Monday, May 21, 2012
London calling...
Packing up for the next adventure: London, Firenze and Berlin. Fascinator carefully placed in suitcase. Everything else is negligible.
Monday, November 1, 2010
"The best meal I've ever had"
That was Jordo's reaction after we had dinner at Cava de Cano restaurant outside of Mendoza. And let me tell you: It was fabulous. If you're on Facebook, check out Jordo's photos to get an idea why.
We had a private room all to ourselves. We walked in to find a table covered -- literally every corner of it -- with a variety of appetizers. There were meats and cheeses and pickled vegetables and wine-cooked rice and five different kinds of beans and quinoa and roasted vegetables and bread and an unending flow of wine. That was the starting course, one they left on the table throughout the meal so you could pick as wanted. I can't even tell you how disappointed I am in us for not making nearly enough progress with the starters. You would have thought we were amateurs.
Then came four small courses set by the restaurant. The first was a beef stew with carrots, onions and potatos that had us soaking up the juices with bread. Then a pasta bolognese course, which was just meh, followed by a squash soup that was so delicious we cleaned our bowls. Dessert was ice cream with dolce de leche sauce served with a glass of Champagne.
Oh my God, it was awesome. We were there for more than 2 1/2 hours and we could have lingered even longer. Total cost: Something like $70.
Other Mendoza news: We went on what was billed as a winery tour but was actually a pretty lame excuse for one. We saw one bottling plant and one small winery. (Plus an olive oil factory and a candy/liqueur making place as bonuses.) The one thing that made things bearable while also making them unbearable? The woman from Atlanta who had to ask questions about EVERYTHING. Her questions were so random and out there that we'd just wait for the guide to stop talking so she could interject. We also started making up our own stupid questions for her: If zombies invaded your winery, do you think they'd go for the Malbec first or go straight for brains? How do you feel Obama's health care initiative has impacted Argentine wine sales?
We had a private room all to ourselves. We walked in to find a table covered -- literally every corner of it -- with a variety of appetizers. There were meats and cheeses and pickled vegetables and wine-cooked rice and five different kinds of beans and quinoa and roasted vegetables and bread and an unending flow of wine. That was the starting course, one they left on the table throughout the meal so you could pick as wanted. I can't even tell you how disappointed I am in us for not making nearly enough progress with the starters. You would have thought we were amateurs.
Then came four small courses set by the restaurant. The first was a beef stew with carrots, onions and potatos that had us soaking up the juices with bread. Then a pasta bolognese course, which was just meh, followed by a squash soup that was so delicious we cleaned our bowls. Dessert was ice cream with dolce de leche sauce served with a glass of Champagne.
Oh my God, it was awesome. We were there for more than 2 1/2 hours and we could have lingered even longer. Total cost: Something like $70.
Other Mendoza news: We went on what was billed as a winery tour but was actually a pretty lame excuse for one. We saw one bottling plant and one small winery. (Plus an olive oil factory and a candy/liqueur making place as bonuses.) The one thing that made things bearable while also making them unbearable? The woman from Atlanta who had to ask questions about EVERYTHING. Her questions were so random and out there that we'd just wait for the guide to stop talking so she could interject. We also started making up our own stupid questions for her: If zombies invaded your winery, do you think they'd go for the Malbec first or go straight for brains? How do you feel Obama's health care initiative has impacted Argentine wine sales?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Asado is another word for "delicious."
Thanks to a friend, we were invited to a traditional Argentine cook out yesterday afternoon and it did not disappoint.
We had to hire a driver to take us the almost two hour trip into the country. Danny was funny and friendly, filling us in on all the Argentine news as we zoomed down near empty streets. (Not only was it the Census but also the President's husband, himself a former president, had died suddenly.) We stopped at a small, family-owned winery on the way out, one of the only things that was open. We got a personal tour of the vineyards and the wine making operation and then a tasting. Surprise, surprise, we ended up buying a few bottles of wine.
Then on the asado, hosted by the folks at the Vines of Mendoza, an operation that sells vineyards to people. They were entertaining one of their owner couples and a potential owner couple. What did these people do to be able to afford vineyards? Oh, this and that, "I invest in new technology companies," you know how it goes. I asked one of the women at the lunch if she'd fulfilled my dream: Seeing all seven continents. Many times over, she said. I guess I should have figured that since she's been to Antarctica three times alone.
So at the asado, you sit around a big family style table and as things come off the grill, they're brought around to you and you can either take some or not. And the food just kept coming: Steaks and chicken and sausages and on the table there were grilled vegetables and salads. And, because this is a wine making organization, there was wine galore. We ate, had interesting conversations with our hosts, and just spent a wonderful afternoon of slow eating and drinking. It ranks as one of my favorite days here.
(In a twist of odd, one of the guys there knew a friend of ours. It was a day of weird coincidences, as you'll see later.)
On the way back to the city, we took another route so we could go through the Andes. The skies had cleared and we could actually see the peaks, even the snow on some of them.
In short, it was just an amazing ride and an amazing day.
In the evening, we had a strange encounter with a couple who back in Philadelphia live about six blocks from us. (We didn't know them until we sat next to them at a restaurant.) More on that later as I must prepare for dinner in a cave.
We had to hire a driver to take us the almost two hour trip into the country. Danny was funny and friendly, filling us in on all the Argentine news as we zoomed down near empty streets. (Not only was it the Census but also the President's husband, himself a former president, had died suddenly.) We stopped at a small, family-owned winery on the way out, one of the only things that was open. We got a personal tour of the vineyards and the wine making operation and then a tasting. Surprise, surprise, we ended up buying a few bottles of wine.
Then on the asado, hosted by the folks at the Vines of Mendoza, an operation that sells vineyards to people. They were entertaining one of their owner couples and a potential owner couple. What did these people do to be able to afford vineyards? Oh, this and that, "I invest in new technology companies," you know how it goes. I asked one of the women at the lunch if she'd fulfilled my dream: Seeing all seven continents. Many times over, she said. I guess I should have figured that since she's been to Antarctica three times alone.
So at the asado, you sit around a big family style table and as things come off the grill, they're brought around to you and you can either take some or not. And the food just kept coming: Steaks and chicken and sausages and on the table there were grilled vegetables and salads. And, because this is a wine making organization, there was wine galore. We ate, had interesting conversations with our hosts, and just spent a wonderful afternoon of slow eating and drinking. It ranks as one of my favorite days here.
(In a twist of odd, one of the guys there knew a friend of ours. It was a day of weird coincidences, as you'll see later.)
On the way back to the city, we took another route so we could go through the Andes. The skies had cleared and we could actually see the peaks, even the snow on some of them.
In short, it was just an amazing ride and an amazing day.
In the evening, we had a strange encounter with a couple who back in Philadelphia live about six blocks from us. (We didn't know them until we sat next to them at a restaurant.) More on that later as I must prepare for dinner in a cave.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Hotel Lobby
After the expanse of our apartment in Buenos Aires, the smallness (what's the nice real estate term? cozy?) of our hotel is a big shock. Perhaps bigger, we are now forced to decamp from our tiny room to use the wifi or the computer downstairs. The manager is very sweet, has already helped us line up at some crazy winery (thanks megan for the tip!) and already warned us about the upcoming census.
The departure this morning from BA was a little weird, as the contact guy was supposed to come by at 8 but got there fifteen minutes early, which was about ten minutes after we woke up. A fair amount of scurrying around to get out on time but I think we got everything (we found our house keys in the bottom of a roller I must have thrown them into in a haste). The flight was pretty quick and we are pretty much settled in.
Sorry, I got nothing to write about. Will try and get more tomorrow.
The departure this morning from BA was a little weird, as the contact guy was supposed to come by at 8 but got there fifteen minutes early, which was about ten minutes after we woke up. A fair amount of scurrying around to get out on time but I think we got everything (we found our house keys in the bottom of a roller I must have thrown them into in a haste). The flight was pretty quick and we are pretty much settled in.
Sorry, I got nothing to write about. Will try and get more tomorrow.
Mendoza
Safe in Mendoza, within yelling distance of the Andes. We could see them as we were flying in. I was taken with how pretty they looked --- and then I thought of the movie ¨Alive.¨
Mendoza is much smaller than Buenos Aires but with wider sidewalks and more of a cafe feel to it. Almost college town-like, as Jordo noted. It´s a town where the siesta is very much alive and well -- everything closes between 1 and 4 pm. And if we were getting hungry in Bs As, we´re in trouble here because no one in Mendoza eats before 9 p.m.
Our accomodations here are not as lux as they were in Bs As. We´re staying at a place called Le Petit Hotel and let me tell you that it lives up to its name. Our room has a bed and that´s about all that it can fit. Very NYC apartment. Still, the people are nice and we don´t require much beyond the bed.
Tomorrow should be interesting: apparently, it´s Census day here in Argentina and everything is closed. We were advised to buy food tonight for tomorrow as restaurants will be closed until late evening. We´ve hired a driver to take us into the country to an old fashioned asado, so we should be ok. I almost wish we were still in Bs As so we could see what it was like when it was all shut down.
- Natalie
Monday, October 25, 2010
Farewell (almost) to Bs. As.
Tomorrow we take off for Mendoza in the north. Seriously wine and steak country. Some thought, though, before we go
1) We notice we're not blogging as much this trip. In part, I think , it's because we have the Internet in our rented apartment so we have it all the time and we're like, "Eh, we'll just blog later." Then we go sit out on our deck and drink wine and read. In Vietnam and Thailand, blogging had to be a special thing, where we'd go to an Internet cafe for a few hours amongst the kids playing their video games
Also, we're doing and seeing a lot of things, but similar things. Historic sites, neighborhoods, etc. Like there's only so many street fairs I can describe. We've basically gone to a street fair a day since we've been here, on average. There are just so many and they're great -- but they don't make good copy. (They do make for some nice new jewelry, though. I'm going to need some extra fingers for all these rings.)
2) Our aforementioned deck is awesome and worth the cost of the apartment rental. It's covered in trees and flowers, giving it a private feel, and it has the comfiest chairs. We've loved renting an apartment. We've had a ritual most mornings: Wake up. I'll scramble some eggs or something while Jordo goes to the store for fresh bread. Breakfast on the deck. Lounging with coffee and Coca Light.
Then we figure out what one thing we want to make sure to do that day. One day it was going to La Boca, the tourist-heavy section of town where scantily-clad tango dancers kept coming up to Jordo and saying, "hooooolaa." (They want you to pay to pose for pictures with them. As one of our new buds here pointed out, "Like I want my souvenir of Argentina to be my husband with another woman.) Another day, it was going to the Slaughterhouse Festival, which was a really cool thing and we got to ride the bus like locals. (Which meant getting smooshed, like locals.) There was native dancing at the S'house Fest and some danged good slaughtered goods, which we happily indulged in.
3) In terms of indulging, it's true: We've been to more vegetarian restaurants than Parrilla -- tradition steak --- ones. But trust me, the one night we did have steak, we made up for not having it earlier. We were both left with serious cases of "beef belly" and had to walk home to try to settle our stomachs. We expect that Mendoza will force us into having more steak, too. We're already invited to a traditional asado, or barbecue, while we're up there, thanks to a connection here.
4) We've met some really nice people throughout the trip, tourists and locals. Shout out to Randy and Natalie of Reno, NV, who hosted us for appetizers and drinks one boozy night this week. Also to the ladies from San Diego, Kristy and Anna, who recommended we try the Thames restaurant. Good call. And to Ian, our local connection.
5) The 80s are alive and well in Argentina. I haven't heard so much Wang Chung and Corey Hart and Duran Duran since 1985. Also, the women here love, love ,love the droopy crotched pants that I had a few pairs of in middle school, the one shouldered t-shirt, and the messy up-do a la Madonna. Members Only jackets? Also in style. Ian, who lives here, said he sometimes thinks of Bs. As. as America in the late 1970s, with all the smoking and people not picking up after their dogs and the fashion choices. Other popular looks: Skin tight jeans that make you look like a blow-up doll and skirts so short you look like you're about to have a gyno exam.
6) And the PDA here? OOC. (Out of control.) Today, I saw this couple going at it like one of them was going off to war. Turns out, they weren't even parting company. They were just having a post lunch make out session in front of the restaurant where Jordo and I were dining before they started to walk down the street with their arms around each other. On the bus the other day, this woman, who was sitting, was examining the belly button of her boyfriend, who was standing, as if she'd discovered some new life form.
Maybe it's just that they're open about sex here. We've noticed condom machines in every restaurant bathroom, no matter how small the place. We were also told that for AIDS awareness month a few years ago, they put a big pink condom on the obelisk (the local Washington monument). That I would have loved to see. Imagine that in D.C.
--NXP
1) We notice we're not blogging as much this trip. In part, I think , it's because we have the Internet in our rented apartment so we have it all the time and we're like, "Eh, we'll just blog later." Then we go sit out on our deck and drink wine and read. In Vietnam and Thailand, blogging had to be a special thing, where we'd go to an Internet cafe for a few hours amongst the kids playing their video games
Also, we're doing and seeing a lot of things, but similar things. Historic sites, neighborhoods, etc. Like there's only so many street fairs I can describe. We've basically gone to a street fair a day since we've been here, on average. There are just so many and they're great -- but they don't make good copy. (They do make for some nice new jewelry, though. I'm going to need some extra fingers for all these rings.)
2) Our aforementioned deck is awesome and worth the cost of the apartment rental. It's covered in trees and flowers, giving it a private feel, and it has the comfiest chairs. We've loved renting an apartment. We've had a ritual most mornings: Wake up. I'll scramble some eggs or something while Jordo goes to the store for fresh bread. Breakfast on the deck. Lounging with coffee and Coca Light.
Then we figure out what one thing we want to make sure to do that day. One day it was going to La Boca, the tourist-heavy section of town where scantily-clad tango dancers kept coming up to Jordo and saying, "hooooolaa." (They want you to pay to pose for pictures with them. As one of our new buds here pointed out, "Like I want my souvenir of Argentina to be my husband with another woman.) Another day, it was going to the Slaughterhouse Festival, which was a really cool thing and we got to ride the bus like locals. (Which meant getting smooshed, like locals.) There was native dancing at the S'house Fest and some danged good slaughtered goods, which we happily indulged in.
3) In terms of indulging, it's true: We've been to more vegetarian restaurants than Parrilla -- tradition steak --- ones. But trust me, the one night we did have steak, we made up for not having it earlier. We were both left with serious cases of "beef belly" and had to walk home to try to settle our stomachs. We expect that Mendoza will force us into having more steak, too. We're already invited to a traditional asado, or barbecue, while we're up there, thanks to a connection here.
4) We've met some really nice people throughout the trip, tourists and locals. Shout out to Randy and Natalie of Reno, NV, who hosted us for appetizers and drinks one boozy night this week. Also to the ladies from San Diego, Kristy and Anna, who recommended we try the Thames restaurant. Good call. And to Ian, our local connection.
5) The 80s are alive and well in Argentina. I haven't heard so much Wang Chung and Corey Hart and Duran Duran since 1985. Also, the women here love, love ,love the droopy crotched pants that I had a few pairs of in middle school, the one shouldered t-shirt, and the messy up-do a la Madonna. Members Only jackets? Also in style. Ian, who lives here, said he sometimes thinks of Bs. As. as America in the late 1970s, with all the smoking and people not picking up after their dogs and the fashion choices. Other popular looks: Skin tight jeans that make you look like a blow-up doll and skirts so short you look like you're about to have a gyno exam.
6) And the PDA here? OOC. (Out of control.) Today, I saw this couple going at it like one of them was going off to war. Turns out, they weren't even parting company. They were just having a post lunch make out session in front of the restaurant where Jordo and I were dining before they started to walk down the street with their arms around each other. On the bus the other day, this woman, who was sitting, was examining the belly button of her boyfriend, who was standing, as if she'd discovered some new life form.
Maybe it's just that they're open about sex here. We've noticed condom machines in every restaurant bathroom, no matter how small the place. We were also told that for AIDS awareness month a few years ago, they put a big pink condom on the obelisk (the local Washington monument). That I would have loved to see. Imagine that in D.C.
--NXP
Slaugherthouse Fest
Well it turns out that we were off by a day on the Slaughterhouse Festival, it 's Sunday not Saturday. Unfortunately we didn't learn that until we had already taken the 45 minute bus ride out there and learned the sad truth. Luckily we made it out the next day.
The bus system here is pretty amazing. They are running on what seems like almost every street, with stops not just on the corners but in the middle or the start of a block. About 300 lines, all of which weave back and forth through areas. The system, as chaotic as it seems, works pretty well. Fares are tiered depending on how far you travel (with the max being 1.75 pesos, or about 45 cents). If you want to find out how to get from point A to point B, you can call a number, tell them your address and where you want to get and they will direct you there. The only tough part are the drivers, which like all other drivers in Buenos Aires like to speed, turn fast and break hard. We survived.
The slaughterhouse festival was interesting. More random argentineans going to a market on the weekend than tourists and most of the stuff for sale was either leather or cowboy themed (the half spoke wheel wine holder was probably the most impressive item for sale). Most As far as food it certainly lived up to its billing, with a grill pit that was probably 12 feet by 12 feet full or various cuts of steak, sausage and chicken. Most of the meat was served on slightly warm bread. It was pretty amazing.
Despite ten days here we only ended up having one big steak meal, a platter combo at one of the more popular places, La Dorita. We thought it was about the most beef one could order for dinner until we saw some old couple having some platter twice the size. For lunch.
Clearly we are soft in our carnivore status. We have ended up eating at more vegetarian restaurants than steakhouses. Let's hope we fix that in Mendoza.
The bus system here is pretty amazing. They are running on what seems like almost every street, with stops not just on the corners but in the middle or the start of a block. About 300 lines, all of which weave back and forth through areas. The system, as chaotic as it seems, works pretty well. Fares are tiered depending on how far you travel (with the max being 1.75 pesos, or about 45 cents). If you want to find out how to get from point A to point B, you can call a number, tell them your address and where you want to get and they will direct you there. The only tough part are the drivers, which like all other drivers in Buenos Aires like to speed, turn fast and break hard. We survived.
The slaughterhouse festival was interesting. More random argentineans going to a market on the weekend than tourists and most of the stuff for sale was either leather or cowboy themed (the half spoke wheel wine holder was probably the most impressive item for sale). Most As far as food it certainly lived up to its billing, with a grill pit that was probably 12 feet by 12 feet full or various cuts of steak, sausage and chicken. Most of the meat was served on slightly warm bread. It was pretty amazing.
Despite ten days here we only ended up having one big steak meal, a platter combo at one of the more popular places, La Dorita. We thought it was about the most beef one could order for dinner until we saw some old couple having some platter twice the size. For lunch.
Clearly we are soft in our carnivore status. We have ended up eating at more vegetarian restaurants than steakhouses. Let's hope we fix that in Mendoza.
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Art of the Protest
On our first day here, the guy from whom we're renting an apartment got all shady when telling us where to put out the trash.
"Just take it little by little and put it in the city bins," was his advice. Which we did, although we could just have easily just dumped it on any random corner, as many of them were 12-deep with trash bags that had been picked over for recyclables and extra food. Not exactly a beautiful site to welcome you to the city.
Turns out there'd been a trash strike. (It just ended.) The garbage men were protesting --- something. Doesn't matter what because as people have told us, protesting and striking is very Argentinian. On any given day, you'll find some group or another marching in front of the Presidential Palace where Evita once held center stage. One group recently called on citizens to occupy the Supreme Court. The other day, there was a Subte slow down, we assume because of another protest.
Yesterday, we went to the Plaza de Mayo where the Mothers of the Disappeared have been protesting the disappearance of their loved ones every Thursday for years. While they were marching, a rival Mothers group also protested and yet another random group showed up with placards.
(We appreciate protesters, having spent quality time on our honeymoon with protesters in Thailand.)
The Mothers were the only ones who really moved me. They wear white kerchiefs tied around their heads, and the image of just the kerchief is now seen painted on playgrounds and schools. The message: These mothers are watching you, because what happened to their children 30 years ago will not happen to yours.
But the protest now has become a tourist spectacle. Tourists --like us -- walked along with the mothers, snapping photos. (I justified this as I am writing about them when I get home so I was doing work.) And you have to wonder how many of these tourists know about the Dirty War and all the chaos it wreaked.
Then again, maybe the tourist-y nature isn't a bad thing, because it'll interest people in learning about the history of the country they're visiting and not just see it as a place for good steak. (And Malbec.)
--NXP
"Just take it little by little and put it in the city bins," was his advice. Which we did, although we could just have easily just dumped it on any random corner, as many of them were 12-deep with trash bags that had been picked over for recyclables and extra food. Not exactly a beautiful site to welcome you to the city.
Turns out there'd been a trash strike. (It just ended.) The garbage men were protesting --- something. Doesn't matter what because as people have told us, protesting and striking is very Argentinian. On any given day, you'll find some group or another marching in front of the Presidential Palace where Evita once held center stage. One group recently called on citizens to occupy the Supreme Court. The other day, there was a Subte slow down, we assume because of another protest.
Yesterday, we went to the Plaza de Mayo where the Mothers of the Disappeared have been protesting the disappearance of their loved ones every Thursday for years. While they were marching, a rival Mothers group also protested and yet another random group showed up with placards.
(We appreciate protesters, having spent quality time on our honeymoon with protesters in Thailand.)
The Mothers were the only ones who really moved me. They wear white kerchiefs tied around their heads, and the image of just the kerchief is now seen painted on playgrounds and schools. The message: These mothers are watching you, because what happened to their children 30 years ago will not happen to yours.
But the protest now has become a tourist spectacle. Tourists --like us -- walked along with the mothers, snapping photos. (I justified this as I am writing about them when I get home so I was doing work.) And you have to wonder how many of these tourists know about the Dirty War and all the chaos it wreaked.
Then again, maybe the tourist-y nature isn't a bad thing, because it'll interest people in learning about the history of the country they're visiting and not just see it as a place for good steak. (And Malbec.)
--NXP
Photos, Naps and such
Day 7 of our time here and we have settled into a pretty good routine. Touring until about 2 or 3, home for nap/lazing around and then dinner at 8 or 9pm (the late eating is difficult as it has been conflicting with certain baseball interests).
Today we went to La Boca, the port area which is mostly working class except for the Caminito, a few blocks of brightly colored buildings and tons of tourist related merchandise (once again, Bob Marley seems to have special import for this area, as he did in Bangkok, Phuket and if I remember right from 1995, Kathmandu). Have been trying to do a better job of photographing, but picasa is giving me trouble so facebook is probably a better place to check.
We ate lunch today at Kentucky Pizza (slogan: the best pizza since 1942). We ordered their special, Gran Kentucky, sight unseen. I wondered what the Kentucky part of it meant. Slathered in a mint julep? Horsemeat? Sadly just cheese, ham and olives. I just hope the proud Kentuckians don't learn how their state is known here for mediocre pizza.
Tomorrow we are off to the Feria de Mataderos, which google translate tells me is the "Slaughterhouse Festival." Will report more then.
Today we went to La Boca, the port area which is mostly working class except for the Caminito, a few blocks of brightly colored buildings and tons of tourist related merchandise (once again, Bob Marley seems to have special import for this area, as he did in Bangkok, Phuket and if I remember right from 1995, Kathmandu). Have been trying to do a better job of photographing, but picasa is giving me trouble so facebook is probably a better place to check.
We ate lunch today at Kentucky Pizza (slogan: the best pizza since 1942). We ordered their special, Gran Kentucky, sight unseen. I wondered what the Kentucky part of it meant. Slathered in a mint julep? Horsemeat? Sadly just cheese, ham and olives. I just hope the proud Kentuckians don't learn how their state is known here for mediocre pizza.
Tomorrow we are off to the Feria de Mataderos, which google translate tells me is the "Slaughterhouse Festival." Will report more then.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Late nights
So the other night, we mosey out of our apartment and walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner. We get there and find the place is empty except for the staff. We're not open for another hour, the waitress tells us. Come back then.
It was 8 p.m.
The people of Bs As like their night life. Dinner before 8? Escandalo! It's the equivalent of the senior citizens' discount meals in the US. No one who is anyone dares eat before 8, and the preferred time is actually 9 pm. And it's not just the hipsters who are eating late. There are entire families, children in tow, sitting down for the start of their meals at 9:30.
It's quite an adjustment for hungry Americans, who start to feel peckish around 7pm.
Last night, though, we did really well: We didn't even leave the apartment until 9 pm. It was a Wednesday night so we figured we wouldn't have that much trouble getting a table at a recommended restaurant down the street. Who goes out on a Wednesday?
The lines were out the door every where we looked.
How does anyone get to work in the morning?
I think what I'm figuring out is they don't get to work early in the morning. Today, we tried to go to MALBA, one of the big museums there. We got there at 11 a.m. It didn't open until noon.
We eventually got into the museum and broke our own record for speed museum viewing: We were out in 30 minutes. Whole museum and a walk through the gift shop. We're just not the museum types.
Other things we've been doing:
1) Recoleta Cemetery: Love it! A city of the dead very much New Orleans style but even more elaborate. We got a guided tour so we heard charming stories of the bride who was killed on her honeymoon, the teenager who was buried alive and who allegedly haunts the city to this day, etc. We also saw Evita Peron's final resting place, which they say always has flowers on the gate.
2) Evita Peron Museum: Worth it to see the clothes. (Yes, I am shallow. I also went to see the traveling exhibit of Princess Diana's clothes in Philadelphia.)
3) Graffiti tour: Awesome! I'll have to write a longer post on the difference between public art here and in Philly. This wasn't just tagging. This was really beautiful art works done on buildings, usually unauthorized.
It was 8 p.m.
The people of Bs As like their night life. Dinner before 8? Escandalo! It's the equivalent of the senior citizens' discount meals in the US. No one who is anyone dares eat before 8, and the preferred time is actually 9 pm. And it's not just the hipsters who are eating late. There are entire families, children in tow, sitting down for the start of their meals at 9:30.
It's quite an adjustment for hungry Americans, who start to feel peckish around 7pm.
Last night, though, we did really well: We didn't even leave the apartment until 9 pm. It was a Wednesday night so we figured we wouldn't have that much trouble getting a table at a recommended restaurant down the street. Who goes out on a Wednesday?
The lines were out the door every where we looked.
How does anyone get to work in the morning?
I think what I'm figuring out is they don't get to work early in the morning. Today, we tried to go to MALBA, one of the big museums there. We got there at 11 a.m. It didn't open until noon.
We eventually got into the museum and broke our own record for speed museum viewing: We were out in 30 minutes. Whole museum and a walk through the gift shop. We're just not the museum types.
Other things we've been doing:
1) Recoleta Cemetery: Love it! A city of the dead very much New Orleans style but even more elaborate. We got a guided tour so we heard charming stories of the bride who was killed on her honeymoon, the teenager who was buried alive and who allegedly haunts the city to this day, etc. We also saw Evita Peron's final resting place, which they say always has flowers on the gate.
2) Evita Peron Museum: Worth it to see the clothes. (Yes, I am shallow. I also went to see the traveling exhibit of Princess Diana's clothes in Philadelphia.)
3) Graffiti tour: Awesome! I'll have to write a longer post on the difference between public art here and in Philly. This wasn't just tagging. This was really beautiful art works done on buildings, usually unauthorized.
Some other observations:
1. The double L in words like “pollo” is pronounced as “sh” here, not as a ‘y’ sound. A 'y" as in Mayo is also a "sh." It’s weird. “J” is also pronounced “sh,” so “Shordan” has a new nickname.
2. The advantage of having a fractured foot: I only had to pack half as many shoes – left shoes only – and I didn’t have to worry about dress shoes or heels as it’s impossible to walk in anything other than flats with the surgical boot. Plus, some man gave up his seat for me on the Subte.
3. The disadvantage of having a fractured foot: It tends to swell up after a day of walking, resulting in J.K. Swellington III. It could wreak havoc on our tango lessons. Will advise.
----NXPTuesday, October 19, 2010
Shame of the City
This lady, from somewhere near Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, is the worst fellow traveler we have seen. We were on a tour of the Recoleta Cemetery (oldest in BA, famous people buried, etc. etc. blah blah, ). The guides there do the tour pretty much on tips alone. This is pretty obvious because it SAYS SO RIGHT WHERE YOU ASSEMBLE FOR THE TOUR.
Anyways, Pursed Lips McGillicutty decides to leave the tour halfway through. In front of the tour guide and everyone else she opens her wallet, looks through the bills that are clearly in her wallet (we can all see them) and then decides to leave without giving the guide any sort of gratuity. Listen lady, I saw the 5 dollar bill and the multiple pesos in there, you can afford 1/20th the cost of your bad hair dye job to help the tour guide eat.
FROM NATALIE
I like the Argentinian way of dining: Slow. You order an appetizer, you sit for a while. Then you order dinner, then sit for a while. You think about coffee and dessert, then you sit for a while. Our first night’s meal lasted for more than two hours.
On our first night, we went to an Armenian restaurant called Sarkis. It’s a very local place, -- there were huge lines outside the door when the doors opened at 8pm -- and we’d been warned that the menu was neither in English or Spanish. I don’t know about you guys, but my Armenian is pretty rusty. There was a lot of, “That word has a ‘c’ in it. ‘Chicken’ starts with ‘c.’ Let’s try that. “ Then we’d end up getting some vegetarian dish.
But it was all delicious and cheap, considering we had three appetizers, two entrees and two bottles of wine for less than $50.
I also like the Argentinian way of preparing food. Yesterday we took a cooking class. And by “cooking,” I mean we did a bit of chopping, a little stirring and a lot of wine drinking and empanada eating.
Our lesson was in the art of empanada making, taught by the very sweet Teresita. Imagine us and about 8 other people crowded around a kitchen island depitting olives with this cool gun thing and measuring flour on this old fashioned weighted scale. Then we had to shape the dough into balls and roll it out into circles. Just a really good time, even if rolling dough into circles is easier said than done. (Some of our misshapen pieces resembled various continents.)
As Jordo noted, he’s not a natural when it comes to rolling dough. But as I so kindly pointed out, he has a lot of other skills. Like he can kill bugs without flinching. I’ll happily roll empanada circles if he slays cockroaches. Marriage is a give and take.
Then we stuffed the dough with either a meat mixture or a corn mixture that we’d made. That’s also not as easy as it sounds, and let’s just say there were some very special empanadas.
It was just a really good time. We met some nice people, who we plan to see again while we’re here and we got to slurp Mate, the national drink. (They really want you to slurp it. It’s good manners.) We ate and drank so much that we were pretty wiped out by night time. I even fell asleep during the Yankee game.
Speaking of the Yankees, during Sunday Mass, we stopped in for a visit at Iglesia de San Jorge (Posada, as I mentally added). We lit candles and I prayed for the Yankees to win the World Series. I think I looked suitably holy and somber when I did this, so I’m sure the lady who sold me the candles thought I was praying for my dying relative’s good health or world peace. She didn’t know that I routinely make baseball bets with the heavens in an attempt to prove or disprove God’s existence. (Thus far, “disprove” is winning. During Game 1 of the ALDS, I swore I would go to church every week for a year if CC Sabathia pitched a perfect game. The minute he gave up a run, Jordo was like, ‘You sure dodged a bullet there, friend.”)
Three days into our trip and we still haven’t had any steak. But lest you think we’re total failures, we’ve polished off 8 bottles of Malbec. Priorities.
On our first night, we went to an Armenian restaurant called Sarkis. It’s a very local place, -- there were huge lines outside the door when the doors opened at 8pm -- and we’d been warned that the menu was neither in English or Spanish. I don’t know about you guys, but my Armenian is pretty rusty. There was a lot of, “That word has a ‘c’ in it. ‘Chicken’ starts with ‘c.’ Let’s try that. “ Then we’d end up getting some vegetarian dish.
But it was all delicious and cheap, considering we had three appetizers, two entrees and two bottles of wine for less than $50.
I also like the Argentinian way of preparing food. Yesterday we took a cooking class. And by “cooking,” I mean we did a bit of chopping, a little stirring and a lot of wine drinking and empanada eating.
Our lesson was in the art of empanada making, taught by the very sweet Teresita. Imagine us and about 8 other people crowded around a kitchen island depitting olives with this cool gun thing and measuring flour on this old fashioned weighted scale. Then we had to shape the dough into balls and roll it out into circles. Just a really good time, even if rolling dough into circles is easier said than done. (Some of our misshapen pieces resembled various continents.)
As Jordo noted, he’s not a natural when it comes to rolling dough. But as I so kindly pointed out, he has a lot of other skills. Like he can kill bugs without flinching. I’ll happily roll empanada circles if he slays cockroaches. Marriage is a give and take.
Then we stuffed the dough with either a meat mixture or a corn mixture that we’d made. That’s also not as easy as it sounds, and let’s just say there were some very special empanadas.
It was just a really good time. We met some nice people, who we plan to see again while we’re here and we got to slurp Mate, the national drink. (They really want you to slurp it. It’s good manners.) We ate and drank so much that we were pretty wiped out by night time. I even fell asleep during the Yankee game.
Speaking of the Yankees, during Sunday Mass, we stopped in for a visit at Iglesia de San Jorge (Posada, as I mentally added). We lit candles and I prayed for the Yankees to win the World Series. I think I looked suitably holy and somber when I did this, so I’m sure the lady who sold me the candles thought I was praying for my dying relative’s good health or world peace. She didn’t know that I routinely make baseball bets with the heavens in an attempt to prove or disprove God’s existence. (Thus far, “disprove” is winning. During Game 1 of the ALDS, I swore I would go to church every week for a year if CC Sabathia pitched a perfect game. The minute he gave up a run, Jordo was like, ‘You sure dodged a bullet there, friend.”)
Three days into our trip and we still haven’t had any steak. But lest you think we’re total failures, we’ve polished off 8 bottles of Malbec. Priorities.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Getting Settled In
For someone who planned to eat a ton of steak while on vacation I am off to a pretty bad start. 50 hours and so far the closest I have gotten was some random milanesa that was an afterthought last night. I gotta get working on that.
So far the trip has been, if not exactly a whirlwind, at least pretty packed full of fun. We landed in BA on Saturday morning, took a pretty quick taxi in and spent the day wandering around a small street market near our apartment in Palermo (did I mention that we have an apartment? It’s a 300 square foot beaut with minimal storage space and a deck that serves as our baseball watching wine drinking HQ. From now on we are renting apartments whenever we travel. Cheaper and more space.) We found some rings and then wandered to dinner at an Armenian restaurant nearby, which was awesome. Apparently there was a big influx of Armenians and they have quite a few restaurants. As the Lebanese women we were making empanadas with noted, Armenians are good with their hands. Which is odd, because the only Armenians of notoriety that I know either dated or provided legal counsel to professional athletes (ok same family but still). Either way, great food, including a moussaka that seemed more like a slow cooked eggplant dish but was wonderful.
The next day we first stopped at a local Catholic church so Natalie could make sure and engage in her regular day of worship. Or alternatively, the Yankees are in the playoffs and someone needed to light a candle and ask God for his help in the playoffs. So Natalie lit a candle to ask God to shine down on the Yankees, I lit a candle to ask God to not smite us for only going to church to ask him to help a sports team and we got a third candle for tonight.
Trinity done we wandered down to the market which was, as far as mostly overpriced tourist markets go, pretty impressive. Ten to twelve blocks chock full of 70% tourist tchotckes, 20% fabrics and 10% jewelry. Nat snagged a nice ring and we found a random café where we learned of the “completa” sandwich. Apparently, no sandwich is complete without cheese, ham and egg, so if you get a hambuger completa, be prepared for one of those heart attack specials they seem to serve at various chain restaurants. Good, but a little much.
Anyway, after that we wandered home to sleep of the food and then for dinner went to Club Eros. I know I know you hear “Club Eros” and it must either be a swinger’s club or strip club. Oddly neither, it’s a social club with an indoor soccer field and a small dining area. Sort of like the snack area at a municipal golf course but with steak and salad and wine. Pretty great place, groups of old men yelling at the tv showing a soccer match and a couple of young couples grabbing food. The food (fries, salad, pork chop) was excellent and insanely cheap (with two botltles of wine the bill came to about $30 US).
Today we spent the day in a suburb learning how to make empanadas. Natalie can share more about the actual making but I learned (1) empanadas are insanely tasty with cumin and (2) if I ever want to make empanadas again I am going to get a bunch of suckers/friends to do the heavy lifting. Rolling dough is not my strong suit.
So far the trip has been, if not exactly a whirlwind, at least pretty packed full of fun. We landed in BA on Saturday morning, took a pretty quick taxi in and spent the day wandering around a small street market near our apartment in Palermo (did I mention that we have an apartment? It’s a 300 square foot beaut with minimal storage space and a deck that serves as our baseball watching wine drinking HQ. From now on we are renting apartments whenever we travel. Cheaper and more space.) We found some rings and then wandered to dinner at an Armenian restaurant nearby, which was awesome. Apparently there was a big influx of Armenians and they have quite a few restaurants. As the Lebanese women we were making empanadas with noted, Armenians are good with their hands. Which is odd, because the only Armenians of notoriety that I know either dated or provided legal counsel to professional athletes (ok same family but still). Either way, great food, including a moussaka that seemed more like a slow cooked eggplant dish but was wonderful.
The next day we first stopped at a local Catholic church so Natalie could make sure and engage in her regular day of worship. Or alternatively, the Yankees are in the playoffs and someone needed to light a candle and ask God for his help in the playoffs. So Natalie lit a candle to ask God to shine down on the Yankees, I lit a candle to ask God to not smite us for only going to church to ask him to help a sports team and we got a third candle for tonight.
Trinity done we wandered down to the market which was, as far as mostly overpriced tourist markets go, pretty impressive. Ten to twelve blocks chock full of 70% tourist tchotckes, 20% fabrics and 10% jewelry. Nat snagged a nice ring and we found a random café where we learned of the “completa” sandwich. Apparently, no sandwich is complete without cheese, ham and egg, so if you get a hambuger completa, be prepared for one of those heart attack specials they seem to serve at various chain restaurants. Good, but a little much.
Anyway, after that we wandered home to sleep of the food and then for dinner went to Club Eros. I know I know you hear “Club Eros” and it must either be a swinger’s club or strip club. Oddly neither, it’s a social club with an indoor soccer field and a small dining area. Sort of like the snack area at a municipal golf course but with steak and salad and wine. Pretty great place, groups of old men yelling at the tv showing a soccer match and a couple of young couples grabbing food. The food (fries, salad, pork chop) was excellent and insanely cheap (with two botltles of wine the bill came to about $30 US).
Today we spent the day in a suburb learning how to make empanadas. Natalie can share more about the actual making but I learned (1) empanadas are insanely tasty with cumin and (2) if I ever want to make empanadas again I am going to get a bunch of suckers/friends to do the heavy lifting. Rolling dough is not my strong suit.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Argentina
Testing...1...2...3...
We leave for our next adventure in a week! Stay tuned, loyal reader(s)! (Margee and B, this means you.)
We leave for our next adventure in a week! Stay tuned, loyal reader(s)! (Margee and B, this means you.)
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Home!
I added that exclamation point in the title so it seems like I'm excited to be here. (I was excited to vote today. We got in line before the polls opened.)
So we made it. The flight from Tokyo to JFK was long, as expected, but we managed to amuse ourselves with movies. Jordo chose the girliest movies he could find, including, "Made of Honor" and "Sex and the City." I refused to watch either on the grounds they would annoy me so I watched a depressing British film about a woman abusing illegal immigrant workers and a Discovery Channel special on the Great Plains of the Earth. (Odd choices, true, but still better than his movies.)
At the airport in Saigon, Jordo had noticed how a lot of people were spending extra money to have their bags wrapped in tape and plastic. Probably precautions in case someone stuck something illegal in there? We didn't know. We chose not to follow suit and take our chances with Tony Montana. Then, while we were waiting for our baggage at JFK, one of the drug/food sniffing dogs became obsessed with my bag. The handler asked what I had in there and, besides from some foreign peanuts, there was nothing in there to set off the dog's nose. The handler kept pushing: Had I had meat in there at some point? Fruit? No and no. I offered to let him search, but he declined. Since he kept asking about food, we imagined that he could go through my bag, pull out a few kilos of heroin, then put it back, and say, "OK, looks like there isn't any illegal produce in here. You can go."
(The whole incident sent me back to the early 90s, when Jaqui came back from France with cheese and was chased through the airport by security dogs.)
So Saigon flew by. On one of our last days, we went to the War Remnants Museum. (It was apparently once called "The House for Displaying War Crimes of American Imperialism and the Puppet Government (of South Vietnam)" but the name was changed to be more tourist-friendly.) It was a wow. One whole room was devoted to all of the journalists who died covering the war, including Errol Flynn's son. We got to see some of the last photos these journalists had taken before their deaths, as well as some of the shots that then became iconic of the war. Some of those who died did so in combat. A few were on helicopters that crashed. A few just disappeared and are presumed dead. One journalist, who had no wife or kids, left everything he had to a fund to help Vietnamese orphans.
Another room was about war atrocities, and so you can imagine it wasn't too "Go, USA!" It was just plain stressful. They had a lot of pictures and accounts from My Lai, which were chilling. There's a section of former Sen. Bob Kerrey, who in 2001 admitted to his involvement in killing civilians while a SEAL leader in Vietnam. More than one wall was devoted to pictures of people killed or disfigured by Agent Orange or Napalm or other chemicals, be it first hand or because they were the children of soldiers or villagers affected by this chemical warfare. (They included some American children, too, including a boy who was one of the first poster children for the March of Dimes, whose father had been a soldier.) They had deformed fetuses in jars to further show what damage the chemicals had brought to following generations.
They had replicas of tiger cages, where Viet Cong prisoners were held, and a guillotine used by the French. (And yes, weird tourists in front of us posed with their heads leaning towards it like it was Disney World. And I thought it was bad for us to take smiling pictures in the Cu Chi tunnels.)
There was a statue made of metal collected from bombs and ammo that was called "Mother." It purported to show a woman in agony during the war. It was fitting, as so many of the pictures we saw were of women trying to protect their children, women wailing before they were to be shot.
The guestbook was filled with anti-American sentiment, including things like, "Americans are the real war criminals." A tank was parked outside the museum, and "Fuck" had been written in the dust before "USA Army."
Oh, reputation in tatters. Here's hoping all that changes in the years to come.
So we made it. The flight from Tokyo to JFK was long, as expected, but we managed to amuse ourselves with movies. Jordo chose the girliest movies he could find, including, "Made of Honor" and "Sex and the City." I refused to watch either on the grounds they would annoy me so I watched a depressing British film about a woman abusing illegal immigrant workers and a Discovery Channel special on the Great Plains of the Earth. (Odd choices, true, but still better than his movies.)
At the airport in Saigon, Jordo had noticed how a lot of people were spending extra money to have their bags wrapped in tape and plastic. Probably precautions in case someone stuck something illegal in there? We didn't know. We chose not to follow suit and take our chances with Tony Montana. Then, while we were waiting for our baggage at JFK, one of the drug/food sniffing dogs became obsessed with my bag. The handler asked what I had in there and, besides from some foreign peanuts, there was nothing in there to set off the dog's nose. The handler kept pushing: Had I had meat in there at some point? Fruit? No and no. I offered to let him search, but he declined. Since he kept asking about food, we imagined that he could go through my bag, pull out a few kilos of heroin, then put it back, and say, "OK, looks like there isn't any illegal produce in here. You can go."
(The whole incident sent me back to the early 90s, when Jaqui came back from France with cheese and was chased through the airport by security dogs.)
So Saigon flew by. On one of our last days, we went to the War Remnants Museum. (It was apparently once called "The House for Displaying War Crimes of American Imperialism and the Puppet Government (of South Vietnam)" but the name was changed to be more tourist-friendly.) It was a wow. One whole room was devoted to all of the journalists who died covering the war, including Errol Flynn's son. We got to see some of the last photos these journalists had taken before their deaths, as well as some of the shots that then became iconic of the war. Some of those who died did so in combat. A few were on helicopters that crashed. A few just disappeared and are presumed dead. One journalist, who had no wife or kids, left everything he had to a fund to help Vietnamese orphans.
Another room was about war atrocities, and so you can imagine it wasn't too "Go, USA!" It was just plain stressful. They had a lot of pictures and accounts from My Lai, which were chilling. There's a section of former Sen. Bob Kerrey, who in 2001 admitted to his involvement in killing civilians while a SEAL leader in Vietnam. More than one wall was devoted to pictures of people killed or disfigured by Agent Orange or Napalm or other chemicals, be it first hand or because they were the children of soldiers or villagers affected by this chemical warfare. (They included some American children, too, including a boy who was one of the first poster children for the March of Dimes, whose father had been a soldier.) They had deformed fetuses in jars to further show what damage the chemicals had brought to following generations.
They had replicas of tiger cages, where Viet Cong prisoners were held, and a guillotine used by the French. (And yes, weird tourists in front of us posed with their heads leaning towards it like it was Disney World. And I thought it was bad for us to take smiling pictures in the Cu Chi tunnels.)
There was a statue made of metal collected from bombs and ammo that was called "Mother." It purported to show a woman in agony during the war. It was fitting, as so many of the pictures we saw were of women trying to protect their children, women wailing before they were to be shot.
The guestbook was filled with anti-American sentiment, including things like, "Americans are the real war criminals." A tank was parked outside the museum, and "Fuck" had been written in the dust before "USA Army."
Oh, reputation in tatters. Here's hoping all that changes in the years to come.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Heading home, Pt. 1: Note from Tokyo
Not too long of an update as we are using Japanese keyboards and the keys are different enough that every time I think I am hitting the space bar with my right thumb, I am actually hitting the 'Switch to Japanese' key, so I get cらpぃ毛ティsウェンI目案と差y染めティンg故mpぇ手lyぢっふぇ連t。 (Translation-- crap like this when I mean something completely different) And the punctuation keys are different. And just typing that, I hit the SWITCH key 3 times. だっみｔ！
So we've left Vietnam and are pretty sad about it. I have lots of thoughts on the last days. I'll share them later. (Aside: Who moved the quotation marks? I could kill this ｺｵmﾌﾟﾃr｡）（And no, I did not do that change on purpose.)
Another aside: An older guy just came in and is freaking out about the keyboard. He has the wireless attendant by his side. 'Every time I hit the space bar, it goes bad,' he said, not noticing how what he thinks is the space bar is really the evil 'Switch to Japanese' key. He will not last long, friends. This is not a task for the old and weary. John McCain gets confused by the computer as it is now. This would be the final blow.
Anyway, we made it safely from Saigon to Tokyo and get on our next plane in about two hours. We hit JFK around noon, clear customs/get arrested for smuggling, then either take a car to my parents' house/get an attorney, get the car/see if we can post bond, and then head home/stay in jail once bail is denied.
Oh no. More oldsters just came in and are freaking out about the keyboard. I have to watch them now in case someone has a stroke/heart attack. This could add a whole new level of drama to this trip.
Later. 不c金g果てティsこｍぷてｒ！
So we've left Vietnam and are pretty sad about it. I have lots of thoughts on the last days. I'll share them later. (Aside: Who moved the quotation marks? I could kill this ｺｵmﾌﾟﾃr｡）（And no, I did not do that change on purpose.)
Another aside: An older guy just came in and is freaking out about the keyboard. He has the wireless attendant by his side. 'Every time I hit the space bar, it goes bad,' he said, not noticing how what he thinks is the space bar is really the evil 'Switch to Japanese' key. He will not last long, friends. This is not a task for the old and weary. John McCain gets confused by the computer as it is now. This would be the final blow.
Anyway, we made it safely from Saigon to Tokyo and get on our next plane in about two hours. We hit JFK around noon, clear customs/get arrested for smuggling, then either take a car to my parents' house/get an attorney, get the car/see if we can post bond, and then head home/stay in jail once bail is denied.
Oh no. More oldsters just came in and are freaking out about the keyboard. I have to watch them now in case someone has a stroke/heart attack. This could add a whole new level of drama to this trip.
Later. 不c金g果てティsこｍぷてｒ！
Done and Done
We're now sitting in an internet cafe down the street from the hotel we just checked out of, waiting to get a ride to the airport to start the Bataan Death March of flights home. Depressing indeed.
The last couple of days have flown by and we did our last bit of touring this morning, going to Reunification House (basically the old south vietnamese government house where they surrendered) and a museum that was built chronicling the american war. Umm, not a whole lot to feel good about our country there. The oddest part was watching the swiss tourists pose happily in front of a guillotine used by the southt to behead spies and guerillas during the war. I mean, they were smiling!! It's not Disneyland . . .
So not sure what else to say right now so let's hand out awards.
Nicest Guide - Sa, the guy who showed us the Cu Chi tunnels, talked about Ho Chi Minh sleeping around and despite his love for McCain said he thought Obama should win. Thanks.
Worst Guide - Hai from our little DMZ trip. Too many jokes that fell flat, fascist in her desire to keep it moving and then lied to us when she said it was only 90 minutes home. You stink Hai.
Best Restaraunt - The little lady selling chicken satay sticks on the streets in Bangkok for 30 cents. You were the best,
Worst Restaraunt - Temple Garden in Hue. Never, ever go there. Lukewarm vegetables in some kind of goulash (important to note we didn't order veg goulash), crappy fried noodles that were like smaller tougher ramen and overpriced drinks.
Worst Named Areas - Thailand. Listen, I am a fourth grade boy at heart so when you have a placed named Bangkok, another named Phuk-et and a place you call Pee - Pee island you now I am going to have to giggle a fair amount. For shame Thailand, for shame.
Worst Place Most Like America - Bangla Road on Patong Beach, Bourbon street with more hookers.
Best Place most like America - Ban Thahn market. Italian market with more random meat to buy.
Section of Lonely Planet most in need of an update - Saigon, Vietnam. Not a single restaraunt listed in the four block radius of our hotel was still there.
Best Locals Trying to Rip you off - Saigon. Very respectful, not too intrusive, a brief no and they went on their way.
Worst Locals Trying to Rip you off - Paton and Karon Noi. More arm grabbing, aussie catch phrase using and outright lying than needed to sell me $2 sunglasses for $15 bucks.
The last couple of days have flown by and we did our last bit of touring this morning, going to Reunification House (basically the old south vietnamese government house where they surrendered) and a museum that was built chronicling the american war. Umm, not a whole lot to feel good about our country there. The oddest part was watching the swiss tourists pose happily in front of a guillotine used by the southt to behead spies and guerillas during the war. I mean, they were smiling!! It's not Disneyland . . .
So not sure what else to say right now so let's hand out awards.
Nicest Guide - Sa, the guy who showed us the Cu Chi tunnels, talked about Ho Chi Minh sleeping around and despite his love for McCain said he thought Obama should win. Thanks.
Worst Guide - Hai from our little DMZ trip. Too many jokes that fell flat, fascist in her desire to keep it moving and then lied to us when she said it was only 90 minutes home. You stink Hai.
Best Restaraunt - The little lady selling chicken satay sticks on the streets in Bangkok for 30 cents. You were the best,
Worst Restaraunt - Temple Garden in Hue. Never, ever go there. Lukewarm vegetables in some kind of goulash (important to note we didn't order veg goulash), crappy fried noodles that were like smaller tougher ramen and overpriced drinks.
Worst Named Areas - Thailand. Listen, I am a fourth grade boy at heart so when you have a placed named Bangkok, another named Phuk-et and a place you call Pee - Pee island you now I am going to have to giggle a fair amount. For shame Thailand, for shame.
Worst Place Most Like America - Bangla Road on Patong Beach, Bourbon street with more hookers.
Best Place most like America - Ban Thahn market. Italian market with more random meat to buy.
Section of Lonely Planet most in need of an update - Saigon, Vietnam. Not a single restaraunt listed in the four block radius of our hotel was still there.
Best Locals Trying to Rip you off - Saigon. Very respectful, not too intrusive, a brief no and they went on their way.
Worst Locals Trying to Rip you off - Paton and Karon Noi. More arm grabbing, aussie catch phrase using and outright lying than needed to sell me $2 sunglasses for $15 bucks.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Picture Show
Since we finally got internet in our hotel, we can upload pictures and such please come and enjoy our magic picture show
Friday, October 24, 2008
Heyyyyyy! Ho-ooooo!
So our Saigon guide rocks. He tells good stories, he's friendly and he's honest about what he thinks. We love him.
I asked him if it was true that all Vietnamese people have a shrine to Ho Chi Minh in their houses. He snorted and said, "Maybe in the North. If they're stupid."
I asked him the same "Was Ho a 'ho?" question I'd asked our guide in Hanoi. There, I got discomfort. Here, I got a very different answer.
Apparently, there's a politician who has risen very quickly through the party and some say he is Ho's son. His mother was once one of Ho's servants, so our bit comparing Ho to Jefferson wasn't that far off. When asked directly if he was Ho's son, the man replied with one of those standard, "All Vietnamese are Ho's children" bits.
I knew it!
Here's a link to a story about Ho's kid: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/1291000.stm
Other news from Saigon:
1) Before coming here, other people on our travels told us how the traffic was a nightmare and the guidebook even gave a list of places were to go to watch the madness from the safety of a non-moving chair. Anne, a Dutch girl we met, told me that when she was in Saigon, she saw three accidents, including one that involved a girl and blood. She said she was freaked out, especially at rush hour when people avoid the traffic in the streets by jumping on the sidewalk, pedestrians be damned.
We haven't seen that part yet, but when we asked how long it would take to get from the airport to our hotel, we were told anywhere from 30 minutes to three hours, depending on traffic. It was somewhere in between that.
2) Another thing about driving in Vietnam: You must not only have a vehicle, like a car, bicycle or moped. You must have a horn. Because you must honk that horn all the time, not in a "Hey, jerk! Get out of the way!" way but in a "I'm here, driving past you. Beware." way. And since you must learn to pass a lot here, you must honk a lot. We were on a bus trip and the blaring horn was soooo getting on my nerves. Between it and a man I called "Typhoid Tyrone"-- he could not stop coughing -- I was completely on edge.
3) Jordo is like Magellan. He gets to a new place, pulls out the map, and immediately starts figuring his way around. He knows street names and, perhaps more impressively, north, south, east and west wherever he is. (He says it's from the sun. He also says he can tell the time of day from the sun. I say that when the sun is shining, I know a liar when I see one.) It's very impressive, especially since I get to a new place and start walking in circles. He's good to travel with. I was thinking the other day how much fun this trip has been and how we haven't had any of those disagreements that people who travel together have. I mean, Jesus Christ and Buddha could go on vacation together and even they're going to disagree about something. Or maybe not. Maybe we're just like them. I guess Jordan can be Buddha, since he was compared to that diety earlier. I'll be Jesus. We have a lot in common: We're both Capricorns. And don't forget our self-sacrificing natures.
4) Re: The tunnels again. Jordo and I were marvelling how, at the first series of tunnels we visited, all the townspeople had worked together to dig them out in such a short time period. We tried to imagine what would have happened if the people of Philadelphia had to work together to do such a project, and we had Johnny Doc complaining that non-Union labor was doing the work, Rendell wanting to make sure there was room for the casinos, Street saying things were racially biased. We also couldn't imagine living in caves with some of our neighbors, like the guy we call "RDD", short for "Republican Drug Dealer," since 1) he is a drug dealer and 2) he told me he's a Republican. He hangs at the corner near our house. I could live with the fact that he's a drug dealer, but the Republican thing would get old quick.
5) Earlier in our trip, we noticed quite a few couples -- usually Japanese -- who wore matching outfits. Even matching bathing suits. Of course, the day we noticed it we looked down and noted we were both wearing green khaki shorts and black t-shirts. I was like, "Oh no, do you think we're becoming one of THOSE couples?" Jordo said, "Come on. You know us. We just threw on whatever was on the floor." True.
I asked him if it was true that all Vietnamese people have a shrine to Ho Chi Minh in their houses. He snorted and said, "Maybe in the North. If they're stupid."
I asked him the same "Was Ho a 'ho?" question I'd asked our guide in Hanoi. There, I got discomfort. Here, I got a very different answer.
Apparently, there's a politician who has risen very quickly through the party and some say he is Ho's son. His mother was once one of Ho's servants, so our bit comparing Ho to Jefferson wasn't that far off. When asked directly if he was Ho's son, the man replied with one of those standard, "All Vietnamese are Ho's children" bits.
I knew it!
Here's a link to a story about Ho's kid: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/1291000.stm
Other news from Saigon:
1) Before coming here, other people on our travels told us how the traffic was a nightmare and the guidebook even gave a list of places were to go to watch the madness from the safety of a non-moving chair. Anne, a Dutch girl we met, told me that when she was in Saigon, she saw three accidents, including one that involved a girl and blood. She said she was freaked out, especially at rush hour when people avoid the traffic in the streets by jumping on the sidewalk, pedestrians be damned.
We haven't seen that part yet, but when we asked how long it would take to get from the airport to our hotel, we were told anywhere from 30 minutes to three hours, depending on traffic. It was somewhere in between that.
2) Another thing about driving in Vietnam: You must not only have a vehicle, like a car, bicycle or moped. You must have a horn. Because you must honk that horn all the time, not in a "Hey, jerk! Get out of the way!" way but in a "I'm here, driving past you. Beware." way. And since you must learn to pass a lot here, you must honk a lot. We were on a bus trip and the blaring horn was soooo getting on my nerves. Between it and a man I called "Typhoid Tyrone"-- he could not stop coughing -- I was completely on edge.
3) Jordo is like Magellan. He gets to a new place, pulls out the map, and immediately starts figuring his way around. He knows street names and, perhaps more impressively, north, south, east and west wherever he is. (He says it's from the sun. He also says he can tell the time of day from the sun. I say that when the sun is shining, I know a liar when I see one.) It's very impressive, especially since I get to a new place and start walking in circles. He's good to travel with. I was thinking the other day how much fun this trip has been and how we haven't had any of those disagreements that people who travel together have. I mean, Jesus Christ and Buddha could go on vacation together and even they're going to disagree about something. Or maybe not. Maybe we're just like them. I guess Jordan can be Buddha, since he was compared to that diety earlier. I'll be Jesus. We have a lot in common: We're both Capricorns. And don't forget our self-sacrificing natures.
4) Re: The tunnels again. Jordo and I were marvelling how, at the first series of tunnels we visited, all the townspeople had worked together to dig them out in such a short time period. We tried to imagine what would have happened if the people of Philadelphia had to work together to do such a project, and we had Johnny Doc complaining that non-Union labor was doing the work, Rendell wanting to make sure there was room for the casinos, Street saying things were racially biased. We also couldn't imagine living in caves with some of our neighbors, like the guy we call "RDD", short for "Republican Drug Dealer," since 1) he is a drug dealer and 2) he told me he's a Republican. He hangs at the corner near our house. I could live with the fact that he's a drug dealer, but the Republican thing would get old quick.
5) Earlier in our trip, we noticed quite a few couples -- usually Japanese -- who wore matching outfits. Even matching bathing suits. Of course, the day we noticed it we looked down and noted we were both wearing green khaki shorts and black t-shirts. I was like, "Oh no, do you think we're becoming one of THOSE couples?" Jordo said, "Come on. You know us. We just threw on whatever was on the floor." True.
War just f'ing sucks
How's that for a profound title? Thank you. I am a professional writer.
We've done a few tunnel trips in the last few days and they've left me chilled. Let me explain.
When we were in Hue, we took a day trip to the DMZ to see a series of tunnels that basically housed an entire village as well as fighters for years during the war. These tunnels had been carved by hand, handfuls of dirt at a time, over about 20 months. There were multiple entrances, some to the sea and others in the forest. Families had tiny carve outs, like caves, but teeny tiny caves where you barely fit even when sitting down. (We were imagining if we had to share a cave with another couple -- our thoughts went to the tallest couple we know, Chris and Don -- and we were like, "No way. We'd all be suffocated. Don's legs would take up most of our space.")
There was a maternity ward, and 17 babies were born there during the war. (16 survived and still live in the area.) There was a community gathering room and a cooking area. There were photos of kids having lessons and nurses at work. There were different levels, steps, and as I tried to get down one set without falling, I commented to Jordo, "They can build these complex tunnel system and no one thought to put in hand rails?"
The whole thing was a complex maze going off in all directions. Most of the time, I could walk upright. (So while my stature works against me when we play pool volleyball in Duck, it worked for me here. Except at one point I got too cocky and smacked my head.) Still, I felt like the walls were closing in.
And those, my friends, were the big tunnels.
Here in Saigon, we went to the Cu Chi tunnels. These are famous because the network is HUGE and were very effectively used by guerillas during the Vietnam/American War.
The first thing Sa, our rocking local guide, showed us was a piece of wood on the ground in a wooded area. I'd say it was smaller than a newspaper front page. That, he said, was one of the entrances. Jordo and I was dumbstruck. If I had to get down that tunnel, it would be like Winnie the Pooh in the honey tree and I'd just be stuck midway until I starved enough to fit in. One of Sa's pals showed us how to get down the tunnel, and when his hips and shoulders cleared the sides, I almost applauded. "Vietnamese people small," Sa said. (I wanted to say, "Um, we noticed." Lots of salespeople here seem to relish telling us how freakin' huge we are. "We have free size," they tell me when I'm looking at clothes. In one mall, this crazy woman kept rubbing Jordan's belly and calling him "Buddha." Meanwhile, her male compatriot was touching Jordan's arm hair and comparing his own hairless arm to Jordo's.)
Then we actually went down into the tunnels, which, we were told had been expanded by 40 percent to accomodate tourists. Oh my God. It was like being a giant in Liliput. I had to bend almost in half most of the time, and at one point found it easier to crawl. Sa told us that when the tunnels were in use, people learned to run without panting, communicate without speaking and cook without smoke. I don't know how they did the running/no panting thing. Negotiating those tunnels left me with a raised heart rate. (They did the communication thing with notes passed via children and the smokeless cooking by cooking around dawn when the air was heavy.)
Sa told us that during the start of the conflict, Americans soldiers were surprised because it seemed no one was in the area. When they figured out the tunnel system, they tried to get people out by doing things like 1) pouring water in or 2) pouring gasoline to set aflame or 3) using tear gas. Those things didn't work, Sa said. The people in the tunnels were actually thrilled by the fresh water, the gas was soaked up by the ground and didn't catch fire, and the tear gas was able to be isolated since the tunnels had different ventilation systems. (Please note: I have no idea how historically accurate any of this is. It's just what we were told that I'm retelling here.)
He told us how a group of men were specially trained as "tunnel rats." (I read something else that described these guys as "the smallest guys with the biggest cojones.") No way that's my job. The tunnels are creepy enough now and there's no one down there except guides and tourists; I can't imagine going into the darkness not knowing if someone was possibly waiting inside kill me by knife or gun, or if bamboo booby trap death was headed my way.
Because there were bamboo death traps, and Sa showed them to us. Some were formerly tiger traps, updated with spikes on the bottom to impale soldiers. He estimated that about 10 percent of American casualties were caused by this sort of warfare. Not that everyone of those people stepped on a spike or dropped in a spinning spike hole. Instead, one soldier would fall and the others would try to rescue him, leaving themselves open to ambush. We saw the many different bamboo spike based traps, including the ones that went into the water. A man in a military uniform demonstrated how each one worked - basically, someone would step on the trap and either fall into a hole or get caught by spinning sticks or something else horrible.
Horrifying. Simply horrifying. Someone, I think it was Sa, jokingly said to Jordo, "You want to try?" as we watched one trap and I was like, "Wow. That is so not funny and I have the most macabre sense of humor on earth." I didn't even like being near the traps.
On our way out, we heard an English language video playing in one of the huts and asked Sa if we should see it. He hesitated, saying, "Well, it's anti-American. Propaganda." That did not deter us. Indeed, the video spoke of the "American Imperialists" and the "brave (Vietnamese) martyrs, but it was to be expected. Still, I did find it It disturbing to see smiling women sharpen bamboo poles that would be used in one of those awful traps. (I understand the why, but I don't fully ever understand the internal 'how.' Sa had told us how women soldiers had so confused the Americans, making them extra lethal.) The video also had this boppy little song to accompany it, so you're seeing people hauling munitions and running and hiding underground with a merry tune playing.
After the video ended, Sa told us he normally doesn't recommend his tourists see it, particularly the older ones. "They start crying," he said. "They say, 'My son died here.'" Or, if they're younger, their friends or brothers or uncles or cousins.
I keep forgetting to bring my ipod on these long car trips so I'm stuck singing in my head while we cruise through the countryside. After this visit, stereotypically, I kept humming, "War! Good God, y'all. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Say it again...." for about an hour. Which was better than the other day, when I couldn't get Ricky Martin's "Livin' la Vida Loca" out of my brain. (Other featured songs on "Natalie's head's Vietnam playlist": "The Consort" -- Rufus Wainwright, "Wherever whenever" -- Shakira and "Blasphemous Rumors" -- Depeche Mode. The last one isn't one of my fave DM songs, not even close, but I think it popped into my brain because of the lines, "And I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors/ But I think that God's got a sick sense of humor/And when I die/I expect to find him/Laughing.")
In our next installment of "Hammers and Scales" --- "Ho IS a 'ho: Natalie and Jordan's South Vietnamese guide tells it like it is...." We gotta lighten this up a bit!
We've done a few tunnel trips in the last few days and they've left me chilled. Let me explain.
When we were in Hue, we took a day trip to the DMZ to see a series of tunnels that basically housed an entire village as well as fighters for years during the war. These tunnels had been carved by hand, handfuls of dirt at a time, over about 20 months. There were multiple entrances, some to the sea and others in the forest. Families had tiny carve outs, like caves, but teeny tiny caves where you barely fit even when sitting down. (We were imagining if we had to share a cave with another couple -- our thoughts went to the tallest couple we know, Chris and Don -- and we were like, "No way. We'd all be suffocated. Don's legs would take up most of our space.")
There was a maternity ward, and 17 babies were born there during the war. (16 survived and still live in the area.) There was a community gathering room and a cooking area. There were photos of kids having lessons and nurses at work. There were different levels, steps, and as I tried to get down one set without falling, I commented to Jordo, "They can build these complex tunnel system and no one thought to put in hand rails?"
The whole thing was a complex maze going off in all directions. Most of the time, I could walk upright. (So while my stature works against me when we play pool volleyball in Duck, it worked for me here. Except at one point I got too cocky and smacked my head.) Still, I felt like the walls were closing in.
And those, my friends, were the big tunnels.
Here in Saigon, we went to the Cu Chi tunnels. These are famous because the network is HUGE and were very effectively used by guerillas during the Vietnam/American War.
The first thing Sa, our rocking local guide, showed us was a piece of wood on the ground in a wooded area. I'd say it was smaller than a newspaper front page. That, he said, was one of the entrances. Jordo and I was dumbstruck. If I had to get down that tunnel, it would be like Winnie the Pooh in the honey tree and I'd just be stuck midway until I starved enough to fit in. One of Sa's pals showed us how to get down the tunnel, and when his hips and shoulders cleared the sides, I almost applauded. "Vietnamese people small," Sa said. (I wanted to say, "Um, we noticed." Lots of salespeople here seem to relish telling us how freakin' huge we are. "We have free size," they tell me when I'm looking at clothes. In one mall, this crazy woman kept rubbing Jordan's belly and calling him "Buddha." Meanwhile, her male compatriot was touching Jordan's arm hair and comparing his own hairless arm to Jordo's.)
Then we actually went down into the tunnels, which, we were told had been expanded by 40 percent to accomodate tourists. Oh my God. It was like being a giant in Liliput. I had to bend almost in half most of the time, and at one point found it easier to crawl. Sa told us that when the tunnels were in use, people learned to run without panting, communicate without speaking and cook without smoke. I don't know how they did the running/no panting thing. Negotiating those tunnels left me with a raised heart rate. (They did the communication thing with notes passed via children and the smokeless cooking by cooking around dawn when the air was heavy.)
Sa told us that during the start of the conflict, Americans soldiers were surprised because it seemed no one was in the area. When they figured out the tunnel system, they tried to get people out by doing things like 1) pouring water in or 2) pouring gasoline to set aflame or 3) using tear gas. Those things didn't work, Sa said. The people in the tunnels were actually thrilled by the fresh water, the gas was soaked up by the ground and didn't catch fire, and the tear gas was able to be isolated since the tunnels had different ventilation systems. (Please note: I have no idea how historically accurate any of this is. It's just what we were told that I'm retelling here.)
He told us how a group of men were specially trained as "tunnel rats." (I read something else that described these guys as "the smallest guys with the biggest cojones.") No way that's my job. The tunnels are creepy enough now and there's no one down there except guides and tourists; I can't imagine going into the darkness not knowing if someone was possibly waiting inside kill me by knife or gun, or if bamboo booby trap death was headed my way.
Because there were bamboo death traps, and Sa showed them to us. Some were formerly tiger traps, updated with spikes on the bottom to impale soldiers. He estimated that about 10 percent of American casualties were caused by this sort of warfare. Not that everyone of those people stepped on a spike or dropped in a spinning spike hole. Instead, one soldier would fall and the others would try to rescue him, leaving themselves open to ambush. We saw the many different bamboo spike based traps, including the ones that went into the water. A man in a military uniform demonstrated how each one worked - basically, someone would step on the trap and either fall into a hole or get caught by spinning sticks or something else horrible.
Horrifying. Simply horrifying. Someone, I think it was Sa, jokingly said to Jordo, "You want to try?" as we watched one trap and I was like, "Wow. That is so not funny and I have the most macabre sense of humor on earth." I didn't even like being near the traps.
On our way out, we heard an English language video playing in one of the huts and asked Sa if we should see it. He hesitated, saying, "Well, it's anti-American. Propaganda." That did not deter us. Indeed, the video spoke of the "American Imperialists" and the "brave (Vietnamese) martyrs, but it was to be expected. Still, I did find it It disturbing to see smiling women sharpen bamboo poles that would be used in one of those awful traps. (I understand the why, but I don't fully ever understand the internal 'how.' Sa had told us how women soldiers had so confused the Americans, making them extra lethal.) The video also had this boppy little song to accompany it, so you're seeing people hauling munitions and running and hiding underground with a merry tune playing.
After the video ended, Sa told us he normally doesn't recommend his tourists see it, particularly the older ones. "They start crying," he said. "They say, 'My son died here.'" Or, if they're younger, their friends or brothers or uncles or cousins.
I keep forgetting to bring my ipod on these long car trips so I'm stuck singing in my head while we cruise through the countryside. After this visit, stereotypically, I kept humming, "War! Good God, y'all. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Say it again...." for about an hour. Which was better than the other day, when I couldn't get Ricky Martin's "Livin' la Vida Loca" out of my brain. (Other featured songs on "Natalie's head's Vietnam playlist": "The Consort" -- Rufus Wainwright, "Wherever whenever" -- Shakira and "Blasphemous Rumors" -- Depeche Mode. The last one isn't one of my fave DM songs, not even close, but I think it popped into my brain because of the lines, "And I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors/ But I think that God's got a sick sense of humor/And when I die/I expect to find him/Laughing.")
In our next installment of "Hammers and Scales" --- "Ho IS a 'ho: Natalie and Jordan's South Vietnamese guide tells it like it is...." We gotta lighten this up a bit!
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