Delicious Expeditions

For most people cold, rainy mornings evoke fantasies of luxurious hours spent in bed sipping a hot beverage of choice, however on damp New York days, I find there’s nothing more comforting than dancing to show tunes with a brunch of men in tights.

I know this sounds like a horrible cliché, but it’s true. When our instructor said we’d be doing a scene from “West Side Story” the look of sheer joy on their faces was contagious.

The main reason I come to New York is to dance, to follow my childhood dream (to the best of my ability at 45) of becoming a Broadway dancer, if only for a month. Please, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not starring in any theater productions, I’m just a student practicing her (much declined) skills in a room of people waiting for their next audition. They still have a shot at Broadway; I do not.

It’s a hard realization to know it will never happen, but I focus on the positive. When the other students break for a meager lunch of salad or an apple, I get to follow my other dream…discovering the best food the world has to offer. I don’t need to worry about fitting into skimpy costumes anymore, so the restrictions are lifted–I can, and will, indulge in cake, pie, cookies and doughnuts with a talent respected by many.

Assorted Voodoo Doughnuts

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Parting with a large sum of money on the first of the month, when rents and mortgages are due, can be painful, if not downright depressing. We all know that our hard earnings could be better spent on new clothes and lavish trips, but having a roof over our heads (or businesses) is a priority for the un-homeless and non-transients in most societies.

My pain, though, is eased when I’m in New York, where I have a rent paying perk that no one else can claim: a five-course meal at the city’s top Catalan restaurant (cuisine from the region of Catalonia, in Northeastern Spain). My landlord is the owner, so when I’m in the big Apple I graciously offer to drop off the check in person. “No problem,” I say. “I don’t mind taking the subway for an hour and making three changes. I really have nothing else to do.” My reward for such personal attention is a banquet of Catalan-style tapas and superior Spanish wine.

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The last Friday of Lent is when the Virgin of Sorrows (Viernes de Dolores) is honored with decorative altars all over town, some in neighborhood doorways, others, in front of historic churches. They range from small and humble to elaborate creations that fill an entire room, usually surrounded by white candles (for purity) and draped in purple (the color of grief).

The focal point of the altars is a statue of Maria, with her hands clasped and tears in her eyes. Flowers and fruit (usually oranges) surround her, as well as colorful hand-carved religious figures, sometimes mixed with pagan gods.

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In Mexico and most of Latin America, Candelaria, or the “Feast of Purification” takes places every year on February 2nd. It is celebrated with much enthusiasm, festivity and even an occasional bullfight. In San Miguel, though, there’s a unique and special tradition–a large, outdoor plant sale. For an entire week brightly colored buds of every flower imaginable, interspersed with hand-painted pots and large clay plant holders, cover the ground of Parque Juarez near the center of town.

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For most Americans, Day of the Dead is an unknown holiday; however, in Mexico it is celebrated with much festivity. This pre-Hispanic tradition, blended with Catholicism, takes place on November 2nd. Families join together to honor and remember the dead by building elaborate altars in their homes. Pictures, as well as the personal items and favorite foods of their dearly departed, are placed on the altars. This is done to entice them into returning for the day.

Day of the Dead Alter

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The scent of roasted pork with a hint of rosemary arrives before the porchetta truck comes into view. Rounding the corner I find the source of the mouth-watering aroma—a large, roasted pig, stuffed with herbs, sprawled across the vehicle’s clean plastic counter. I’m not a fan of animals displayed in this fashion, however, I am a fan of good pork products, so I choose to ignore the head and feet, focusing only on the center and the fresh golden brown rolls stacked in the corner. As a large, cheerful, rosy-cheeked man, clad in a white apron, slices thin slivers of pork, his companion opens up the a roll and places the meat inside, making a savory sandwich, just for me.

Porchetta truck

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It’s finally time for some central European culture. After two weeks dedicated to roaming the streets, finding the best grocery stores, and memorizing the city’s public transportation system (so I never have to pull out a map and look like a tourist), I’m ready to head indoors and see some of Prague’s outstanding cultural artifacts.

Prague City View

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Plush velvet, jewel-toned sofas; polished brass fixtures; long, elegant etched mirrors; women with fabulous floral hats, sipping tea next to men in dark suits, newspapers in hand; intellectuals in heated debates, with waiters in crisp, white aprons serving glasses of champagne is how I envision café society. Even though this scenario was more common a century ago, it’s still alive at the Café Savoy in Prague (well, minus the jeweled sofas and floral head-gear; the waiters, though, are right on cue).

I’ve always pictured myself in this environment, present and past life. I would spend my days, keeping up on current events and trends, while nibbling on delicate pastries, as well as large chunks of Germanic layer cake, oozing assorted cream fillings. All this would take place over endless cups of Viennese coffee poured into fine, bone-white china, before I would switch to a Moravian red, served in a thin, long-stemmed glass at a respectable hour. Seated beside fascinating individuals, I would pretend to read thought-provoking books while analyzing their footwear and topics of conversation with an enlightened, silent critique.

Savoy Pastry Case

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A sharp metal trill awakes me, like church bells hidden inside the closet. It continues in short intervals as the street trolley bends around the corner with a high-pitched squeak and stops across the lawn from my bedroom window. Hordes of people get on and off, scurrying to work, as I pull the white lace curtain back and open the double pained antique windows. It’s the beginning of August, so the day is warm and the heat already intense. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a large group of tourists trekking across a cobblestone street, heading to the narrow lane, which leads to Prague Castle. The enormous complex, with its varied architecture, sits high on the hilltop in front of me, above the trolleys, in perfect view—the perfect view, from my new apartment, at least for the next month.

Trolley & Prague Castle

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Sunlight fills the patio; filtered through bougainvillea, palm trees, banana leaves and jasmine vines. Everywhere you look the light is different, softer near the muted, paint-peeled apricot walls, harsher on the ancient grey stones. A soft breeze dances around a guava tree, full of sweet yellow fruit, swaying its long, green limbs ever so gently from side to side. Key limes weigh down the branches of a short, stout tree at the entrance of the old, colonial house. A house, which dates back to 1600 and is the new residence of El Buen Café (Jesús 36), just down the street from its original location.

Entrance to El Buen Cafe

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