Delicious Expeditions

Our train pulled out of Vienna’s Hauptbahnhof and into thick flurries that painted the landscape white. We were heading East to Budapest in a Hungarian train, chosen over the more frequently scheduled and modern Austrian trains for its food. Yes, there are still a few places in the world where dining cars serve real food, good food, and in semi-elegant settings.

My stepmother, via her European hairdresser, had clued me in on this little-known fact years ago, and Dagmar knew exactly what I was talking about. Hence, we spent our 3-hour trip nestled into plush, red velvety chairs enjoying hot Goulash soup and nibbling on Palascinta—Hungary’s take on crepes. (Ours were stuffed with cottage cheese and apricot jam, powdered sugar sprinkled on top.)

Winter view of Budapest

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A few years ago my Austrian friend Dagmar told me one of her dreams was to travel to Latin America to experience the exotic culture and food, the beaches and the pyramids. Without missing a beat, I said, “That’s easy–I’ll be your fairy godmother.”

“Now, here’s my dream,” I declared boldly. “I want to wear a ball gown and long gloves and waltz in the ballroom that once belonged to the Hapsburg emperors (the Hofburg). And I want to eat cake, lots of cake, in the best Belle Époque cafés. And then I want to take the train to Budapest and eat more cake, in more Belle Époque cafés, and soak in the baths–the old ones, when people knew how to really live–in between slices of Dobostorta and Esterhazy Torte.”

“Ok,” she replied.

“No, no. I’m just kidding, (but not really).”  I assured her. “Anyway, I read that Ball season is for tourists now—Travel & Leisure says so.”

“That’s not true!” Dagmar gasped, with a flare of nationalistic pride. “Our Balls are for Viennese, even though other people can attend. You must come and see for yourself.” And so Dagmar and I arranged an exchange, not of homes, but of dreams, both eagerly diving into our new role of fairy godmother.

Oaxaca Radish Festival—Band carved from radishes

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*To achieve the full benefit of this piece, please first go to youtube and watch http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCIxFnP4I98

The evening started with Elvis’s classic rendition of Suspicious Minds. In attendance was a small crowd of adoring fans, along with a few drunks, hugging the bar. As Elvis took center stage, keeping time to the music with a white loafer-encased foot, one of the aforementioned drunks–a heavyset, middle-aged woman, slithered off her stool and into the crowd where she zeroed in on a nice Midwestern (let’s assume, for the sake of the story) man. She asked him to dance and he obliged—his petite, blonde wife encouraging him to do so. They walked onto the dance floor where he attempted to take her into a proper dance position. She ignored his gesture, reaching around his waist and grabbing his ass instead.

Giggling in delight, she lifted her hands and began running her fingers through his thinning brown hair. Pleased to be in the company of a warm body, she caressed his checks and his brow, and ran her long, polished red nails over his lips. He froze in horror.

(This is getting interesting, I thought, sliding comfortably down into my red velvet chair, sipping yet another free cocktail.)

Downtown Vegas

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The shaman, dressed in traditional knee-length pants, embroidered with local birds, handed me a carved box with a ceramic dog inside. He motioned for me to hold it up to the gods, or rather, life-sized statues of Mary, Baby Jesus, Gaspar and San Antonio. They had familiar faces (well, except for Gaspar), but their attire was more festive than usual. Instead of biblical robes, they wore frilly skirts, a variety of scarves and neckties, and an array of colorful beads. The scene was reminiscent of Mardi Gras and Saint Anthony was looking quite hip, but we weren’t taking part in a sacrilegious parade–we were in the middle of an initiation ceremony in Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala, the capital of the Tzutujil Maya Nation and the largest Indigenous town in Central America.

Lake Atitlan

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European spas—they’re not like American spas. They’re more like sanatoriums, where staff dressed in white whisper softly and serious health treatments take precedence over beauty.

My first experience was in Italy, outside of Siena. I had had a particularly stressful week with The Entitled–a group of family (their family, not mine) and friends who refused to believe that Italy was no longer a country of peasants, and that said peasants, including myself, were suppose to cater to their every whim…at no additional cost.

Even though I hadn’t met anyone in the group before agreeing to host their tour, I had heard some of the names, seen one on TV and had read about another in HOLA!, the Spanish speaking equivalent of People magazine. But even with this important information, I was still not prepared for what I would encounter. Neither were the two women I was working with. In order to relieve the stress, Katy began chain smoking again after a 20-year hiatus, Sonia repeatedly chanted Madonna!! swirling her cigarette in the air, and I alternated between chomping on Advil and Xanax. The week ended with a multimillionaire pounding his fist on the dinner table—in a very elegant restaurant—demanding the car (or in this case, minibus) be brought around immediately. He was ready to go, even though the majority of people were still eating. That’s when I started to drink—white wine, red wine, limoncello, grappa. Whatever was available…It didn’t matter, I just needed to dull the memory of that man’s existence.

No, not the multimillionaire, but…

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On my last trip to Slovenia, I spent the night in jail—not that I did anything wrong, because I didn’t. My only crime was knowing nothing about European basketball. More specifically, that the championship play-offs would take place in Ljubljana the night of my arrival. When I went to book a hotel, the few available places only offered astronomical rates–a rare occurrence in one of the last reasonably priced capitals on the continent.

Puzzled, I contacted a friend, who, beaming with nationalistic pride, explained how Ljubljana would soon become the center of the European universe…if only for a few days. Then, he suggested I stay in the local prison. I must admit I was immediately taken with the idea. I’ve slept in former palaces and in convents, bedded down in airports, and even slumbered in a pristine field in the Alps…that is, until I was awakened by a rapidly oncoming herd of equally pristine cows. But a jailhouse? That would be a first.

Ljubljana and its river

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She was following me–around the tiny island in the middle of Lake Bled, a picture perfect spot in northern Slovenia, close to the Austrian border.

“I design all my own clothes,” She said, stopping to pose and point to her bell bottom capris and baggy blue blazer with mismatched buttons. When she turned to give me a rear view, I scurried along. She followed.

“I like Ellen DeGeneres. Do you like Ellen DeGeneres? I thought about marrying her, but decided she was too skinny.”

Lake Bled, Slovenia

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Over a breakfast of sliced papaya and a health conscious Egg McMuffin wannabe, Doris told us about the time Lonely Planet asked her to explain Washuma ceremonies to their readers. She was the expert and they wanted to know what the most important part was. “Vomiting,” she replied. And like the people before me, I looked at her in horror and exclaimed, “What are you talking about? That can’t be part of the ceremony!”

Oh, but it is…if you’re lucky.

Traditional Peruvian costume

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As you may have gathered by now, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into when I jumped on that plane to Peru…and it just got worse.

Our first day was billed as a field trip—a journey to sacred hot springs high in the Andes. Our bodies needed to be cleansed before we could begin. We stopped at a small market and Francoise and I each bought two bags of coca leaves: one for altitude sickness, the other for readings when Doris would check our progress as well as give us tidbits about our future.

Back in the van we soon turned onto a narrow, dirt road that hugged the edge of a jagged mountain. There was no guardrail on the pot-holed path, only a view of hairpin turns and a desolate valley below—WAY below. In the distance, herds of llama munched on yellow grass and stone huts dotted the barren landscape.

Life in the Andes

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continued from “The Shaman”

Standing outside the Cuzco airport, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to find a young man with long, black hair. He was dressed in white, his pants a soft wool, held up by a colorful woven sash. He introduced himself as José and said that Doris was waiting for us at home—in the Sacred Valley.

He motioned for a taxi and we got inside. José explained that we would go into town and look for a ride to take us north. We were dropped off on a bustling street, in a typical working class neighborhood, with run-down buildings and vendors hawking everything from windshield wipers to plastic bowls. It could have easily been Mexico, except for the distinct accent on everyone’s lips.

José left me on the corner while he looked for transportation. Even though it was winter in the Andes, the afternoon sun was strong. I quickly shed my coat, wrapping it around my waist. José returned in a black sedan with another couple already inside. It was an unusual arrangement, but I didn’t question the ways of Peru, I just climbed in.

The Sacred Valley

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