The Beauty of a Kitchen

CINCINNATI, OH


I am, technically, still living out of a suitcase. Or rather the contents of a suitcase, now scattered about the floor. But I am not currently in transit. Rather I'm taking a 10-day hiatus at my mother's house. Here's what happens when I'm not on the road: 

Dinner. 

Nothing glamorous. Just roasted asparagus, and some lovely purple potatoes, and baked salmon with dill. 

I love my nomadic life. But I particularly love it when said nomadic life lands me in a place with a kitchen in which I have free reign. 

Bus Ride on a Rainy Day

CHICAGO, IL

I take a giant step back from the curb as the bus pulls away from the bus stop, narrowly missing the knee-high splash as the bus accelerates through the sizable puddle. The suitcase I am pulling however is not so lucky. Hopefully the nylon bag will prove as water resistant as promised. The city is soggy and gray with yet another day of steady drizzle. The homeless men congregate under the awning by the entrance to Union Station, offering each passenger a taxi and help lifting their bag. After brief reprieves from the weather first in a coffeeshop, and then in the vestibule of an ATM, I walk past a tiny newsstand and am pleasantly surprised to find cheap black umbrellas dangling from the newspaper racks. Now well equipped, I drag my soggy bags across the street, dodging potholes and puddles. I sit down on my bag to wait for my bus. With an umbrella low over my head and bags, it is the perfect vantage point from which to watch the city.  

A man walks down the street stopping at each trash can to pick through the garbage for anything usable. A tattered gym bag is slung over his shoulder, a dented metal water bottle dangling from one end. As he passes me, I catch a whiff of the vague smell of urine eminating from his oversized trench coat. I notice he is wearing ankle weights and oddly curved sneakers that I assume to be the toning sneakers that seem to be all the rage lately. I laugh to myself at a man who is picking through the garbage for food while wearing the usual garb of middle-class, middle-aged women. 

Across the street, a candy colored rainbow of raincoats catches my eye. Four teens and their chaperone have exited union station and are now snapping photos of nondescript albeit very tall buildings. Based on the size of their bags and their enthusiasm over ordinary urban features, I assume they are suburban girls on a day trip to the city. The pull up their orange and pink and turquoise hoods and hold out their cameras snapping self portraits while the single adult woman consults a map, shielding it from the rain with her umbrella. 

A taupe sedan pulls up to the curve and a woman leans her head out, "Is this the bus stop for Cincinnati?" she calls out to me. "Yes, ma'am," I reply. She pulls her luggage out of the trunk as her husband pulls away. We are soon joined by a small crowd of others, suitcases in tow, all verifying that they're in the right place. 

The double-decker bus pulls up, and I bid adieu to the city. After heaving my all-too-heavy duffel into the luggage compartment, I board the bus grateful for the warmth, and hopeful that my damp jeans will dry somewhere before Indianapolis. 

Sleep for the Weary

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS


It is 3:22 am when I tuck my three year old niece back in to bed, telling her that it's the middle of the night, and not time to be awake. I only wish my own body clock would recognize that. 


Jet lag keeps me wide awake in spite of my exhaustion. After rearranging my pillows and blankets a dozen times, stretching my legs in every direction possible, I finally accept that sleep will not come. I blink fiercely against the light I flip on and pull out my laptop from beneath the bed. Working on the computer won't help of course, every piece of literature on good sleep habits will tell you that anything with a screen will do more harm than good in trying to get to sleep. But If I'm going to be awake in the middle of the night, I might as well be productive. A glass of milk to quiet my gurgling stomach keeps me company as I catch up on emails, load photos of my recent trip on to my computer, send off birthday wishes. A few early birds are chirping already, though no light is yet visible. I dread the coming of the day a little, knowing that my lack of sleep will plague me all day. 

The Magic of Fanta

SIEM REAP, CAMBODIA

Today's weather: 95 degrees with 89% humidity
Today's activity: Bike 18 miles around the temples of Angkor
Today's diet: 1 banana, 4 1/2 liters water, 2 cold Orange Fantas

I cannot remember the last time I drank orange soda back in the states. Likely it's been decades, back when Dad drank orange soda for dinner while we all had to drink milk, a gross injustice in my young mind. But since then, it's held little appeal for me. Except when I'm traveling in steamy places. Somewhere around the 90 degree mark, I lose interest entirely in consuming anything other than popsicles and cold liquid. Unfortunately, popsicles are often a little hard to come by in countries lacking reliable refrigeration. Fanta, on the other hand, seems ubiquitous. No matter what tiny town, no matter how far from the main road, fanta seems to have permeated the far reaches of the world. Somehow the blend of sugary sweet vaguely orange flavored syrup and carbonation is exactly what I crave as the sweat pools in the small of my back and the noonday sun leaves me wilting.

Riding a bike ten inches too short, I found myself wilting before noon today, the heat radiating off the stone temples. I lingered a little longer in the shady temples, those consumed by trees. Climbing the narrow steps of Ta Keo, a pyramid-like temple, I reached out to steady myself only to burn my hand on the hot stone. By eight a.m. I was mopping the sweat from my brow, by nine, the back of my shirt soaked thanks to the added insulation of a backpack. The mango and pineapple sold in tiny bags by tiny girls were tempting, but I crossed the street, entering willfully the storm of competing drink sellers. "Laydeeee, Laydeeee, Cold Water!?!" Each one yelling louder than the rest, hoping volume would sway my decision. I picked the cutest sibling pair, and paid way too much, and then sat down in the shade to let the Fanta work its magic. It never fails. I swear.

Early morning in the city

HA NOI, VIETNAM

It seems that every taxi in the city has converged on the train station to meet our early morning train. We wade through the chorus of "Taxi?!" "Taxi?!" and proceed in the faint hint of daylight. It is 5:20 am, our train from Hue to Ha Noi surprisingly punctual. The streets are quiet, the sidewalks bare without the usual array of street cafes and vendors that crop up in the daylight. Our hotel is not yet open. The glass doors are barred with a scrap of wood, and three motorbikes are parked in the hotel lobby. We head to the central lake to pass the time.

The sun has risen by now, though the day is gray and it is misting lightly. The dreary weather does nothing to keep away hundreds of exercisers. It seems the whole city has gathered around the lake for their morning workout. In the square by the library, dozens of women step and kick through an aerobics class. Across the street on the lake side, dozens more follow along. We pick a bench from which to observe while we munch on sweet bread. My favorites are the old men in their pajamas, and the old women who trod along at a snail's pace, waving their arms over head. Two younger women in matching spandex jog by, the swing of their elbows perfectly in time with the swish of their long black ponytails.

The edge of the lake is dotted with individuals doing all sorts of calisthenics, hip circles and high kicks that remind of me of movie scenes of 1950's gym classes. The streets are still largely devoid of traffic and the accompanying horns, instead joggers fill one lane entirely. A pair of foreigners jog by in expensive running shoes, followed by a man in satin shorts and knee socks. There is the occasional school-age kid, but most are adults of all ages, from twenty-somethings up to the hunched old woman trodding along behind her wheelchair, her gray-haired son walking alongside.

To our left, a tai-chi class begins, while to our right a man brushes off a bench to perform some sort of back arching exercise. The benches are littered with people doing sit-ups, and push-ups, and all manner of stretches. It is hard to describe the effect-it's rather amazing actually, swarms of people in every direction, all with similar goals and slightly varying methods.

What a surprising side of the city and a pleasure to catch a glimpse.

Red Shoes

HOI AN, VIETNAM

The sun sinks low over the river, silhouetting the dozens of silk lanterns hanging in the trees. We are perched on tiny wooden stools, knees to our chests, eating steaming bowls of Cao Lau, a local specialty of thick chewy rice noodles, bean sprouts, mint, salad greens, and a salty broth. At less than seventy-five cents per bowl, it's a bargain meal in the perfect setting.

Peeking out of the bag at my feet are a pair of red shoes, embroidered with yellow flowers. I ordered them yesterday from one of the myriad of shoe shops lining the streets, nestled between the tailors and souvenir shops. What a novelty to have custom-made shoes made in less than a day! Cute shoes in my gargantuan shoe size are nearly impossible to find in the rest of the world, and now I have in my possession a perfectly fitted pair of embroidered leather mary janes.

As we wander the streets, I admire the wool coats with their wide collars and contrasting toggles. The shaping on them is just perfect, but I ponder the peculiarity of thick wool coats in a country perched just north of the equator. Slightly faded skirts, dress, shirts, and jackets all beckon from dozens of tailor shops, shopkeepers calling out, "yes, please, you have a look?" Only our short stay and my small backpack keep me from obliging.

I have been enamored with Vietnam since our arrival nearly a week ago. I knew in coming here for a mere two weeks that I would barely be able to begin to see the country, and have, as expected, found the country tempting me to stay longer. I haven't often returned to places I've already visited- there are, afterall, 174 countries that I haven't yet visited- but Vietnam could certainly be a first. And should I ever return, I do believe I will acquire a whole new wardrobe in Hoi An. It could be the perfect vacation, really: gorging on noodles and spring rolls in between fittings. I will of course need to bring a bigger suitcase.

Adventures in Lilliput

HOI AN, VIETNAM

We arrived in Hanoi early Monday morning after a brief flight from Bangkok. After checking in to a charming guesthouse in the old quarter, we went for a much needed walk, stretching our legs after being folded into a very tiny seat on the budget airline. The distance between seats proved to be just a hair shorter than the distance between my knees and my hips, only the first indication of adventures to come.

Walking around Hoan Kiem, the central lake in Hanoi, I was startled by a hand grabbing my arm. I turned to find a giggling woman, her head not reaching my shoulder. In a moment her friend had flashed a picture of the two of us, the stark contrast in our statures downright comical. As for the rest of our afternoon stroll, it's hard to say whether the staring was on account of my height or my skin color. 

Thursday's train featured short beds, and yesterday's bus featured short seats. Sidewalk tea stands are furnished with the tiniest plastic stools I have ever laid eyes on. I have been tempted to sit down for a cup of tea just for the hilarity. 

It's not the first time I've run into this problem of course. I am just shy of six feet tall and have on more than one occasion, on several continents, had to communicate in gestures that no, my leg bones are not adjustable, and no they simply will not fit in the 8 inch space in which you have left me. And I'm really sorry about that. 

We are now in Hoi An, enjoying the old city with it's winding lanes, in spite of the overabundance of tourists, and the constant calls to "Buy something from me!" Today we rented bikes to explore the islands of Cam Nam and Cam Kim. The bikes in town are all more or less the same- all with a single low bar, similar to women's bikes in the U.S., and all with low seats. When I had asked the man we rented from if the seat was adjustable, I received a hearty laugh in reply, and the meager apology that these were Vietnamese bikes. Aiming to make the best of it, I pedaled off in the direction of the bridge. I felt a bit like I was riding a child's bike, my knees rising above the handlebars. A few hours later, my knees stiffening with each rotation, I returned the bike. 

I have long considered the idea of doing a long distance bike trip through Vietnam. I've actually never done any long distance biking and this is my first trip to Vietnam, so it may or may not be a good idea, and may or may not ever come to fruition. But in contemplating the idea, I had read tales from previous bike travelers who recommend buying local bikes so as to make repairs and parts-finding easier. After today, however, I am quite convinced that should I embark on a long distance bike trip, I will either be shipping my bike from overseas, or finding a destination with very tall people. 

Yum.

HA NOI, VIETNAM

I am in love with Vietnamese coffee. Well, really it's the sweetened condensed milk I love.

This is Bun. It might be my new favorite. Noodles with mint and greens and peanuts and some sort of broth and spicy sauce. Found in a little street kitchen last night. 

Marinated tofu with roasted pumpkin and black sesame seeds. Pleasantly spicy, and served at a restaurant run as a training program for former street kids, giving them culinary and hospitality job skills. 

A Walk in the Park

BANGKOK, THAILAND

Three little boys freeze, mid-chase, dropping their hands to their sides. The hula-hoopers to my left allow their hoops to fall to the ground. It is 6:00 and the national anthem plays over the loudspeakers, as it does every afternoon, and accordingly everyone stops what they are doing and stands reverently for the song. It is slightly peculiar, actually, the way the whole world freezes mid-sentence. The traffic continues, unfortunately, otherwise this could easily be my favorite part of every day.

Shortly after the national anthem ends, and life has resumed, a group gathers for an aerobics class. Mostly middle-aged woman, but a handful of younger and older, and even a few men, arrive one by one and join the lines bouncing in unison, following the direction of a woman in spandex and headset in front. Others, locals and tourists alike, come to gawk.

It is a tiny park along the Chao Praya river, and with a cement fort taking up most of the grounds, it's astonishing really how much can be crammed into such a tiny space. Wide walkways of smooth brick meander through the park, leaving small squares of grass and gardens in between. One corner of brick is taken over by young break dancers. The older ones are captivating, displaying impressive agility and skill. The younger ones cling to the sidelines practicing, pushing themselves up with their arms, mimicking the older ones as the spin and flip.

In the patches of grass, whole families gather, the adults lounging on blankets, the little ones running free. A ball bounds down the hill next to me, as I sit on the wide grassy steps, a sort of natural ampitheater, writing postcards. Two toddlers follow, holding onto one another as they stumble awkwardly down the steps in pursuit of their ball.

The shade of the tree and a light breeze are a lovely reprieve from the hot sun on this, the hottest day of my trip thus far. While I had been prepared to be sweating buckets, and had packed accordingly, the weather has in fact been quite cool. I have found myself digging out my long sleeves, while the locals talk about how this is the coldest it has been in anyone's memory. Today, however, I find myself squinting in the sun and seeking the smallest patches of shade. While touring the palace today, I stick to the long roofed corridors in equal part for their shade as for the amazing murals within.