Delicious Expeditions

If anyone thinks America has the monopoly on hot dogs they are sadly mistaken.

I didn’t truly discover this until I walked into one of Seoul’s premier bakeries. Squeezed in between trays of flawless croissants and perfectly executed fruit tarts were stacks of hot dogs, or at least a near relative of my childhood favorite. These “dogs” however were spruced up, baked in flaky puff pastry and wrapped with crisp bacon. They were offered as a quick meal to the bustling lunch crowd, workers who popped in for a bag of treats to take back to the office.

Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog in Puff Pastry

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Korea—honestly, it was a country I never thought about until I was offered a free layover after completing my cat nanny job in Mongolia. With Petey now safely ensconced in his new home, I was free to roam Asia; any country I wanted that connected Ulaan Baatar to San Francisco and then Leon. However, there were only three options: Beijing (visa issues), Tokyo (the tsunami had just hit) and Seoul (perfect!).

Looking for a place to stay, I found a youth hostel with excellent reviews. I had thought my days of community sleeping were over, but the place sounded so appealing I made a quick decision—return to my roots and embrace sharing a bathroom with twelve strangers.

Entrance to Hongdae Guesthouse

Within minutes of my arrival to the Hongdae Guesthouse, I had a home and friends. In between visiting the royal palace and national museum, I spent hours talking to Mr. Kim, the hostel’s enthusiastic thirty-something manager. He had a plan—together we would build an empire of Mexican restaurants.

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No cat food in Mongolia? How can that be?

I have seen a few dogs and processed food to feed them, but the poor cat,
woman’s best friend, has been forgotten. The famed felines seem to be dearly
loved, but mainly in theory and on Hello Kitty paraphernalia.

Store after store understands what I’m searching for, that is after reenacting a
desperate cat trying to shovel food into its mouth. “Meow,” I cry in my best Petey
imitation. The clerk meows in return, then shrugs and nods her head, sorry to
disappoint me.

The game of charades seems entertaining to most, but futile for poor Petey,
who doesn’t approve of his creative dining options. He wants Friskies, preferably
beef or salmon, and he wants them now. While hot on their trail I see the sites of
Ulaan Baatar.

Sukhbaatar Square

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I received an offer I couldn’t refuse—a trip to a distant land with a dark-headed stranger. With his sultry green eyes and laid-back manner, Petey was the perfect traveling companion until he cried in distress, his piercing voice distracting me from the in-flight magazine. Reaching beside me, I stroked his soft hair until his pleas of discomfort ceased and he once again settled into the hum of the plane.

Petey hails from the Balkans, an Albanian charmer, who loves to snuggle in front of a fire, or so I’ve been told. Licking yogurt from my fingers and sniffing chicken on my breath make him purr in delight.

When Petey’s mother, Jennifer, asked me to accompany him to their new home in Mongolia, I jumped at the opportunity, honored to be called his cat nanny, if only for a week.

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In 1993, in the hottest month of the year, I donned a white paper maché mask, and a long black dress and headed to Pozos, an abandoned silver mining town high in the Sierra Madre Mountains. Among the ruins of long forgotten homes, a dark, handsome stranger took me in his arms and we started to dance.

I know this sounds intriguing, even magical, however we were not alone. The camera was rolling and recording our every move. Illusions of intimacy were further diminished by the four identically dressed couples weaving between us as Leonard Cohen sang, “Take this Waltz”. We moved with care, surrounded by cactus of every size and shape, as well as open, unmarked mine shafts, which plummeted 200 feet into a dark abyss of icy water.

Francisco Towers at Santa Brigita

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Mexico, a land known for its celebrations, put on the event of the century last week when the country’s bicentennial of the War of Independence coincided with the centennial of the Mexican Revolution. Extensive programs took place all over the country, including many based in San Miguel, acknowledged for its starring role 200 years ago, when resident Ignacio Allende joined forces with Father Miguel Hidalgo to raise an army against Spanish colonialism. Father Hidalgo’s cry on Sept. 16, 1810: “Down with bad government and death to the gachupines!” — a pejorative term for colonial-era Spaniards, ignited the independence movement. His call to arms, known as “El Grito”, is reenacted every year at midnight on the 15^th with historic fanfare and cheer, and of course, lots of beer and tequila.

In addition to traditional festivities, Mexico unveiled la “Ruta 2010”, which is a series of routes that commemorates various historic movements and encourages people to drive, or bus, through Mexican history. San Miguel is part of the Freedom Route that tracks the footsteps of Miguel Hidalgo from Guanajuato to Chichuahua. The Democracy and Zapatista routes cover other areas of the country, where a series of museum and cultural exhibitions strive to educate people on the sacrifices made in the name of freedom.

Neighbor getting ready for parade

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Most parents are proud, as well as quite relieved, when their child succeeds as an individual. These feelings are no different when that child is a baboon (I mean this literally, not figuratively). I left Betty and Malawi over a month ago with an agonizing sense of guilt. Did I really teach her any life skills? Leaning to crack peanuts was one of our favorite activities, but unless she was planning to move to a peanut farm in Georgia, she was out of luck–peanuts are not indigenous to the African bush. But then again, at some point in her life, there would be other shells or husks to force open.

Betty still loves Bananas

On the long flight home I asked myself some hard questions. Was our time together more about me than her? What would happen if the awaiting baboon family didn’t accept her? Would I want to know the truth, or prefer to envision the fantasy world I had created, where her days would be spent in the sun surrounded by attentive admirers fighting over grooming privileges. In another scenario I would return to Malawi where she would run into my arms, squeaking in delight, her claws carefully tucked in and her powerful jaw only used for kisses.

Blond Betty with Surrogate Mother Ida

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“The black mamba was eye level with the passengers in my car. It was looking inside the open window, balanced on its tail, serpent tongue flickering in the sun,” George said when it was his turn to tell his best safari story. “I didn’t see the snake when I pulled to a stop on the dusty, dirt road, but when a long, narrow, dark figure jumped straight up in the air I shouted for the passengers to stay still, not to move an inch or even take a deep breath. The deadly mamba would attack at the slightest move. It stayed there for about 15 minutes, before lying down and crawling back into the bush. It was the longest 15 minutes of my life.”

“Luckily, the last time I saw a black mamba on the road,” Peter, the thin, bald African man on my left chimed in, “I was able to shout for the passengers to roll up their windows just before it stood up.”

Giraffes & Zebras

I was getting jittery with all the animal stories, but it had been my idea after all, so I had to stay and listen to tales that would become animated nightmares as soon as I went to sleep. I was on safari again, this time in Zambia, at Luangwe National Park, one of the most spectacular in Africa.

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The drive to Lake Malawi wasn’t very long, but with the intense sun and vast amounts of dust blowing through the open car windows, I couldn’t wait to get there. A barren land of mud huts, with thatched reed roofs, and scattered goats, stretched out in front of me. Bicycles, cows, chickens and pedestrians, carrying everything from sugar cane to buckets of charcoal, balanced perfectly on their heads, flashed before me as we made our way to Africa’s third largest lake.

Thatched-roof village

Even though the scenery was fascinating and new to my sight and senses, I focused instead on storefront signage as we drove through various villages. The first tiny, urban space we passed was home to the “I Like Beer” bar, standing next to the “Beautiful Head” beauty salon, which happened to be across from the town’s coffin store. Another 20 minutes down the road was a line of buildings featuring “Uncle Joe’s Investments” and “You like my Price” grocery (most likely owned by Uncle Joe), located next to another coffin maker, his crew busy assembling a set of simple, brown wooden boxes for display.

Malawian storefronts

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I came to a crossroad this past weekend when asked if I wanted an ensuite bathroom at the Mvuu Lodge campsite in Liwonde National Park–Malawi’s largest and most important, renowned for its large herds of wild elephants. I debated for a long time, not wanting to spend the money, but I was tempted by the thought of my own private bathroom after weeks of sharing with an entire family. Even though I knew it was a self-centered, needless luxury I decided to splurge on my weekend safari.

It was a decision I would not regret. A decision which proved I had learned at least a few lessons in life.

Entrance to Mvuu Logde

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