woman: You have to go to a Banco do Brasil, in Brazil.
30 Me: We can't go back to Brazil because our visas have expired. And we can't get new visas until we pay the fine.
40 GOTO 20

After a few rounds of this, an Orange Alert was issued for levels of annoyedness, and another woman came to speak to us. At that point Ken took over, and we learned that we could go back to Chui/Chuy and pay at the Banco do Brasil there.

And so, on Tuesday morning we boarded a 7 a.m. bus to Chui/Chuy to give the Brazilian Federal Police $186 to be allowed back in the country. We found the Banco do Brasil in Chui/Chuy with minimal effort and after some hijinks involving various metal items in my purse, I waited by the ATMs (and under the careful watch of the security guard) while Ken went in to pay our dues.

He came back out a few minutes later and reported that we needed to pay with Brazilian reais, not the Uruguayian pesos we'd brought. Please note the irony of this situation: We could buy a naked-nurse towel (click to enlarge; NSFW) using either Uruguayian or Brazilian currency, but we couldn't exchange our money at the bank. It was then that we learned that the ATMs at this particular bank didn't work with any of our banks' networks. Visa, apparently, is not everywhere you want to be.

We walked back about four blocks to the money exchange center, exchanged pesos for reais, then went back to the bank, where I waited, again, by the ATMs and the security guard, while Ken went into the bank, again, to pay the fine.

Ken came out a few minutes later to tell me we hadn't exchanged enough to pay the fines. Math is hard! Let's go shopping! We walked back to the exchange center (again) and back to the bank (again). The security guard watched with equal parts suspicion and amusement.

I was starting to think we liked Brazil more than it liked us.

Fortunately, third time's a charm: We left the bank with our precious receipts and made our way back to the bus terminal (which was really just a row of bus company offices on a street) to catch the next available bus back to Montevideo. Unfortunately, the next available bus was with a company that didn't accept non-Uruguayian credit cards, and we'd used all of our precious cash paying our fine. We were directed to another nearby bank, where we tried, using various combinations of bank cards and ATMs, to withdraw money. Guess what happened?

FAIL.

We walked back to the row of bus companies and found the next bus departing Chui/Chuy, at a different company. One that, thanks to all that is good and pure in the world, accepted MasterCard. We rejoiced quietly, then retired to a café across the street to drink coffee and play cards until we could bid farewell to the fabled land of naked-lady towels (click to enlarge; NSFW) and giant skewers of meat.

Monk Mode

2009-09-06T10:53:00.002-03:00

We've almost reached the six-month mark of our yearlong South American adventure, and as I mentioned previously, the second half of our year won't be spent in Buenos Aires (where we've lived for four of the past six months). Instead, after our visit home in September (during which I plan to consume copious amounts of nut butter, maple syrup, and Timbits) we're going to fly to Lima and travel around the continent - first south through Peru, Chile, and Argentina, then back to Brazil and possibly a few of the northern countries like Bolivia.

For the past three weeks we've been traveling through Southern Brazil and Uruguay, which has been a great trial run to figure out exactly what we want to carry on our backs for six months (the answer: a lot less than we're carrying now). It has also given us the opportunity to figure out and implement our new budget, in which we allocate a third of our daily spending to travel - something we didn't have to do when we were living in Buenos Aires. Borrowing a phrase coined by my BFF, Sirrah, we're in Monk Mode, which means that we're living frugally - just like monks, except without all the annoying celibacy.

It wouldn't be so bad except that we both like to eat, a lot, as in we really enjoy eating and we also like to eat a lot of food. In Brazil, we could usually find lunch of either chicken, fish, or meat, plus rice, beans, fries, and a small salad for around $5, and it was more than enough to share. A shot of coffee (cafezhino) in Brazil goes for anywhere from 25-50¢, and there's all that delicious fruit.

We're now in Montevideo, Uruguay, and have found a bakery near our hostel at which we can buy 2 coffees and 6 tiny medialuna sandwiches for $2.50. A hamburger from a street cart costs as little as $1 (and up to $2, depending on how many toppings you want to add, and by toppings I don't just mean ketchup and mustard - these babies come with slices of cheese, ham, bacon, and sometimes a fried egg).

As you may have gathered, the menu items available during Monk Mode are often not the most nutritious, so my new plan is to seek out introductory (read: free) classes of any physical activity I can bring myself to do, from yoga to capoeira to pilates.

Activities in a new city are also a challenge. We spent one day in Puerto Alegre, Brazil, and it rained, nay, poured, for 11 of the 12 hours we were there. We spent most of the day wandering around the central market, parking ourselves at one of its many eating establishments and ordering 2 of the cheapest coffees on the menu which we nursed for an hour or more while we played cards.

Optimism

2009-08-26T10:31:00.006-03:00

Or, How We Make Plans

Two days ago we left Rio and toted our caipirinha-induced hangovers about 90km north to a small city called Teresópolis, up in the mountains and known best for its state park and hiking. After we arrived and found our hostel (a really beautiful place nestled up on a steep hillside), we took our map of the park out for pizza to plan our next couple of days.

In addition to several shorter hikes within the Teresópolis side of the park, there is a 55km hike that starts in Teresópolis and finishes in Petrópolis, another city that we'd considered visiting.

K: Maybe we could do that hike tomorrow.
G: 55km? In a day?
K: Yeah, that's just over a marathon. How long would that take?
G: Hm, I guess we could do that in 8 hours.

Later that night Ken did some research on the World Wide Web: The 55km trail is a 3-day hike for which you need to hire a guide. We agreed to spend Tuesday at the park to do some shorter hikes and gather more info. When we arrived, a very friendly guide apologized for the weather (it was extremely foggy) and showed us how to find the trailheads for the trails accessible from Teresópolis. She also advised us to hike one in particular (Post Card Trail) that is rated moderate to difficult to gauge our readiness for the 3-day hike.

We set off up a steep road of about 2km to find the trailheads. The first trail we hiked, rated easy, was ony 400m and took us all of 10 minutes. We felt studly and set off to find the next trail, rated moderate. This one was 1.1km and took us an hour. I was starting to realize the error of our previous night's calculations. We continued up the steep road to the trailhead for Post Card Trail, and decided to save it for last (read: I wasn't sure we should start it without at least a little break first).

After a snack, a bathroom break and a nice flat 400m hike we started up Post Card's steep 1.2km trail, and reached the lookout point in just under an hour. There was a handy sign that illustrated the various mountain peaks visible from that point.

*Visibility may vary according to weather. See also: Extremely foggy.

Anyway, after 4 hours of hiking and a couple of hot showers, we realized that we're unprepared at this juncture for 3 days of hiking. Instead, we're going to spend the rest of the week doing that for which we are well-suited: sitting on the beach. Hopefully our visibility will improve.

P.S. On Monday we purchased a large bag of oranges for about 54¢. As an experiment, I'm going see if I can survive on only oranges for the next 24 hours. No matter the outcome, it will be a real boon to our budget.

More on Buses

2009-08-20T10:42:00.006-03:00

This week we started our backpacking-lives in style on a full-bed bus from Buenos Aires to Puerto Iguazu. The bus company was Via Bariloche and the service was beyond awesome. The first thing we did when we boarded was to check the accuracy of the claim "full-bed," and we were not disappointed. Here we are, sleeping* on the bus.

*Sleeping is simulated.

An hour or two into our 16+ hour bus trip, we were served a hot meal with wine, followed by coffee. And just as I was about to tuck in for the night, we were offered a choice of whiskey or champagne! Note: All this was while we watched our choice of movies (or Latino music videos!) on our own personal TVs. Breakfast (medialunas, juice, and coffee) was served about an hour before we arrived, feeling quite refreshed, in Puerto Iguazu.

Then we went to see some waterfalls!

Another 24 hours on buses later (which I won't describe in detail - suffice to say that, at least in our limited experience with intercity bus travel, Argentina>Brazil), we arrived in Rio and are hanging with the Europeans. I just hope my liver survives the next 3 days with these guys.

The Buenos Aires list is on hold for now, possibly until we get back there next month and I finish detox.

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #3: Kiss Someone

2009-08-16T11:33:00.001-03:00

Here's a snippet from something I wrote over two months ago, because my current self couldn't have said it better than my past self. I love it when that happens.

One of my most favourite things about Buenos Aires is that everyone kisses everyone here. It's like a handshake or a casual wave, only it's always a cheek-kiss; right-cheeks, please. And absolutely everyone does it, everywhere, to say both hello and goodbye. At the gym, big muscly guys greet each other with a kiss. It's how I say hi to my trainer, Adrián. (I'm not complaining; it's the closest I'm going to get to making out with a 24-year-old again in this lifetime.) When we had our party a couple of weeks ago, whenever someone new showed up, it took him or her 10 minutes to make their way around the room, smooching everyone up. Just this week, I went to a spinning class*, and as I was setting up my bike the instructor came over and greeted me with a kiss. And our really really awesome Spanish teacher, Sofía, signs all her emails "un besote". Beso = kiss, and besotee is a ~~little~~ BIG BIG kiss (per Sofía, who just corrected me on this important matter) - which happens to be my favourite kind.

The only difference is that I now get to kiss my new trainer, Matias, and that when we text to arrange our meeting times he will often reply, "Dale [OK], un beso." I'm also happy to report that the threat of swine flu doesn't seem to have diminished the amount of kissing in the least.

We're about to embark on a many, many hour bus trip, and then another many, many hour bus trip, and my good intentions of writing stuff to auto-post over the next couple of days drowned in a glass (or three) of Malbec last night, so it may be a few days before I have a chance to wrap up this list. Stay tuned!

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #4: Ride a Horse

2009-08-14T08:54:00.001-03:00

When Ken and I visited Buenos Aires two years ago, we went to an estancia (ranch) called Los Dos Hermanos, located about an hour out of the city. We had an amazing day that included breakfast, a huge asado lunch of homemade empanadas and at least four sizzling grills of meat, plus salads, and several hours of riding horses. We liked it so much that we went back again this year for Ken's birthday. We had another great day of food and horses, and in the afternoon they surprised Ken with a birthday cake! How nice!

Last week we went horseback riding again, this time at a nearby place called A La Par. A La Par is in a huge and very beautiful provincial park (Parque Provincial Pereyra Iraola) about 30 minutes from downtown Buenos Aires. We arrived just after 11 a.m. and immediately saddled up for a ride that lasted almost 2 hours. Our guides at A La Par, Adrian and Emilio, were very encouraging. They really taught us how to ride our horses more effectively. On our return we tucked into a snack of medialunas and mate.

Bonus: A La Par is home to four completely adorable dogs!

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #5: Eat at a Puerta Cerrada Restaurant

2009-08-13T08:17:00.004-03:00

I've written about puerta cerrada (closed door) restaurants before. I can think of few better ways to experience a culture than to dine in someone's home, and to share with them the food, wine, and music about which they're passionate.

At Casa Felix, you'll enjoy an outstanding pescatarian (fish-and-veggies only) meal with lots of local flavour, including native herbs that Chef Diego Felix grows in his backyard. At ¿Dónde me trajiste? you'll share a delicious home-cooked meal and enjoy a wonderful evening of live music (my full review is here).

Other puerta cerrada restaurants that I know of but haven't visited (...yet):

Casa SaltShaker (varied theme menus that look interesting and fun; they also offer cooking classes)

Cocina Sunae (pan-Asian fare - something that's generally hard to come by in Buenos Aires)

Of course, if you missed your chance to dine at our most favourite of all puerta cerradas, Ceci n'est pas un restaurant, fear not - I suspect we'll be open for business again sometime.

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #6: Take the Bus

2009-08-12T12:05:00.005-03:00

The buses in Buenos Aires are outstanding for so many reasons. First, they cost next-to-nothing. We've never paid more than 35¢ to get all the way across town. Second, there are literally hundreds of them, and no matter where you are and where you want to go, there's a bus for you. Third, the buses here are pimped out! Not only are they all adorned with various etched mirrors and fuzzy dice, the driver is often rocking out to loud 80s tunes. Some even have UV lights! It's just like when I used to go rollerskating at Super Skate 7 in grade 9, only I don't have to worry about falling on my ass. Although sometimes I do worry that the bus is going to hit someone, because they go pretty fast and don't leave a lot of room for error.

The bus system can be a little challenging to decipher at first. You need a Guia "T" (pronounced "gia tay"), which can be purchased at kioskos downtown and near the main bus terminal for a few dollars. The Guia "T" is a guide to all the buses in Buenos Aires. As a bonus, its cover illustrates a plethora of fonts and design principles!

The Guia "T" has a website, but it's been Coming Soon! for a while now. There's another site, though, called Como Viajo, that lets you enter your starting and destination points and tells you which buses or metro lines to take. It has terrible maps but other than that it's just fine.

The main drawback of taking the bus is that you have to have monedas, or coins, which can be hard to come by. We hoard coins just for this purpose, and possibly also to give Ken something to do (he likes to stack them neatly by denomination). You may be forced to stop at a kiosko and buy an alfajor to get change. (It's a hard life.) Another drawback is that they're a bit dirty - that is, they spew giant clouds of exhaust. But that just means that riding the bus is more pleasant than, say, walking beside it. Also, you might get an emo driver, like the one we had on Friday, who was smoking AND texting while slowly navigating a bus through San Telmo.

Speaking of buses, the intercity buses here are also awesome. They have seats that recline fully into beds, and often there's a movie and/or a hot meal! Which is good, because starting on Sunday we'll be on a bus for 20 hours, to Iguazu Falls, after which we'll be on another one for 24 hours from Iguazu to Rio de Janeiro. Thank god for Benadryl.

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #7: Eat Meat

2009-08-10T23:46:00.005-03:00

Oh come on, you knew this one was coming.

We knew we'd eat a lot of steak here - not only is it super-delicious grass-fed beef, it's also unbelievably cheap. At the grocery store, we can buy two T-bone steaks for around 15 pesos (less than $4). At a restaurant, the most expensive cut (lomo, which is roughly a filet mignon) costs about $8, and is big enough for us to share. Empanadas stuffed with beef, chicken, or ham and cheese are readily had for under $1 apiece at any pizza joint. And don't even get us started on the sandwiches: Neither of us has met a choripán (sausage), lomito (sliced beef), or bondiola (pork) we didn't like.

There are also the sauces to consider. Chimichurri is a ubiquitous blend of garlic, herbs, oil and vinegar that we use without reservation on any and every type of meat (it's also great on bread and fries). On sandwiches, though, you may be presented with myriad toppings, and while Argentine cuisine isn't known for it's spiciness, some of the hot peppers on offer aren't kidding around (bottom left, I'm looking at you).

Our favourites:

We've lost count of how many times we've eaten at El Desnivel in San Telmo. It's no-frills, cheap, and if you're lucky you'll get a surly waiter. If you have time, a Saturday trip to Los Talas del Entrerrianos will give you the best of meat sweats. You can get a decent asado (mixed grill) at any of a number of restaurants, but for the best ambience, share one with friends on a Sunday afternoon at the Fería de Mataderos. If you're really lucky, you'll be invited to a real Argentine asado, which is just like a regular American-style BBQ only with way more meat. (At the last one we went to, I earned the nickname "Meat Juice Girl". My mom's gonna be so proud.)

Finally, I've said it before and I'll say it again: Go to the Ecological Reserve, just past Puerto Madero. Find El Parrillon (it's the second parrilla on the left), and order the Super Bondiolita al Limon. You'll thank me, I promise.

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #8: Learn Spanish

2009-08-09T10:59:00.002-03:00

Learning Spanish was one of our top reasons for choosing Buenos Aires as a place to live. The week we arrived we started classes at Íbero Spanish School in the center of Buenos Aires. It was a good place to start: We had a great teacher (Alejandro), the school organized activities like movies and dinners, and probably most importantly, it was a great way to meet other travelers. In fact, that's where we met Frenchy and Dutchy (a.k.a. Audrey and Eric), with whom we're going to rendez-vous next week in Rio.

Anyway, after a few weeks of commuting to downtown Buenos Aires, which is not entirely unlike midtown NY (read: stressful and smelly), we discovered through the power of the interwebs our current and most-beloved profesora, Sofía. Sofía is part of a Spanish "school" called Ñ. There are 5 or 6 core teachers, and they don't have a school, per se, but teach privately (or in very small groups), either at peoples' apartments or in a cafe or restaurant. Our lessons with Ñ have really been tailored to our skill level and interests, and apparently we've learned something, because on Friday evening we had dinner with Alejandro and his partner, and during the entire meal we spoke only in Spanish. And I think they even understood most of what we said!

In addition to classes, we tried to immerse ourselves in the language with language exchanges, telenovelas, podcasts, and books, newspapers and magazines. At times it wore us out (I still marvel at how drained I feel after a 2-hour class), but not only are everyday interactions exponentially easier now, I'm even starting to feel like I can express myself in Spanish (which in turn makes me feel like less of a dud in social situations).

Links you'll like:

Schools
Íbero Spanish School
Ñ de Español

Language Exchanges
Spanglish BA ~ kind of like speed-dating for language: You're assigned a table with 2-3 other people, and you spend 5 minutes speaking English, then 5 speaking Spanish. Then half the table rotates, and you have a new group with which to chat. The fee is nominal and usually includes a drink.
Conversation Exchange ~ a free conversation exchange that you can do by email or chat, or live and in person! Ken & I both met people using this site and it was a great way to practice our conversation skillz. You don't even have to live in BA to use it.

Podcasts
Spanishpod
News in Slow Spanish
Show Time Spanish

Newspapers & Magazines
Clarin ~ major Argentine newspaper
El Mundo ~ kind of like the NY Times in Spanish
OHLALÁ ~ well-designed and well-written women's magazine
Planeta Joy ~ lots of lists of bests in Buenos Aires (I suspect I will take advantage of their chocotortas list before we leave)

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #9: Merienda

2009-08-08T17:01:00.004-03:00

Merienda first entered our lives back in April, when we started tracking our meals for our personal trainer. He sent us a spreadsheet with all the usual meals and snacks to fill in, but there was one new (to us) entry tucked in between almuerza (lunch) and cena (dinner): merienda.

Dinner in Buenos Aires is much later than we're used to in North America, and the only way to make it through the afternoon is to have a late-day meal that's more-or-less another breakfast. A classic merienda is coffee with three medialunas (small-ish croissants with a sweet glaze), and we've seen the combo for as little as 5 pesos (about $1.30).

Buenos Aires: The List

2009-08-08T00:37:00.005-03:00

With just over a week left to enjoy the Paris of the South, we've compiled a list of our 10 favourite things to do in Buenos Aires. I'll post one or two per day until we leave, and who knows, this week we may even add to the list - that's just how we roll.

Favourite Buenos Aires Activity #10: Drink Mate

The first time we tried mate was at an outing with our Spanish school. We first drank it amargo, which means bitter (or more gently, unsweetened), and neither of us liked it much. The cebador (mate server) then added some sugar and we found it more palatable, as do many foreigners.

When we changed to private Spanish instruction and met Sofía, she gave us more detailed instructions. She told us exactly what shape of mate, or gourd, to purchase. She explained how to properly prepare mate, and told us that sweetened, it isn't really mate. (We've since gleaned that how one prefers mate is a matter of taste, and that taste is often regional.) There are literally dozens of different brands and varieties of mate in the grocery store, and choosing can be difficult. Fortunately, not long after we started drinking mate I went to Norma's Argentine cooking class, and she introduced me to an organic yerba mate with herbs that was delicious.

Not long after our lesson with Sofía we bought our own mate and have been drinking mate regularly ever since. We don't quite have the dedication of a Uruguayan fellow we met in Brazil who carried his mate and Thermos with him in a handy leather tote, but I suspect we'll continue to drink mate as long as we have access to yerba.

In short, yerba mate is an acquired taste that we think is worth acquiring. And Buenos Aires, where the parks are full of mate drinkers no matter the season, and where you can order a mate service (mate, hot water, and a handful of sweet biscuits) for 5-10 pesos at most cafés, is the perfect place to start.

Further To My Handstands Post

2009-08-06T21:22:00.007-03:00

Thanks to Candace for bringing this lovely song to my attention.

The Pork Sandwich

2009-08-01T18:03:00.005-03:00

Not long after we arrived in Buenos Aires, we found ourselves in a largely-expat bar watching college basketball next to a porteño named Abel. Fortunately for everyone, especially us, Abel speaks English fluently and told us about all the best places in the city to eat. Most importantly, he told us about his favourite pork sandwich, which is available at a small parrilla near the entrance to the ecological reserve.

As today was our penultimate Saturday in Buenos Aires, we finally decided to go on our pork pilgrimage. On the bus to the ecological reserve, we realized that we didn't know exactly which parrilla in the ecological reserve would have the fabled sandwich, so Ken texted Abel.

Ken: Hey, we're on the lookout for the legendary pork sandwich. How do we recognize the right stand?

Abel: It is the second one from the entrance of the ecological reserve. Mi parrillon or el parrillon. Who is this?

Ken told him it was us asking, to which Abel replied, "I thought so. Pork sandwich is an important matter. Only put chimichurri." He also advised us to get a choripán.

We found the parrilla, like an oasis in the dessert, only instead of water, it was full of delicious, delicious meat. We ordered the super bondiolita al limon - the super pork sandwich with lemon. The dude working at the parrilla sliced strips of pork off of a hunk, then put them on the hot grill and squirted lemon juice on top. After turning them a few times, he put the grilled strips on a warm roll and we slathered it with chimichurri. The sandwich was a study in delicious contrasts. The meat was juicy and perfectly cooked and salty and sweet, like all good pork should be. The bun was soft and crusty and perfectly absorbed the excess juices. Needless to say, our pork sandwich didn't last long.

We had a choripán for dessert.

Cross-posted on Ultra Fine Food.

Capoeira and Handstands and Fear

2009-07-31T20:00:00.005-03:00

Once again, I'm standing about a meter in front of the wall, facing it. I'll want to push off with my left foot and kick up with my right foot. I step my left foot forward as I place my hands on the floor, then flex my left knee a little bit more while my right leg stays straight. I push off with my left foot and try, again, to kick my legs up to the wall.

I don't even come close, and both feet drop back to the floor with a thump.

Last week I went to my first Capoeira class. On the way there I joked to Ken that if I wasn't upside down by the end of class, I wasn't going back.

Midway through the (level zero) class, we were practicing handstands and cartwheels. I've never done either.

In yoga, I've done headstands, but never a handstand. I even took a handstand class a few years ago. Apparently I loved it, but I never managed to fully invert.

Every year, about a month before my birthday, I resolve that this year! Before this birthday! I will do a cartwheel. And a handstand! If my feet are all the way up there, why not?

With the exception of a handful of 90-minute classes three years ago, I've never actively tried to achieve this goal. I've gone to yoga classes and done the preparation (mat against the wall, Downward-Facing Dog, walk feet in) and then after a few half-hearted kicks I've rested in Child's Pose, satisified with my "effort".

But now, thanks to these intensely challenging Capoeira classes, I'm trying more sincerely than I ever have, and in trying I've realized that I am almost paralyzed with fear. When the instructor tells us that we'll be practicing an inversion my heart beats loudly in my chest. As I watch my classmates effortlessly step into handstands and turn perfect cartwheels, my breath shortens and I feel a lump in my throat and the words "I can't I can't I can't" repeat so loudly in my head that I'm sure everyone else can hear them, too.

In those moments, I don't want to be there. Sometimes I try to be optimistic, telling the teacher that I can't do that exact move quite yet, and he has given me alternatives to practice, and I do, and survive. Other times, I whisper, "I hate this."

I don't know where this fear comes from, and anyway, it probably doesn't matter. I do know that at the end of every class I've felt stronger, and grateful for the experience. I also know that I'll keep going back.

And maybe this will be the year that I can.

Presenting: Ultra Fine Food

2009-07-26T14:30:00.003-03:00

Ta-da!

A couple of housekeeping notes:

1. Food posts that previously appeared on Ultra Fine Flair (here!) now also appear on Ultra Fine Food.

2. More importantly, from now on all food-related entries will only be posted on Ultra Fine Food, so if you're interested in those posts, including Fruit of the Day (like today's jatobá!), please add the new site to your RSS reader.

I'm not saying there won't be the occasional cross-post, but if you're more interested in food than the banalities of my life, now you have choices. If I have learned one thing: LIFE is about choices! Thank you, Sarah Palin.

(Ironically, one of the "first" posts on Ultra Fine Food is the beloved and oft-linked-to Kwanzaa Celebration Cakestravaganza--ironic because it isn't really about food at all.)

P.S. If you're reading this on Facebook, I'm trying to figure out a way to aggregate feeds from the two sites so they both show up as notes. For now, the aforementioned banalties of my life (posted on Ultra Fine Flair) will continue to show up automatically as notes. If you want to keep up on your daily fruits, click on over to Ultra Fine Food.

Fruit of the Day: Membrillo

2009-07-25T12:48:00.007-03:00

A very common dessert here in Buenos Aires is queso y dulce, which just means "cheese and sweet". The dulce in question is a very thick jam, so thick that it's sliceable, made of either membrillo or batata (sweet potato). You might be more familiar with the English name for dulce de membrillo: quince paste. It's commonly served in Spain with manchego cheese, and it is delicious. And until now, I had no idea it was made from fruit!

Fruit that looks a lot like a pear, both inside and out.

The membrillo, or quince, is very hard, and was much harder to cut than a pear. At one point I thought it had a big pit because it was so difficult to get my knife through the center. It does taste vaguely like a pear, with almost the exact texture of a potato. Ken had a strong (negative) reaction to its texture and starchiness. I was less offended, and even kind of liked it. I don't think quince is generally eaten raw, so I'm going to try my hand at making quince paste with the remainder of our FotD.
UFF Fruit Rating:

New! All Fruit of the Day and other food-related posts can be found on ultrafinefood.com.

What Happens in Brazil

2009-07-23T17:58:00.010-03:00

In addition to a smattering of new freckles and a CD full of samba music, Brazil also sent us home with large doses of inspiration. On Monday we celebrated El Día del Amigo (Friends' Day! how nice!) at a local Brazilian club, and on Tuesday we resumed Spanish classes with our beloved Sofía. Yesterday we went to our first Capoeira* class. Check that: It was my first Capoeira class, ever. Ken studied it for about 6 months, once upon a time. It was fun, and very hard, and today everything hurts. In my defense, let's just note that I am a 35-year-old white girl who just spent a month sitting on the beach. Eating cheese.

Also yesterday, we hosted the inaugural meal of - drumroll please! - our tiny new puerta cerrada restaurant in Buenos Aires!

Presenting... Ceci n'est pas un restaurant.

Get it?

In case you're new around here, opening a puerta cerrada is one of my dreams.

And thanks to our many awesome awesome friends here in Buenos Aires, it was a resounding success. All that's left is to tweak that pesky lasagna recipe before we open our closed doors next Tuesday night. Maybe we'll even have a reservation or two before then!

*Capoeira is an "Afro-Brazilian art form that combines elements of martial arts, games, music, and dance." This Wikipedia page has some nifty little animations of some of the techniques that apparently even non-cartoon-people can do with their bodies. Who knew?

Fruit of the Day: Kimkam

2009-07-20T18:27:00.007-03:00

¡Hola amigos! As you may have gathered with your superior sleuthing skills, we're back in Buenos Aires. Just in case you weren't sure, I have included our handy adventure map (at left. Click to enlarge). There is a small correction on that map: It should read "Gillian & Ken Return to Winter".

I'm very excited about today's fruit. It's called kimkam, which is Portuguese for kumquat, which I've heard all about but never seen before. Kumquats look like tiny oranges. Inside, they have very pretty little green seeds. Better still, kumquats are delicious! I ate a few with the peel, which is extremely fragrant, and a few without, which was more trouble than it was worth. I skipped the inside part surrounding the seeds, but my good friend Wikipedia tells me that the whole fruit can be eaten, with the sour/salty inside providing a contrast to the sweeter outer rind.

On top of all that, the name "kinkan" reminds me of Kon Kan, a band I loved in high school. In fact, I didn't know until just this moment that Kon Kan is Canadian! The kimkam has already taught me so much, and now this. Thank you, kimkam.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Fruit of the Day: Graviola

2009-07-19T17:30:00.006-03:00

In late-reporting districts, graviola (soursop in English) tied things up with cupuaçu in last week's FotD poll, so here he is, in all his glory:

I'd seen a lot of graviola-flavoured ice cream and juice when we were in Salvador, but never the fruit itself, so I was pretty excited when we came across this guy at a fruit stand in Brasília. He's a big fellow, and probably weighed in at a kilo or more. We carried him around in a backpack the day we bought him, and by the end of the day we'd grown quite fond of today's fruit and had even nicknamed him Little Gravi. He sat in our hostel room overnight and we continued to marvel at his weirdness.

The day after we bought him, we sliced him open. We knew he was related to our beloved pinha, so we were quite excited to try him out. Unfortunately, Little Gravi didn't live up to our (albeit lofty) expectations. Graviola has a simlar creamy texture to both the pinha and the cupuaçu, but it wasn't nearly as sweet and custardy. I did later try sweetened graviola juice, and it tasted a lot more like pinha, and I'm sure I could be persuaded to try graviola ice cream, you know, if the opportunity presented itself.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Brazil: Exceeds Expectations

2009-07-19T13:48:00.003-03:00

I hadn't thought much about Brazil other than as a means to escape the start of winter in Buenos Aires. All I knew about Salvador was that it's known for "Afro-Caribbean culture," that there would be fried shrimpy snacks cooked up by ladies wearing big white dresses, and that I should be careful. Oh, and that people there wear flip-flops all the time.

I had no idea that in Salvador, I would meet such incredibly warm and wonderful people who would teach me how to samba and make Brazilian empanadas and with whom I'd drink caipirinhas and play music late into the night. I had no idea that I would be able to eat freshly-caught fish for only a few dollars, or that I would spend most of my days on the beach. I didn't know about the wonder that is beach-cheese, or just how much more delicious coconut water is when it comes straight from the source. I didn't know how good it would feel to sleep in a room that doesn't need window panes because the temperature seldom drops below 24°C. And even when I started to look for a new fruit every day, I never once imagined that I'd find more fruits than I could write about before we returned to Argentina.

Let's just say I really, really loved Brazil. Even Brasília, which, as a city, couldn't be more different from Salvador, grew on me after a few days, and I can even imagine going back for a visit (only next time I'd rent a car).

When we talked about taking a year off to live somewhere else, Ken's first choice was always Brazil. I voted for Buenos Aires, not only because I love dulce de leche, but because I thought it would make more sense to learn Spanish than Portuguese, and tango is oh-so-beautiful. But a month of samba and caipirinhas and Portuguese and capoeira wasn't nearly enough for either of us, so we're planning to bid an early adios to Buenos Aires to return to Brazil, preferrably Bahía, as soon as possible.

Fruit of the Day: Açai

2009-07-18T05:05:00.007-03:00

It wouldn't have been a trip to Brazil without sampling some açai. Açai isn't available fresh - apparently the berries don't last for much more than 24 hours after they're harvested, so they're processed (frozen or freeze-dried) immediately after they're picked. In Brazil, açai is readily available frozen as açai na tigela, though, which simply means açai in a bowl. The options for açai na tigela are plentiful: You can get it mixed with any one of another delicious fruit, and/or topped with fruit salad, sliced bananas, or granola.

We had açai na tigela twice. The first time was at a salad/juice bar along the coast in Salvador, where we ordered it blended with mango. The medium-sized bowl was huge, and came with a little packet of granola to pour on top. The second time was at a mall in Brasília, where we ordered it with sliced bananas and granola on top. I also sampled the frozen açai pulp (it overpowered any other fruit with which I mixed it) and a drink called Guaraviton, a soft drink that's a blend of guaraná (yet another fruit) and açai. (Straight-up guaraná is a popular soda flavour in Brazil. It apparently has more caffeine than Coke, and tastes a lot like cream soda. I love it.)

As I mentioned, açai na tigella is served frozen, like sherbet, and is very dark purple. It almost tastes like frozen raspberries, or like a blend of berries - in other words, it's delicious! We both preferred the second bowl, sans mango, which may have been in part because it was garnished with a piece of papaya in the shape of a heart. I certainly can't confirm any weight-loss claims made by proponents of açai, but that may be because açai was often sold right next to irresistable Brazilian pão de queijo (cheese bread).
UFF Fruit Rating:

Fruit of the Day: Cupuaçu

2009-07-17T09:38:00.000-03:00

The results are in, and today's fruit is the cupuaçu!

A few weeks ago in Salvador I ate a chocolate filled with cupuaçu. It was tasty, but mixed with the chocolate it was hard to taste the fruit's flavour very distinctly. There was frozen cupuaçu pulp at the supermarket, but I never bought it, mostly because I could never resist the strawberry pulp. I was also kind of holding out for the fruit itself, but had mostly given up until we passed a fruit stand right here in Brasília with a whole stack of these monstrosities.

The cupuaçu looks like a huge potato, and it's outer shell is very, very hard, like wood. When we bought it, the guy at the fruit stand mimed for us how we should crack it open against concrete. We carried it to the park with us, and after we'd had our fill of jabuticabas, we decided to crack open the cupuaçu.

The insides looked like BRAINS!, only smoother. It separated pretty naturally into two sections where the seeds were held together by really light yellow, dense pulp. We dug right in and were both very pleasantly surprised: Cupuaçu tastes like mild lemon custard, with a texture similar to that of our beloved pinha. It's delicious! We found the pulp furthest from each seed to be the sweetest, and it was more vinegary closer to the seed, so we mostly stuck to the edges. We polished off half of the fruit before packing up the rest in its own handy carrying case to bring home for later.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Fruit of the Day: Jabuticaba

2009-07-16T09:31:00.009-03:00

Yesterday we went to Brasília's city park. It's really nice! On the way, we passed a fruit stand, and guys, I couldn't believe the bounty. You are in for many fruity treats over the next few days, starting with today's fruit, the jabuticaba.

But first, The Future!

Brasília has great architecture (that is, in fact, quite futuristic). Most of it was designed by Oscar Niemeyer, who has a very informative Wikipedia page. All of our Brasília pics are on Flickr.

Now let's talk about jabuticaba.

Jabuticaba also goes by Brazilian grape, and a slew of other names that you can read all about - where else? - on Wikipedia. Jabuticabas are about the size of a big grapes, are squishy like a little rubber balls, and are very dark purple - almost black. The first jabuticaba I ate I didn't like at all. It was super bitter. Then I tried eating the insides only, without the skin, and discovered that that's the way to go. The insides taste like grapes, only even sweeter, like Welch's grape juice. The pulp is very white, and each fruit contained one or two seeds that were easy enough to spit out, especially since we were eating them in the park. If you get your hands on a jabuticaba, we recommend putting the whole berry in your mouth, biting to break the skin and release the delicious pulp, then spitting out the skin and seeds. If you do it just so, you might end up with a little jabuticaba Pac-Man.

Jabuticaba is also the name of a song by Brazilian singer Bebel Gilberto, with the most charming lyrics:

If I could name
A fruit for you
It would be jabuticaba
Blue, black and small
On the outside
And soft and sweet within

You can listen to it (for free!) on Grooveshark.
UFF Fruit Rating:

P.S. We have a lot of new fruit just waiting to be discovered here on Ultra Fine Flair, and I can't decide which one should be up next. So... you get to choose tomorrow's fruit! Vote early and often!

poll by twiigs.com

Fruit of the Day: Romã

2009-07-15T10:45:00.003-03:00

The romã is the first FotD purchased here in Brasília. You might recognize it as a pomegranate.

I remember the first time I tried pomegranate seeds. I was at a restaurant in San Mateo, California, and I'd ordered butternut squash soup. It came garnished with crème fraîche and pomegranate seeds. I'd never seen anything like them before! The seeds are about the size of kernels of corn. They have yellowish centers and I've seen them range from pink to dark red on the outside of the seed (I suspect they darken, and sweeten, as they ripen). The ones I bought here weren't quite ripe, and the seeds taste tart and are still a little too crunchy inside. Fortunately I know how great pomegranate seeds can be, or I might dismiss this fruit like I did yesterday's sapoti, which according to more knowledgeable sources actually are delicious when they're ripe.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Fruit of the Day: Sapoti

2009-07-14T09:26:00.002-03:00

On more than one occasion I thought I'd tapped Salvador's supply of new and wonderful fruits, but I always took a second look when we passed a fruit stand and went out of my way to check out the produce section at the grocery store. Just in case. And on more than one occasion, I was rewarded with something I'd never seen before. When I was extra lucky, I could even figure out the name of the new fruit so I could write about it.

One of those extra passes through the fruit section at the grocery store yielded today's fruit, the sapoti, or sapodilla. Sapodillas look and even feel like potatoes. I get pretty excited when a fruit doesn't look like much on the outside, because I've frequently been rewarded with fruits like maracujás and goiabas that are all inner-beauty and deliciousness. And imagine if you were the first dude to ever cut into a watermelon? That guy is a god somewhere, I'm sure.

It has gone the other way, too, like with the cajú - it looked amazing but fell completely short of expectations. And then, there are the straight-up dud fruits, the ones that I'm sure can be cooked somehow or mixed with something to make a delicacy, somewhere, but eaten straight off the vine (OK, out of the grocery store) just didn't please our North American palates. One example is the genipapo, and another, unfortunately, is the sapodilla.

According to Wikipedia, sapodillas are supposed to be delicious. According to me, they are not. The one I tried tasted astringenty and had even more of that chalky texture we found in the cajú and the persimmon, which I now realize probably means those fruits are all high in tannins. Turns out I prefer my tannins in red wine form. The sapodilla has a cute seed, though, that's just kind of tucked inside. I guess that's something.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Brasília!

2009-07-13T22:06:00.008-03:00

We're in Brasília! Brasília is the capital of Brazil, and I've read a lot about how it was designed to be futuristic, and also to not need traffic lights. It was dark when we landed so we haven't seen the future-parts yet, but we can confirm that there are many roundabouts and clover-leaf exits from roads, and we only saw two traffic lights. Nobody at our hostel speaks English, so it's quite the adventure already. As we were leaving to find food, Ken asked one of the guys who works here if it was safe to walk around the neighbourhood. He looked at his watch (8 p.m.) and replied, "Yes, tomorrow." Hrm. We ventured out anyway and ate our fill of cheese-slathered meat (so much for our healthy Bahían diet) and are now safely ensconced in our room for the night.

While we're both less-than-enthusiastic about trading beach-cheese for city life, I'm glad we still have a few days left in Brazil. Happily, we've already found some new fruit at the grocery store! We also saw a discarded coconut with a straw sticking out of it, which is definitely a good sign.

Fruit of the Day: Po(n)kan Tangerine

2009-07-13T10:43:00.001-03:00

There are countless varieties of citrus fruits available around here. We've already examined the endlessly-useful lime, and its cousin, the cleverly-disguised Bahían orange. A few days ago we asked at a fruit stand for a sweet orange, and were handed one that was apparently a cross between two other oranges (conveniently available in the adjacent bins). Forgive me, I have no idea what the names of any of these are, but presumably they all contain the word laranja (the Portuguese of -- sing it with me! -- orange). The hybrid orange was indeed the sweetest either of us had ever tasted, without even the slightest hint of tang. It was like eating orange sherbet.

Today we have yet another citrus variety, a fruit that is undoubtedly more recognizable than yesterday's. At the grocery store, it was labeled pokan tangerine, but Google suggests that it also goes by ponkan tangerine. It could also be that pokan is Portuguese for ponkan. No matter, really. The bottom line is, I can't resist buying a fruit that still has its leaves attached. Look at that guy. He's all jaunty.

The ponkan tangerine is squishy, and its skin is a little loose. The loose skin makes it really easy to peel, which I value in a citrus fruit. The cross-section is good and orangey, both in colour and flavour. It tastes juicy and sweet. The best thing about it, though, might be its smell, which currently indicates that I need to wrap this up so I can eat the little guy without getting my keyboard all juicy.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Fruit of the Day: Cacau

2009-07-12T12:28:00.005-03:00

Yesterday was just a regular Saturday here in Salvador, Brazil. We got back from the beach around 5, showered, had a snack. Oh, and then we made chocolate.

You know, like you do on a Saturday night.

It all started last weekend when we were out for a stroll. We passed a grocery store and noticed a new fruit. It was labeled cacau, and when I shook it (oh-so-gently, of course) it sounded hollow inside, like it might contain a pit with space around it. Ken speculated at the time that cacau might translate as cocoa, and later, the internets confirmed his suspicions. Cocoa! A.k.a., future chocolate! While I captured the cacau's outsides for posterity, Ken did some more research, and learned that not only are raw cocoa beans delicious and nutritious, an ambitious individual can use them to make chocolate at home.

We are nothing if not ambitious.

First, we cut off the end of the cocoa pod, and peered inside. It was like Alien in there. It looked really, really gross.

The beans were all held together by a sinewy pulp and came out of the pod as a cluster. A very unappetizing cluster. However, as I am 100% committed to FotD, I tried a bean. The pulp is tasty! It isn't chocolatey in the least, but it's sweet. The beans themselves taste kind of like raw coffee beans. They're a little bitter, but mostly inoffensive. And when you untangle a cocoa bean from all that pulp it's very pretty, and looks like a purple almond. We ate a couple of beans then wrapped the rest of the gooey, pulpy bunch in a rag to ferment. And ferment they did! There is no photographic evidence of fermentation, but after six days, that rag smelled good and fermented. Trust me.

Next, we left them in the sun to dry while we went to the beach and ate beach-cheese and coconut popsicles.

When we got home, we put the fermented, dried cocoa beans in the oven for about half an hour. The kitchen smelled shockingly like chocolate. Then we shelled them and had a bunch of cocoa nibs.

Next up, grinding and conching. For the grinding step, we used a pestle (easily had, with all the caipirinha-making that goes on in these parts) with a clear glass mug, so we could see what was going on. We took turns grinding those beans until they finally started to look like butter. Cocoa butter! At this point they still tasted very bitter, but distinctly smelled like chocolate.

Much Googling revealed that for the conching step we were going to need a fancy machine. We could only assume that people made chocolate before such fancy machines were invented, so we decided to skip that part and just mix in some sugar. Add sugar, taste, add sugar, taste... We added about 4-5 tsp of sugar to the cocoa from a single pod, and it was still pretty bitter, so your mileage may vary.

(Tempering is another optional step that will make your chocolate look pretty, but doesn't affect the taste. We didn't care if we had to eat it blindfolded, so we skipped that step as well.)

After adding sugar, we pressed our fermented, dried, roasted, ground, and sweetened cocoa beans into a ramekin. Ramekin might come from a Dutch word for "toast" or a German word for "little cream," but last night it was Portuguese for "chocolate mould." We then went out for bolinhos de bacalhau (fried cod balls (heh)) and a couple or three caipirinhas. Give or take.

Today, Sunday, there was chocolate. We toasted the miraculous cacau fruit with a cup of the finest Brazilian coffee we could find. And we rejoiced.

UFF Fruit Rating: , obviously. This fruit turns into CHOCOLATE.

P.S. We mostly used the chocolate-making instructions here. They leave a lot of room for interpretation, which we like. The only thing we might have changed was our roasting time. The oven here is very hot (the minimum temperature is 200°C, or around 400°F), and we think we would have had even more delicious results if we'd roasted the beans for 10 minutes instead of 30.

Fruit of the Day: Caqui Rama Forte

2009-07-11T11:51:00.003-03:00

The caqui rama forte isn't a tomato, but it could play one on TV.

You probably know it better as a persimmon, yet another fruit name I totally adore. One of our persimmons was orange and the other one red. I know I've seen (and eaten) persimmons in California, but I don't remember them looking like primitive tic-tac-toe boards inside!

The first bite was sweet and juicy and really delicious, but a few minutes later both of us noticed the same chalkiness we experienced way back when with our inaugural FotD, the cajú. Not quite as chalky, but neither of us went back for seconds.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Fruit of the Day: Acerola

2009-07-10T19:25:00.004-03:00

I've seen the packages of acerolas in the grocery store since the day we arrived in Brazil, and I've always walked right past them because I thought they were imported cherries. Turns out I wasn't totally wrong, as acerola also goes by Barbados cherry, or wild crapemyrtle. Wild crapemyrtle! These names just keep getting better and better, don't they?

Acerola are tart little berries, kind of like sour cherries. Also, they're bright yellow inside, which makes me love them even more. They don't have a single pit like cherries; instead, the seed is divided into three pieces that you can cut in between pretty easily. I think this seed-thing would make them a lot more difficult to use in a pie, though, unless someone invents an acerola-pitter.

This afternoon I had a glass of acerola juice. I assume it was sweetened, because it was nowhere near as tart as the fresh berry I'd eaten earlier. The juice was super cold and frothy, and reminded me a lot of the Strawberry Julius drinks I used to get at the Orange Julius in Conestoga Mall in my youth.
UFF Fruit Rating:

Do You Know What I Love (DYKWIL): Brazil Edition

2009-07-09T17:21:00.014-03:00

1. Coconut on the beach! Did I mention that you can also ask the machete-equipped dudes to crack open the coconut after you finish drinking the water, so you can eat the meat? Today on the beach we had the meatiest one ever - seriously, it was a meal in itself. Yum.
2. Sharing cooking & recipes with Jackie. Jackie and Alex run our hostel. Jackie is an amazing cook, and I like to hang out in the kitchen and ask her, "¿Qué hacés?" ("What are you making?") That's how I learned how to make pão de quiejo, or cheese bread, which will be a fixture at all future cocktail and dinner parties.
3. The paintings around our hostel. See: Jackie. She's also an artist with a wonderful eye for colour.
4. Capoeira on the beach: Every day we see guys who could easily compete with the most lithe Chinese 15-year-old in Olympic gymnastics' mat routines. For real.
5. Fruits of the day.
6. Coconut-flavoured things. Everything from cookies to ice cream to dish soap comes in coconut flavour (or scent). Delish.
7. Having sandy toes.
8. Red wine and caipirinhas.
9. The smell of fruit stands.
10. Every shade of brown skin.
11. New friends from Spain, Austria, India, Uruguay, Brazil
12. Midnight Samba, as taught by Jackie. This is one talented individual. Do you wish you were Alex yet?
13. Intense rainstorms that are over in 20 minutes and indicate in no uncertain terms that it's OK to keep sleeping.
14. Speaking of which... 8+ hours of sleep, every night.
15. Pinha.
16. The sound of Portuguese.

Today's fruit is tamarinda, which easily translates to tamarind. You've eaten it on a samosa, I'm sure, but have you ever seen it in its original form?

Those little pods cost all of 75¢. I peeled them and now they're soaking in water to eventually turn into tamarind sauce, which I think will go nicely with the cheese bread we'll eat on the beach tomorrow night. In its raw form, tamarind pulp is so tart that my mouth actually puckered when I tried eating it! I liked it anyway, and I'm betting the sauce will be delicious.
UFF Fruit Rating:

In other news, on Monday we head to Brasilia (the futuristic-looking capital of Brazil). This afternoon we made a deposit to our hostel there at a local branch of Banco do Brasil, and I'm pleased to report that Ken is even sexier in Portuguese than in English.

Yes, We Have NoMany Bananas

2009-07-08T15:09:00.004-03:00

An unfortunate combination of red wine, beer, and cachaça last night means that today's fruit - which you all know and love! - will be presented in pictures. I will tell you that the Portuguese word for banana is, conveniently, banana, and that the bananas here in Salvador are sweeter and more delicious than any I've ever eaten. They're also perfectly snack-sized, and a bunch of a dozen costs about $1.50. We eat them every day.
UFF Fruit Rating:

More Fruit of the Day posts can be found here.

Fruit of the Day: Umbú

2009-07-07T13:13:00.004-03:00

Today's fruit is the umbú, which is also called the Brazil plum or "spondias tuberosa" (how technical!). It looks a lot like a key lime, sometimes with little horns. I tried to cut one open but was thwarted by a very hard pit. The skin came off readily, though, so I peeled it and found yellowish, pulpy fruit inside.

Doesn't that little guy on the right look like a fish? Cute!

I like the taste of the umbú. It's quite tart, kind of like a lime. The fruit really sticks to the pit which makes it a little bit difficult to eat. Ken sprinkled sugar on his to make an all-natural Sour Patch Kid. Delicious! Wikipedia says it's usually boiled down with sugar to make jams or preserves, which makes sense. Also from Wikipedia: The fruit's name comes from the indigenous phrase y-mb-u, which means "tree that gives drink." I like that.
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Fruit of the Day: Genipapo

2009-07-06T17:18:00.004-03:00

There really is nothing more fun than browsing fruit stands and grocery-store produce sections to find new and exciting and weird fruits. Today we have the genipapo. The English translations I found were "genipa Americana" and "marmalade box". Marmalade box! What a great name for something. You may use it for your next band.

As is often the case, I had no idea what to expect from the genipapo. I read that it has a natural black ink that can be used kind of like henna to tattoo skin, so I cut into it with some caution. As you can see, its insides were pretty much as underwhelming as its outsides. The seeds are very hard and the pulp has a very strong odour and flavour that are almost chemical. Our taste-testers weren't exactly lining up for seconds. Jackie, one of the proprietors of our fine hostel (and also an excellent cook with whom I've been sharing recipes), told us that it's often used to make liquor, so we might have to check that out. In the interest of research, of course.
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Fruit of the Day: Fruta-Pão

2009-07-05T15:23:00.006-03:00

The other day we walked past a fruit stand and I noticed something that I had never seen before, something strange and wonderful. I picked it up and the fruit vendor explained, "That's fruta-pão." Literally, breadfruit. He said it's like bread inside. Fruit that's like bread inside? Who ever heard of such a thing? Ken says it looks like a pumpkin and a lizard had a baby.

We sliced it like bread (obviously!) and it really does look and feel like bread inside. It's very spongy and feels starchy, and it isn't sweet but it also isn't bitter. It tastes a little bit like a turnip, and we both thought it needed some accessories to make it a little more delicious. We looked up how it's eaten and discovered that it's usually cooked up with something sweet; roasted or baked with butter and sugar and coconut milk. So I cubed it and poured coconut milk over the top, then added a bit of butter and sugar and sprinkled the top with cinnamon and coconut to make a sort of breadfruit pudding. The texture still isn't quite what I was hoping for, though. Sliced breadfruit definitely isn't the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Update! I finally remembered what fruta-pão reminds me of: yuca. The kind I've had as "fries" in Peruvian restaurants. Fruta-pão has that same denseness and starchy texture. If I ever happen upon one again maybe I'll try roasting it as a savoury side. Or maybe I'll just try to trade it for a mango.
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Fruit of the Day: Maçá

2009-07-04T20:23:00.006-03:00

I almost saved the starfruit for today's homage to the U. S. of A., but in the end I chose a fruit that I could transform into a delicious American-style dessert to share with all the people here in Salvador who have made us feel so at home.

The maçá isn't a sand dollar, but I guess this close to the beach, everything adopts a certain theme.

Maçá is Portuguese for apple, and this is a Granny Smith imported all the way from Chile. Right now it's peeled, cored, sliced, and nestled in a pie crust with a few of its equally tart, green amigos, and will be served up in about an hour with a scoop or two of the closest thing we could find to vanilla ice cream. (I think it's called "creme" -- I was more than tempted by the coconut flavour, but the American half of our operation is a stickler for tradition. And I think he misses the fireworks today, so who am I to argue?)
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