Delicious Expeditions

I knew I had chosen the right place to live when I saw Elvis, or was it Liberace, at my corner grocery store–Billa. Cloaked in a black cape, a jeweled t-shirt glimmering underneath, he waited patiently in the checkout line. His jet-black hair, draped to his shoulders, hinted at youth; however, his aggressively receding hairline told a truer story of his age. Venetians in conservative wool suits greeted him warmly, inquiring about his day with little notice of his large rhinestone-studded sunglasses or dangling gold chains. He was one of them, a fellow member of my new hood—Caneregio.

There’s nothing I like more than eccentric individuals, people who move to the beat of a different drummer, or better yet, their own forty-piece orchestra. Venice is full of them, or so I have read, and I plan to befriend a few before the end of spring. Elverace is high on my list.

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Last summer I reviewed my life when I was I told I might not make it through an emergency surgery for a massive blood clot after an adjustment from a (Canadian, not to be confused with Mexican) chiropractor, I now call Dr. Death. Confronted with the surprising news, I was relieved I had recently made out my first ever Will. I was delighted I had chosen Mexico and a life of adventure and travel, and I even smiled with satisfaction knowing I had done almost everything I had ever wanted in lieu of playing it safe. Not bad, I thought.

I then sent a quick email to my friends saying thanks for the memories and goodbye. I made them promise I could have a gelato cart at my funeral and a slide show of Betty, my foster child in Malawi. (Don’t worry, on an intellectual level I do realize she’s a baboon.) I asked them to play an eclectic mix of music from my life, starting with Abba and the Bee Gees and ending well, with Abba (thanks to their Mama Mia! revival) and Michael Feinstein. They were only to serve the best prosecco before, during, and after the event, as well as memorize a few simple steps for a “Soul Train”-style procession down the church (?) aisle. “Don’t worry I’ll leave the choreography notes with the nurses,” I told them. “Oh, and if the Harlem Gospel Singers are available, book them and start a donation fund for their transportation and lodging.”

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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.

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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 of 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

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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

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