Vistas: Lone Llama, Peruvian Andes

I Left My Heart...in San Francisco

‘…high on a hill, it calls to me. To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars and the morning fog will chill the air’

With an opening like that I assume you know where I'm going with this. I left my heart in San Francisco. No I didn't. I never really have to be quite honest. I Left My Heart my mother would croon along with Tony Bennett. Barefooted, I stood on top of her feet my arms clinging around her waist as she led me in a waltz around the kitchen floor. She would be the man and lead, I the Lady and if I held her close enough she would teach me how to dance properly. Dinner was already made, the table set, my older siblings watching TV, we were just waiting for Dad to come home. The meal preheating in the oven ruminated warmth not only around the house but between my mother and myself. The two of us waltzing, swinging and bossanova-ing to whatever hit was currently playing on the oldies station. The dial was always tuned to the oldies and when I say oldies I mean the Golden Oldies! Doris Day's Que sera, sera! Whatever will be will be!', Judy Garland's 'Clang clang clang went the trolley, ding ding ding went the bell, zing zing zing went my heartstrings for the moment I saw him I fell' and Petula Clark's 'When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go...Downtown.'

My mother would sentimentally reminisce about how she once lived in San Francisco. She moved there after college at the ripe young age of twenty. Originally from Colorado, her military family parents thought it the best opportunity if she left Travis Air Base where they were currently residing in California and move to Tiburon with her grandparents. Tiburon back in the late 1950's was desolate, nothing but a railroad pier and the small white church, St. Hilary’s that stood alone on the hill. She soon crossed the bay for the city and moved into a women-only residence hotel atop Nob Hill, kitty corner to the Fairmount and Mark Hopkins hotels. She met my father at a church youth group at St. Mark's Lutheran (still standing on the corner of Geary and Franklin); a church that not only survived the great quake of 1906 but the 1988 one as well. This church social group was just a cover though, this young gang spent more time at wacky Luau parties in Pac Heights, cruising Chinatown’s Grant Street in topless convertibles and swinging it Tiki style around the floating band at the Tonga Room than faithfully studying the pages of the Bible. She was employed as a telephone operator and rode the trolley to work every morning to the Pacific Bell building. Her wardrobe consisted of a few skirt suits, all machine sewn and tailored herself. She swore to me that no woman ever dare step out in public without her white gloves, pearls, pillbox hat and 3" heels. As we swayed and hummed together to the music she'd occasionally break out of her trance to gaze down at me and with a sigh full whisper remark "How drastically different times are for you today in comparison."

Many rainy Saturday afternoons I spent parked on the couch mesmerized watching such flicks as Funny Face, April in Paris and My Fair Lady. If by chance left alone (and strictly forbidden to!) I'd sneak into my parent’s bedroom to dig through my mom's attic to try on her skirt suits, hats, gloves and pearls. I'd prop myself on the dresser and pose in front of the mirror practicing my glamour look; a saucy smile, toss of the head and sideways glance. Now, if I spent my early childhood waltzing to the golden oldies, watching Doris Day flicks and playing dress up you can only imagine the fantastical image I dreamed up in my head of what my adult life would be. What would it be like? Well, it would be city sophistication of course darling! Soon enough, I would embark on a 'Roman Holiday' of my own and escape the clutches of suburbia, off to the big city!

Yet the confines of home and suburbia were harder to un-cling myself from than imagined. Lying down on the backyard lawn, my eyes closed to the partially hidden Oregon sun, I daydreamed that somewhere the grass is surely greener than the perfectly manicured turf I was lofting upon. Growing up I was the youngest of four, ridiculously shy and very dependent upon my parents. This baby bird had an incredibly difficult time flying the nest. Whether it was an overnight grade school slumber party or living in a college dormitory, leaving home was emotionally, very difficult for me. Reflecting back I knew I had lived a safe and sheltered adolescence but it proved to be a stumbling block later in my life. It would take much courage and strength for me to one day hit the pavement of the big city.

Regardless of my fears of the unknown world, baby steps grew in to adulthood bounds. Soon after college I caught a chronic case of the travel bug. The disease had me in its grips for over a decade. I’m healthy now but go into remission once a year for three weeks. It all started out with a nine month backpacking jaunt through Europe. My first destination across the pond was to live with my brother in Germany who was working on his doctorate at the time. His air mattress became my home. Dortmund, this quaint Northern German town was my big city training ground and unbeknownst to me my brother was a mad professor who only encouraged my illness. He taught me to study train tables, decipher subway maps, change currency, taste wine, hold my knife and fork properly, order a cup of coffee in any language and navigate myself through muddled, twisting, medieval streets. Soon, those worn and faded maps ended up stuffed in my backpack as I actually willed myself to get lost (it’s the best way to find yourself). I spent the next year and a half working in London and traveling all around Europe having the best time of my life, city sophistication ‘luv’. The following years my sickness lured me to any country whose customs authorities would stamp me in despite my debilitating disease: Asia, Australia, New Zealand, South and Central America, Africa and India.

I chose to settle down in San Francisco because I had to. I wanted to move to New York but was petrified of living with five others in a rat infested studio apartment dining on canned spaghetti! Los Angeles was out of the question knowing I could never pass the tanning and silicon requirements required for entry. My time spent traveling and working abroad had not even satiated that big city, chic, worldly sophisticate fantasy of mine and I wasn’t going to let go of it! I learned a lot from experiencing cultures different from my own, like an appreciation for the simple things in life; shared meals and meaningful conversation, afternoon strolls down the boulevard greeting your neighbors, the beauty of sprawling about the park watching the world slowly go by. I could return home to Portland or...? I chose San Francisco.

On paper, San Francisco had everything I supposedly needed. Big city sophistication compacted into a 14 sq. mile radius: funky beatnik coffee shops, quaint boutiques, art nouveau newsstands, hip bars, restaurants, wine country, a hilly, Mediterranean landscape of sun washed pastel buildings and a diverse and forward minded group of people. However, for some reason my heart just wasn’t in to it. A lot of times, it seemed like the only green grass that people really cared about in San Francisco was the weed. I came to San Francisco wearing a flower in my hair that soon wilted. Instead of peace, love and happiness what I discovered was extraordinarily overpriced rentals and the infiltration of smug, materialistic dot comers who all prophesized they were leading the world into the new e-conomy. Turf wars between Pac Heights elite, Marina snobs, Mission Hipsters and Castro Partiers who refused to let anyone crash in on the fun. I shuddered at the thought of ever bridge and tunneling it to the East Bay, oh the horror! The only spot that reassured me that I belonged here was whenever I passed Vesuvio Café in Northbeach. The Beatnik haunt with a gaudily painted bar sign that reads ‘We’re itching to get away from Portland, Oregon.’ I knew exactly what they meant. For far too many years I always reassured myself that in times of boredom, indecision or unhappiness the grass is always greener so I spent the next few years living half-heartedly in San Francisco, with one foot out the door and a suitcase always packed.

Tony Bennett’s poignant ode I Left My Heart doesn’t resonate with me as it does so romantically with others as I’ve left my heart scattered about in so many countries, couches, bedrooms, bed-sits, hotels, hostels, houses, studios, apartments, attics and airports. After spending most of my adult life in geographical angst I just settled on San Francisco. How horrible of me to say that I settled for such a world class beaut of a city. However, I had finally reached a point of rooting in my life, whether I liked it or not. I forced myself to realize that the greenest grass is the lawn in my mind, because wherever you are, there you are.

Sure, my heart has not always been in it but I have learned to open up my heart up. Celebrating Chinese New Year buying insanely cheap orchids, $3 dim sum, dipping into divey bars with Buddhist altars lit with incense. Or, what I thought was my first maiden voyage around the bay ending up laboriously helping sail a boat around Alcatraz Island in pouring rain and 40 mph winds. Try spending a Saturday afternoon in the Western Addition giggling with the girls while taking a pole and lap dancing class instructed by a former stripper. Lastly, packing a picnic of bread, cheese and Chardonnay and sprawling about Huntington Park in front of Grace Cathedral. If I use my imagination it is just like being at Notre Dame in Paris!

My experience living here in San Francisco is not that unsimiliar to my Mother's over fifty years ago. I live in a tiny, Victorian apartment in Nob Hill only a few blocks away from the women’s hotel my mother used to live in (now a residence for the elderly). My apartment building used to be a hotel back in the Barbary Coast days and survived the 1906 earthquake as well as St. Mark's did. I don’t own a car and ride the California Street trolley to and from my work every day. Most women go without dressing up these days but I love to! Be it my favorite hot pink, snakeskin, 3" stiletto heels, a French toile, empire, pleated dress or my favorite hat, a gaucho beret I brought back from Buenos Aires.

Spring and spring cleaning came early this year. I went through all my storage and pulled out the few vintage garments my mother managed to hold on to. She passed them along to me last Christmas in Portland where we spent a cold and blurry afternoon indoors browsing through photos of her back in the day, back in San Francisco. Inspired by the nostalgia she pulled out of the attic closet a few items to pass onto me. I was giddy. I chose her pair of white, wrist length, navy-polka dotted gloves and wore them all weekend long. My siblings, niece and nephews all thought I was a loon but I felt like I had been transported back in to a time of grace, style and fun! I told my Mom that come Spring I was going to wear these gloves and bring back the trend of being a lady. She laughed at me, rolled her eyes and said “Not even old ladies like me wear gloves... that time has gone and past. It will never be again.”

I kept my promise. Last February, running the usual 12 minutes late to work I threw on my classic trench coat, grabbed my purse and ran out the door. Skillfully skidding down California Street in 3” heels I gracefully jumped onto the ledge of the passing cable car, clutching the rails with my white, navy-polka dotted gloves. The morning fog hazed my view of the financial district and bay beyond. I live where I live because San Francisco is the mediator city for me. It feeds my fantasy of city sophistication whilst only being an hour and twenty minute plane ride away from my true home and family in Portland, Oregon.

Vacaciones? Nicaragua

A Caribbean queen's hidden treasure: Nicaragua. If you feel your gold coins have been looted by Wall Street pirates, have no fear, Nicaragua is the X mark on the world map of where to find treasure in blissful beaches, tiny islands, and a pleasing exchange rate for these rough economic times. The Eastern Coast boasts of white, sandy beaches and turquoise waters while Northern Nicaragua offers lowlands dotted with volcanoes (some still active).
Managua International Airport is the country’s major hub served by the following airlines: Aerocaribbean, American Airlines and Atlantic Airways. Both Big and Little Corn Islands on the Caribbean coast offer the most spectacular, unspoiled and isolated beaches fringed with coconut palms and blazing orange and violet sunsets. To get there you’ll want to catch a puddle flight off the mainland. There are no roads on the islands and the pace is unhurried and peaceful. Sip a refreshing cerveza and drift off to the wind bristling through the palm trees and the gentle waves lapping up to shore.

Where to stay:
Casa Canada http://www.casa-canada.com/.
Hotel Los Delfines http://www.hotellosdelfines.com/

Where to eat:
Anastasia’s on the Sea http://www.cornislandsparadise.com/
Ensueños http://www.ensuenos-littlecornisland/

If sun and surf starts to tire you or you see a buccaneer’s ship on the ocean’s horizon you can flee north to the lush, tropical mountains of Matagalpa where a cool climate and great hospitality awaits you. It even boasts the countries best cup of coffee, the Matagalpa roast. Matagalpa’s most luxurious lodge, the Selva Negra Mountain Resort welcomes you with private porches and spectacular views. The lodge offers nearly 1,500 acres of hiking trails filled with howler monkeys, ocelots, 125 species of birds and an array of 85 species of orchids.

Selva Negra Mountain Resort http://www.selvanegra.com/.
Nicaragua isn’t sprawling with five star resorts or boutiques (not as of yet) but you will find fantastic meals and beachfront rooms to fit your travel budget. If you’re looking to escape from the city crowds to a private destination undiscovered by most savvy travelers then your treasure awaits you.

Vistas: Curiously Friendly Hello, Jaisalmer, India

Australia: Coraf Reef - Do Fish Like Roast Beef?

Sure, I adored the kiddy pool at Sunset Park when I was a child but soon I outgrew the 1ft wading pool and come age 10, I spent (from what I can recall) to be a long summer taking swimming lessons at the Tualatin Recreation Center. My mother had to bribe me by promising a new doll if I finished the lessons. Not too thrilled to be donning a swimsuit at age 10 (bit squishy was I) nor to be dunking my head in and out of water, backstroking and learning to hold my breath longer and longer underwater. On the final day of our lessons we had our swim test. Family was allowed to sit in the bleachers and watch their child’s progress. We were to start at the 5ft range and swim straight across the pool to the other side. I managed to swim to the other side of the pool, pop my head up to smile and wave at Mom sitting on the bleachers only to sink right down fast as I had mistakenly rerouted myself to the 10ft range of the pool and had no footing!

I just hate swimming. In high school in order to pass graduation we were required to take a swim test, with the boys and in bathing suits (gahhrrkk! I had legs of a lumberjack and a rack? Please). I managed to get out of this one only because my girlfriend went to church with the woman who volunteered at the high school and was in charge of documenting passes and failures. Without ever having to step in to a one piece I passed and graduated from high school (that’s using your smarts).

Looking back, I wish I had failed. To this day I really don’t know how to swim. I can wiggle my legs, flap my arms and backstroke, otherwise, I’m horrible. For some reason over the years I developed this psychological fear of the ocean. You can set me sail off on a ship, ferry or catamaran, no problem, but I’ll never wade further than my knees in the ocean. It’s not the sharks or fear of drowning it’s the fear of depth, the deep, knowing that there is a vast depth below that I can’t see, touch, understand or mostly, control.

Up until age 30 I had never even imagined to attempt the wonders of snorkeling. I had a few wonderful missed opportunities to in Mexico and Thailand. A couple months after 9/11 I turned 30. I was unemployed, living in a friend’s attic in the East Bay, commuting for over an hour to the Peninsula for a temp-to-possible hire job working as the personal assistant for an overly arrogant Silicon Valley venture capitalist and his overly privileged stay at home wife. He claimed his ancestor was Thomas Paine. He even had an original copy of Thomas Paine’s revolutionary book Common Sense on his office bookshelf. Ironically enough, for a man whose late ancestor wrote the book that spurred such great democracies, he had little common sense himself. During my trial run to be crowned The Paine’s next hand maiden, I was designated the one to deliver Mr. Paine’s tea to him promptly at 8:50am every morning. “Oh lovely jubbly!” I thought to myself. There a skill I can use to beef up my resume! I was instructed by his senior assistant that he preferred Earl Grey, one tablespoon of low fat milk, absolutely no sugar (or sugar substitute of any kind). She poured the boiling water in to the tea cup, unwrapped the tea bag abnd dunked it in the cup. The most important note of all was that Mr. Paine’s teabag must be dunked 12 times and then immediately discarded. Not 5, nor 15, but exactly 12 times. Is that common sense or OCD?

It paid enormously however, the most I’ve ever made in my life and at that time the money was hard to resist, though I paid for it. I worked for elitist, old school, old money men who felt entitled in every way. The secretarial pool looked more like a casting call for Hustler magazine (which I completely stood out and not in that cover girl kind of way). One man who worked at the firm down the hall even mentioned to me whilst we were waiting for the elevator “Oh you work there? That place looks like a strip club with the kind of women that walk in and out of there.” Hmmm, compliment taken dear sir.

In a matter of a couple months it was clear I was not making the cut and I was told that the possibility of a permanent hire was not going to work out (damn! My dunking skills stink!). I packed my belongings, walked out the door, got in the car and drudged through the evening traffic across the backed up San Mateo bridge. U2’s A Beautiful Day came on the radio and I blasted it and started laughing.

You're out of luck
And the reason that you had to care
The traffic is stuck
And you're not moving anywhere…
It was a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
Beautiful day

Touch me
Take me to that other place
Reach me
I know I'm not a hopeless case

What you don't have you don't need it now
What you don't know you can feel it somehow
What you don't have you don't need it now
Don't need it now
Was a beautiful day

I kept laughing driving a bit haphazardly (but in a carefree fun way) and yelled out to myself “I’m going to Australia!” Screw this I thought. The post 9-11 mood was bringing everyone down, the economy sucks, the jobs stink, I just turned 30, it’s pissing rain and I’m living in an attic with my belongings in storage. I am getting as far away from all this crap as soon as possible and the Southern Hemisphere sounds really God damn good right now! In a matter of a few weeks I secured a temporary work visa, a cheap ticket to Sydney and all my summer clothes out of storage. On New Years Eve of 2001 I was crossing time zones to the land down under. Oz.

I settled myself in Sydney in a hood across the bay to the North called Cremorne. I spent weekends sightseeing, walking across the Harbor Bridge to home every night after work and the only pests I had to deal with were the relentless ‘mossies’ (Oz slang for mosquitoes) and the god damn ‘cockies’ (again, slang for cockroaches) that crawled up the bathroom drains or scurried across the kitchen floor while I’d be making a midnight snack. My workload was light and I spent most my work days getting paid to sit there and plan a few weeks holiday around Bali, Australia and New Zealand before I was to head home in April for my sister’s wedding. No European like jaunts strolling around museums, sipping cappuccinos and admiring the architecture this time around. What I had ultimately hoped to have achieved during these travels down under was to challenge myself to the unknown and for me the unknown was the outdoors.

Soon enough I was off to Cairns in the Northeast of Australia. This is where the coral reef is located, the world’s longest reef (1,240 miles roughly) stretching from the Tropic of Capricorn to southern New Guinea. Its home to 1500 species of tropical fish and 400 finds of hard and soft coral. It is also visible from outer space. I know all this now but for some reason (getting all caught up on travel planning) back then I had skipped over the major fact that the reef lies about 50 miles off the shoreline.

A large group of us were picked up in the early morning from different hostels and headed to the boat that was to take us out to the reef. We were a mix of snorkelers, mostly divers and one novice; me. The Cairns shoreline kept diminishing in sight as we motored farther and farther out on the ocean. Growing nervous I asked one of our guides (young, bronzed, strapping like mate!) “Hey…I’m just curious, um, how far out are we going?”

In a rough and knarly Aussie accent he replied “Ahhh, ehhh, abowt theeerty fahhheeve kullomeeeeters…ehhh, that’s abowt… feeefty mawls.”

I turned my head around and murmured many explixitives to myself. “So, once we actually get there, what’s the deal then?”

“Ahhh, ya geet yer geeear awn an’ sweeem awn owwt theeere,” my guide said.

Despite the plentiful dose of Dramamine taken earlier that morning my stomach was dropping further and further. Before we reached the reef we were served an array of sandwiches and fruit. Having finished up the meal people started assembling their gear: putting on wetsuits, tanks, stripping down to swimsuits, picking out fins and snorkels. I just sat there. I’ll let my lunch settle before I get all ready…umm, yeah.

Motoring closer to the reef area the guides entertained the crowd about ‘Wally’, a fond nickname to the Napoleon wrasse. The Napoleon wrasse is the largest reef fish in the world made even more imposing by a prominent hump on their forehead, Mick Jagger like lips and small buggery eyeballs that make him look cross-eyed. We were further entertained by the fact that ‘Wally’just loves to play, likes games, super friendly and all ‘Wally’ really, really wants is friends to play with! So, don’t be frightened if you see this huge-ass fish on your 20 meter swim from the boat to the reef…it’s just ‘Wally’ and he just wants to play!

We finally hit our spot and dropped anchor. I allowed everyone the honor of diving off the stepladder of the boat in to the ocean. Ten minutes went by and I sat there on the benches of the boat. I was assembled and all ready to go, fins, snorkel, lifejacket. The guides were busy cleaning up lunch and didn’t notice me until one approached me and said “So, ya gonna jump een?”

“Yeah. Sure! I am just… contemplating… everything before I do. You know, I’m going to ease myself into it.”

“All rawght.” He replied.

I moved myself down to the stepladder and sat there for another 20 minutes, contemplating. There were a lot fish and there was fat-ass Wally. The crew was still cleaning up lunch by throwing left-over’s over board. Tons of fish started swimming towards the boat in pursuit of the food. I yelled up to the crew “Hey, these fish here, swarming about, they aren’t going to nip and bite at me are they?”

They stopped their cleaning and turned towards me where one smart alec yelled out “Naaawww, theeey shouldn’t bother ya! Naught unless we strap some roast beef awn ya!” they all busted a gut out.

I laughed at myself to. Sitting there on the stepladder already knee deep in the ocean I talked myself in to it. I told myself how many thousands of miles I had flown to Australia, the Great Barrier Reef is a World Heritage Site that can even be spotted from outer space, how this is a once in a chance opportunity, that this was part of my outdoors challenge and would I prefer to be back in an office running to the kitchen to dunk a bag of Earl Grey tea in to a cup 12 times?

So I leaped in! Paddled towards the reef (wherever that was) and got used to the awkwardness of snorkeling. Just a few drips of salt water to cough out of my throat but carried on. Like I did with much gung ho in my childhood swim classes I quickly paddled out to the reef (Wally was an incentive to move quickly!).

Once I did, it was magic. Head fully under water there was nothing but calming silence, the relaxing sound of me breathing through the snorkel pipes, just the right warmth and the gentle lilt of the waves to loft me through. I saw such beautiful fish: reel, clown, angel, yellow, blue, zebra, butterfly and the pastel colored reefs that swayed along with the gentle lullaby sway of the ocean waves. I popped my head up occasionally to make sure the boat was still in sight and to look out for the signal from our guides to swim back in. Far too soon, it was time to head back and Flipper here swam back to the boat with more finesse than I had originally swum out with.

I launched myself up the stepladder and awkwardly flapped about trying to find a place to take my non-human fins off.

“So, haw was eeet?!” The guides exclaimed.

“It was incredible! I actually did it!” and I checked snorkeling off my must do in my lifetime list.

So, do fish eat roast beef? No, but the sharks would adore some I’m sure. However, that’s another psychosis for another time. For that one afternoon in the Coral Sea, I was beyond proud for, well, ‘dunking’ myself in to the ocean (just once, not 12 times) and doing it!

Photo: Coral Reef, Cairns, Australia

Cuanto Cuesta?: Ordning & Reda

It might be silly (OK, slightly obsessive) to coordinate right down to my daily calendar but I am a fan of the paper, bags, diaries and desk accessories from Swedish designers Ordning & Reda. I look forward more to choosing the new year’s diary than toasting a tipsy glass of champagne. They stand true to the Scandinavian concept of design; simple, minimal and conservative use of bold colors. To date, stores are to be found around Europe and one in Dubai, however, you can contact them directly for enquiries on how to purchase from the U.S.

Ordning & Reda Service Center
S:t Eriksgatan 46 C
SE-112 34 Stockholm
Sweden
info@ordning-reda.com
TEL: +46.8.728.20.60

Trevlig dag!

Vistas: Beach Aglow at Sunset, Tamarindo, Costa Rica

Mangia: Swedish Toscas

Somewhere between 3rd and 5th grade, we were assigned to report on a country in the world and to bring to class a dish from that region. My choice was Sweden and I brought Swedish Toscas, mini almond tarts. Oh, and cheers to you Elin Nordegren, fellow Swede from a land where Toscas are the tarts and not the women. I hope you 5 Wood his ass to the wall.

Tart Crust
6 tbsp butter, room temperature
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup all purpose flour
1/8 tsp salt
1/4 tsp almond extract (optional)

Filling
1/3 cup almond meal (finely ground almonds)
1/4 cup sugar
2 tbsp butter, room temperature
1 1/2 tbsp milk
2 tsp all purpose flour
1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350F.
Make the tart shells: In a medium mixing bowl, cream together butter and sugar. With the mixer on low speed, gradually beat in flour, salt and almond extract (if using) until dough is crumbly and has the texture of wet sand. Spoon evenly into 18 mini muffin cups and press the dough down to create tart-shell shapes going up the sides of the muffin cups. Bake shells for 6-7 minutes.

While shells are baking, make the almond filling: In a medium saucepan, combine almonds, sugar, butter, milk and flour. Cook over medium heat, whisking frequently, until mixture comes to a boil. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla extract. Set aside until shells are ready.

Remove the tart shells from the oven and use a small spoon to press an indentation into the center of each one (because the dough will spread a bit during baking). Fill each indentation with almond filling. Return tarts to oven and bake for 10-15 minutes, until shells and the edges of the filling are lightly browned. Use a knife to loosen the tarts from the edges of the muffin tin while they are still warm. Let cool in pan for 15-20 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

Makes 18 mini tarts.