Cuba 10×10: 10 days. 10 Pics.

Just south of the Tropic of Cancer, rum pulses in the veins of the Caribbean’s largest island, Cuba. The cocktail menus are often more extensive than the food options, and for good reason. They have the rum part down pat and it seems to marry well with everything and everyone.

But, Cuba is so much more than a booze-tastic all-inclusive destination. Yes, the water is cerulean. Yes, the sand is like padding around in sugar. But, it’s also an island of constant surprise, contrast and intrigue. The arts scene is vibrant, salsa music pumps out of every open window, bar and resto—and even on the beach. You will be guaranteed a soulful serenade at some point during your stay.

Many of Cuba’s cities are designated as World Heritage Sites, and the aging facades of the colonial buildings and cobblestone roads are like stepping into a time capsule. The parade of vintage Fords and buffed up Bel Airs are a strange reminder of decades gone by.

In August I spent 10 days in Cuba courtesy of  a partnership between The Adventure Center and The Matador Network. In 2011-2012, The Adventure Center sent eight Matador U students and alumni on adrenalin-kicked trips. My cub reporter duties took me from Havana to Holguin to Trinidad, being chased by Tropical Storm Isaac. Trusty notepad and pork rinds in hand, Canon trained on the sensory assault, this was my Cuba, 10×10. A pleasurable balm to the -12 (“feels like -19″) temps in Toronto tonight.

Okay, that was 12 pics, but…

The Fine Art of Living in 700-Square Feet

When you live in 700-square feet and caramelize onions on the stovetop, your duvet will smell exactly like caramelized onions that night unless you close the bedroom door and wedge a rolled wet towel at the base of the door. Similarly, if you make butter chicken for dinner, there’s a 100% chance that later that night when you shower, you will step out of the tub Irish Spring-clean only to wrap yourself in a curry-scented towel.

When you live in 700-square feet a gas fireplace can recreate Central American climes in about 13 minutes flat. In addition, for ultimate winter coziness, when you have seven foot ceilings, pot lights serve as head warmers. One can feel like a Swiss Chalet rotisserie chicken very quickly and easily.

With en suite laundry, when the buzzer signals the end of the dryer cycle, it’s parallel to being struck by a bolt of lightning. Originally designed for basement placement, Maytag dryer buzzers were set to a volume ample enough to alert housewives on the upper two floors of a home or half a block down the road—not ten paces away.

Living in such close quarters means that there is no secret Tostito eating—and a beer being covertly opened can be detected from any point within the apartment. Much like the heightened awareness a cat has with the electric can opener of yore—even when above-mentioned cat is three miles away, about to pounce on a woodland mouse– I run in the same fashion towards the sound of a bottle opener or chip bag. Natural wild instincts despite urban location intact.

When you have 700-square feet in downtown Toronto, only 70 seems to be allotted to the kitchen area. This translates into just enough space for one Romanian gymnast to do a somersault. Two people in the kitchen galley at one time means bacon grease splattered on someone’s shirt, accidental knife jabs and random head strikes from freezer doors or each other.

In special cases, such as mine, a landlord can order a brand new fridge and request to have the fridge door mounted to open from the right side, to create more space, before delivery. However, at the same time, in special cases, said landlord can mis-measure available fridge space and order a fridge too large. This means that sometimes when you live in small spaces, the fridge door cannot open fully to the right due to a wall, even when two inches of the counter top is sawn off. This allows the fridge door to open 55 degrees instead of 90 which requires users to do serious lunging and intensive arm extensions to reach the back left corner. Luckily, here, beers are safe from shorter-armed people. Conversely, the Costco-sized Thai chili sauce bottle is safe from toppling and knocking over the 6-pack of Carlsberg like bowling pins.

I could go on about the former fridge—how I had to shut both bedroom doors to drown out its moaning. It was a vintage model, tired of being cold all the time. In the dead of night it sounded like a half dozen hamsters were running in wheels to keep it in operation. The new fridge is a moderate improvement—we still have to jack up the volume on a movie to account for the background din of the fridge running. And, oh, how it runs. I have been half-tempted to unplug it during movies (and sleep) on several occasions.

When you live in 700-square feet there is no room for miscellaneous anything. One kitchen drawer is dominated by pots and pans stacked like Russian dolls. One drawer is crammed with the likes of Raisin Bran, panko, Schwartz’s steak seasoning, molasses and carefully arranged boxes of crackers. Everything must have a purpose. And sometimes, even with a definitive purpose, items like the Krups panini maker must reside on the shoe shelf. Sometimes, space hog dishwashers that eliminate valuable cupboard space, must be employed as full-time dish storage. All house guests were routinely told not to place dirty dishes in the dishwasher. “No, this is where we store all the clean dishes.” The previous arrangement before our epiphany was on top of the fridge. Which meant all the stacked square dishes and matching square bowls would have to be lifted off in one overhead military press-style manoeuvre to the counter below. Equivalent of 50 pounds and repetitive strain injury to supraspinatus muscle. Thank god for dish storage epiphanies.

More on storage: With two semi-fashionista people with a penchant for hoodies and jeans, closet by-laws have to be put into place. Such as (to an anonymous girlfriend): “No purchase of big, wool sweaters, regardless of how awesome they are until we move.” Kim has two that require a full dresser drawer. When we flew to Charlottetown, her sweater took up the entire overhead compartment of our Air Canada Boeing.

Our shoes are already double-stacked, our jeans wedged to the closet ceiling. No jumbo-sized or double anything is allowed. Especially because the bathroom medicine cabinet height is designed for products that mice might use. Kim’s hairspray has to lie on its side, threatening to roll out and explode on the tile floors on a daily basis.

On top of all this, living below others (a couple who loves wearing their cement-soled shoes and doing laps each morning circa 5 am) means all sound must be kept to a minimum. Yes, it’s like living on a fun reduction. If the cement-soled shoe couple is home (and they usually tuck in around 9 pm), movies are at a whisper-level. Only high dramas with heavy dialogue (bonus for subtitled flicks) can be rented mid-week. Definitely no James Bond or Bourne Conspiracy-types until maybe Saturday night when we can start our movie performance earlier.

Phone conversations are halted and scheduled for seniors hours. My sister has had to suffer because of it. She lives in the ideal time zone (Banff) for my night owl lifestyle (two hours behind Toronto-time), but, due to the sleeping couple above, I have to laugh silently and position myself practically outside the window and speak in hushy tones.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

But, sometimes, after living in 700-square feet for two years, you buy a house that is double that size with no one living upstairs. Or downstairs. With a backyard to lounge in (not just look at like a caged budgie), a kitchen that could fit 25 minglers AND a team of somersaulting Romanian gymnasts, space for a dozen wool sweaters for each of us in several rooms, permission and encouragement for LOUD movies (positioned far, far away from the fridge that is remarkably silent—with a fridge door that opens practically 180 degrees), space for time zone-friendly phone calls that won’t disturb the other (where laughter can be laughed LOL-style and not held in like a fart), a separate pantry AND lazy Susan instead of one wimpy drawer, and, best? An en suite AND master bath for towels that will smell like Downy Mountain Mist not Patak’s butter chicken after dinner.
We’re ready.

14 Predictions for the Torti Christmas: 2012 Edition

The Torti Christmas is always a lovely orchestrated chaos of champagne, pant-wetting laughter and storytelling. Are we becoming predictable? I know these things to be true, and everyone in attendance will no doubt agree that:

1. My father (who we nicknamed “Flo” eons ago) will nickname my brother’s Romanian boyfriend after 15 mispronunciations of “Dragos.”

2. My sister Kiley (via satellite in Banff) will be put on speaker phone and have the distinct pleasure of deciphering six people talking at once. Speaker phone conversation may also include one of the cats (Izzy or Chloe) if they are cooperative and interactive.

3. Dax will (conveniently) disappear to “delete cookies from Mom’s laptop web browser.” This will occur when the dishes need to be done.

4. All of us will intermittently disappear to delete the cookie supply in the sunroom where the Tupperware and tins moan with sugar and butter. Here, layers of Nanaimo bars snug up with pecan shortbread, macaroons and butter tarts. This is precisely what I dreamt of in Africa in 2008 as I ate stale vanilla wafers and slugged back potentially salmonella-laden unrefrigerated egg nog.

5. My dad will be in charge of washing/drying the dishes because my mother goes all Iron Chef in the kitchen with delegation. As per every year, my father will leave all the dried dishes and pots on the countertop, because, after 10 years of living in their home in Terrace Hill, he doesn’t know “where mom keeps them.”

6. My mother will remark “did everyone see Flo’s museum display?” This comment will be in reference to my dad’s display of dried dishes which will take up every valuable inch of countertop space.

7. Before the traditional bird dinner, Flo will eat six consecutive slices of buttered toast in complete dire straits, patiently waiting for dinner to be ready.

8. Mid-afternoon, my mother will prepare an ooh-ahh worthy platter of fine cheeses, charcuterie and artisan crackers. She will prep a separate plate or delineate the tray for my dad: “This is your section. You won’t appreciate the expensive stuff.” My dad’s section will include Cracker Barrel cheddar and mozzarella cubes which he will enjoy in his usual Pac Man fashion. He will be served a thimble of wine because he won’t appreciate the value of the wine either.

9. Somebody will re-tell the story of the Great Unicycle Incident of 1985. This is when Dax decided to test drive his brand new unicycle in the livingroom and pulled the mantelpiece and miniature Grandfather clock off the mantel, nearly killing my dad and the family dog.

10. Somebody will reminisce about Nan’s Nordic knit sweaters. In the summer of 1987 our grandmother sneezed and wheezed her way through four sweaters (despite a lethal allergy to wool). Nan’s sweaters were a force to be reckoned with. The stovepipe arms narrowed and cinched so closely in the armpit that they threatened to cut circulation off. The waist ballooned out to allow for teenage pregnancy. The sweater’s neck was either large enough for two necks or required three people to assist in the pulling-over-the-head process.

11.My mother will periodically crank her favourite Paul Potts, Il Divo and Pavarotti songs on the stereo. My father will attempt to sneak in and turn the volume down when my mother is distracted with julienning or basting. She will notice. The volume game resumes. Repeatedly.

12. My dad will retreat to the “TV room” (with buttered toast) where he will use my girlfriend as a pawn. “I’m just keeping Kim company—she wants to watch the World Junior Hockey action. Hey Kim, can I get you a beer?” (Flo disappears into the TV area with a beer for Kim and a rye and ginger for himself with a thumbs up and wink). My mom will re-crank Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma. Kim will remain seated to help facilitate sport-watching time for my dad.

13. When it comes time to unwrap gifts, Dax will use his traditional wrapping. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” Dax has never wrapped a gift in my Christmas memory.

14. While unwrapping gifts we will make fun of Kiley until my dad will say, “Now, don’t make fun of your sister, she’s not here to defend herself.” But, I know Kiley won’t mind. I will re-hash the story of Kiley and Her Gift-Giving Saga. Dragos doesn’t know all the Torti tales, so, we have renewed opportunity to share nostalgic stories. Kiley’s gift-giving has included:

a) A $200 autographed hockey stick that she bought on ebay for my dad (and convinced us to chip in on). Flo couldn’t recognize any of the signatures and thought it was a fake (insert Kiley’s pout and official ebay document of authenticity here). Further investigation reveals that the stick is signed by real players, from the Leafs farm team.

b) The $200 bird. Kiley buys a heron that is made out of rock and iron at an art show in Canmore, Alberta in the fall. Would Dax and I like to chip in on it? Chipping in on the bird for my mom will also cover the expense to ship the 100 POUND BIRD across Canada in time for Christmas.

c)The present for Dax that was “in the mail” that never arrived because there was no gift ever sent. (Love you Kiley!! And, I’m so glad nobody else in the family writes a blog).

This is just a prediction. Soon I may have to get my family members to sign a media release to protect myself from defamation charges.

But, then my dear family will be reminded of how grateful I am to be part of such a family. Eccentric, yes. Adoring, tenfold. I am so lucky to have a solid gold foundation.

We will miss having Kiley and Mark with us this year, but, via speaker phone and champagne stories, they are with us! Oh, and this is where the 15^th prediction comes in. One of us will reminisce about that stupid Cabbage Patch Kid that Kiley got for Christmas. That doll with the head and booties made out of CEMENT that she beat us SENSELESS with.

Merry Christmas everyone. Love the ones you’re with.

The Best Places We Slept in 2012

Yes, we’ve been sleeping around again. In 2011 we ventured into unexpected extremes: from the -3 temps of the Ice Hotel in Quebec City to the +300 clime of the Siwa Oasis in Egypt. We slept on a bed of ice, in a 13^th century Shali fortress and in the sand dunes of Lake Erie. This year seat sales took us to the cerulean waters of Belize, the moody grey wool skies of Prince Edward Island, rum-submerged Cuba and the gentle giant, Edmonton. Come October, after narrowing our list to St. Lucia, Newfoundland or Turks & Caicos, we ended up packing our bags and belt buckles for Texas.

These were our favourites of 2012:

1. The Belize Zoo, Belize

When my sister suggested we detour from Caye Caulker and book a night at the zoo, I was worried that it might be too schmaltzy. The website promised a riveting night in a jungle hut situated on a croc-filled pond. Would it be too Disney? I envisioned a mash-up of the Rainforest Cafe, zoo employees in faux-fur mascot outfits and neon jungle juice for breakfast. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The Belize Zoo appears to have more animals living outside its cages than in. We awoke to a total riot of bird sound: hyped-up green parrots, trogans and horny chachalacas getting it on before sun up. Indeed, there were crocs (not mechanical) that ominously slid about the pond, slipping beneath the boardwalk we precariously used to reach our cabin.

The cabin was just rustic enough—but with the pleasures of a beer fridge, toilet (with seat) and shower with surprisingly hot water. Our screened-in porch offered a spoiled view of the pond sans mosquitoes. Howler monkeys carried on in the canopies nearby—making for a truly authentic jungle stay. Best yet? At 7pm we met with a zookeeper who led us around the zoo on a private, up close and personal “safari” of the zoo’s nightlife. Enticing the animals and birds of prey with raw chicken, we had the child-like thrill of close encounters with jaguars, tapirs, owls and the wild peccary. Note: Skip the peccaries. They are wild pigs that look like they are wearing high heels—spindly legs carrying typical pig bodies. But, the stench! My grandfather was  a pig farmer, so I’m not averse to pig shit. The wild peccaries emit a ghastly odour as a protective mechanism that just about threatens to collapse your lungs.

2.  Carless and Careless Caye Caulker, Belize

We combed “cheap beach huts in Belize” for so many nights in a row to no avail. February was booked solid, everywhere—and we were starting to question the good fortune of finding return fares for $425. Great, cheap ticket, but, we have no accommodations. On the cusp of our departure, we fielded a response from a Canadian expat who was able to offer our last choice. Near to the beach, but not on the beach proper, behind another beach hut, with an obscured ocean view (which could be gained by bending in half and angling your head just so…). It turned out to be a gem. To boot, it came with free PeeWee Herman-esque bikes. The expat’s husband (never seen in shoes, or flip flops, ever) warned us about the screaming lizards (true story: come 3am they shrill, squeak and peep like New Year’s Eve horns from the dollar store) and asked if we’d like him to deliver some beer to us. Yes, beer fairies live in Belize. He delivered a case of Belikin the next morning, on his bike.

The beach hut was a great crash pad after our gin-tastic Panty Ripper-laced afternoons at the Lazy Lizard. Post sunset-viewing (the only beacon in our day), we’d retire to our hut for catnaps. We were minutes (on foot) from the best fried chicken, fire-breathing shrimp curries and Cheez Whiz waffles. Situated off the main strip of vibrating bars and tipsy patrons, our Crazy Canuck hut offered the solitude of a private beach and dock access where we shared space with only long-legged egrets and kingfishers.

3. Queen’s Landing, Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario

Sometimes you just have to do it grand, without waiting for an occasion or anniversary. Kim had always wanted to stay at Queen’s Landing, and rightly so. The vintage hotel is opulent, indulgent and offers a 400-thread-count sheet-sleep.

It was April, a miserable Monday of pelting rain. The normally charming town was void of pedestrians. We abandoned thoughts of popping in and out of the galleries and boutique shops to take full advantage of our posh room. That is, after we opted instead to take a free shuttle to the nearest winery, Peller Estates.  Happy for visitors, the staff swarmed us and poured for us. We found a bottle to drink that night (baco noir) and a cab merlot for home. We had a soft mango-ginger cheese and a gouda to fill the gap between dusk and dinner at the haunted Angel’s Inn Pub. While we waited for our shuttle to return, a version of my mother (all genuine smiles and generosity) poured us full glasses of a cuvee to enjoy while we sat by the fire. Top marks to Peller!

Back at the hotel, we laughed at the enormity of our bed. We could sleep in any direction. We had upgraded to the honeymoon suite because, hey, why not do it right? The jet tub was like sitting inside a convertible—massive and so over-the-top.

If you want to feel a big dose of excessive and appreciated elegance, reserve a night here for red carpet treatment, robes more plush than polar bears and, by god, a turn-down service with a single rose.

4. The Norfolk Guest House, Guelph, Ontario

When Kim and I were narrowing our house search to Guelph, we wanted to get a full snapshot of the downtown core and what living there might be like. We stopped in at the Wellington Brewery (an effective way to assess the city) to buy a 6-pack of bitters, found a place serving up killer peameal bacon sandwiches and house-made kettle chips(delivered in a cast iron frypan) and later, went with our agent to check out a house on Powell that we were completely smitten with online.

The bed and breakfast was smack dab in the neighbourhood we wanted to live in. We chose the Turkish Suite in the 1867 mansion. The website promised it was “fit for a sultan.” It had a double hydro massage whirpool tub, sexy glass multi-jetted shower, heated tile floors, and again, a bed that was of fairy tale proportions.

Breakfast the following day was obscenely good with all the homey fry-up fixings and relaxed conversation over the morning paper and punchy hot coffee.  Janet was the perfect Guelph ambassador and convinced us that Guelph, indeed, had to be our new hometown. (Editor’s note: our new hometown will be West Galt, near to Guelph, allowing us the pleasure to stay at the Norfolk Guest House again).

5. Captain’s Quarters, Kemah, Texas

Insert sigh and inject ultimate relaxation and pampering here. After a week in Surfside Beach in Galveston, Kim and I were reluctant to pack up for the weekend. We’d had the lazy luxury of a three bedroom house on the ocean for five days. “Our” house was reserved for the weekend, so, we were forced to move on. Thunderstorms were projected for the next few days, the aftermath of hurricane activity in the Gulf. We hoped we could beat the storm front by staying ahead of it and moving north along the coast to Kemah.

We’d never heard of Kemah before, but we had two nights before our flight out of Houston and were game for more sun and beach. Our initial poking around Kemah revealed that every B&B was sold out or, asking for $300 a night.

The Captain’s Quarters B&B close to the boardwalk was hardly a last resort. It was more along the lines of—should we? There were cheaper places. We could push on to Houston. We asked for keys to check the place out before we committed.  The 5^th floor widow’s walk sucked us in. The gulf side balcony with rockers pulled us in even further. A basket of fresh pastries would be delivered to our room in the morning. What did we think?

We were minutes away from the famed boardwalk which painted the night sky in a colourful eruption of lights. The amusement rides zoomed and whirled in the soundless distance. All we could hear was the breeze whipping off the bay. Hello romance!

I was all over the fresh pastries. I was already seated upstairs in the widow’s walk with Kim, a bottle of blackberry-heavy Tempranillo from Haak Winery  and our nearly-finished beach books. I was even drinking coffee the next day in one of the rockers, scanning for dolphins.

It was the perfect compromise for uprooting from our private house on Surfside Beach.

And now, 2013…where will we sleep next?

St. Lucia? Iceland? The Phillipines? That cool treehouse orb in Qualicum Beach in BC? Memphis?

Stay tuned. And, in the meantime, check out the best places we slept in 2011.

Noise Cancelling: The Plight of the Urban Refugee

We’re ready. Pacing. Mentally moving furniture. However, we have another month and a half to do so with our mid-January closing date. On the flip side, Kim and I have maxed out our days off with recreational window shopping. We’ve sized up bar stools, sketched out kitchen islands and sourced salvaged wood warehouses for the perfect planks for our tabletop. This is monumentally more enjoyable than the highs and lows of scouring MLS listings for our dream house.

Now that we have the house part secured, we can indulge in the fun elements of moving into a new (150-years-old/new) place like listening to Bose home theatre sound systems, finding the perfect mill cart for a coffee table and eyeballing wooden wine crates for a project we have in mind.

As the date approaches, we (mostly me) are beginning to let certain annoyances become amplified. Once you have a deadline for annoying things coming to an end, it’s easier to bitch and complain about them. I know that it’s now temporary. However, my normally high patience threshold is becoming increasingly challenged. All of this is the ammunition that is propelling our move out of the city. Largely, it’s the noise.

I have lived above, below and between people for too many years. I cannot wait to crank Madison Violet at any time of day or night, just because I can. I no longer have to be courteous or ever-conscious of those above or below or between. Soon we will be able to watch movies at MOVIE THEATRE SURROUND SOUND LEVELS. Currently, I find myself letting Tostitos dissolve on my tongue during the dialogue bits of movies because crunching the chips will mute out the church mouse-friendly sound entirely. We’ve taken to renting sub-title flicks for this reason. Hyper-aware of the early bedtime of the upstairs tenants, we can still watch movies without disturbing them.  A pesar de quetenemos que leerlas películas. رغم ان لدينا لقراءة الأفلام.

Not that I’m a loud person to begin with, but, I like knowing that I can be. I like to do dishes at midnight and shower at 2am if need be. Sometimes my best sweeping is done around 3:30am. Being respectful of other tenants has been doable, but, trying.  And, yes, I know that I have probably miffed them off in equal measure—especially when the dryer buzzer lets out its heart-attack-inducing end-of-cycle BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzz in the absolute dead of the night.

Photo credit: Tommy Vohs http://www.bloodshotmirage.com

Living and renting in the city naturally equates noise. However, my initial concern of living on the subway line that barrels past every two minutes at peak service subsided immediately. The subway and its mild vibration felt in my apartment is white noise now. The only time I am aggravated is around 5:40am, when I hear the system start up again. Which means I’ve usually only been asleep for two hours, and I don’t have much sleeping time left.

What does not constitute as white noise would be the very energetic tenants upstairs who do morning wind sprints (Kim recognized and identified the rapid back and forth movements as such). They’re not late night revellers, but, worse, they are morning revellers. They are firm believers that the early bird gets the worm.  Shortly after the subway lurches along the Bloor line at 5:40, the tenants begin wind sprinting. They stop moving when we get up. It’s a very perplexing timing syndrome.

This of course is nothing compared to the Legend of Stompy. Remember the tenant with strong affection for Yo Yo Ma and wearing cement blocks on her feet? Who left her clothes in the washer for three days so they’d be so sour and ripe she’d have to start the cycle all over again—only to leave them in the dryer for another three days? Now, that was loud and obnoxious at its best. She once gave me a slice of slightly burnt banana bread as an ironic “peace” offering. Even a weekly loaf of banana bread for the rest of my life wouldn’t suffice. My cortisol levels were at a record count until she moved out and stomped on to ruin someone else’s peace and quiet.

I was beginning to have dangerous flashbacks of the 2004 pyscho drama Noise with Ally Sheedy and Trish Goff. Let’s just say the plot didn’t involve such niceties as banana bread.

And don’t even get me started on the fridge. My landlord replaced the former behemoth that was moaning so loudly I had to start shutting my bedroom door at night because it kept me awake. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the new fridge is actually louder than the last. When did they start making them with Boeing 747 motors? When it finally stops its chill cycle (it’s not even busy making ice cubes, it’s just maintaining itself and our shelf of beer and five blocks of cheese), I can feel my shoulders relax. My heart rate returns to normal. Even when I’m alone I find myself saying “finally!” out loud. The fridge actually interrupts conversation. Don’t even try to whisper sweet nothings in its vicinity.

I want the quiet pollution of a small town. Life on the river with real, live birds as a soundtrack—not ringing cell phones and car alarms and horns and sirens and jackhammers.

When Kim and I were in Egypt last year, our pal Mohammed picked us up at 4:30am so we could drive out to witness the most serene sunrise over the salt lake in the Siwa Oasis. It was so quiet there that our ears almost hurt, straining to hear something. The stillness was startling.

It was quiet as a tomb in the White Desert as well. As comforting as certain sounds can be, the absence of sound in the desert is a remarkable experience.

It will be as remarkable as not having to listen to this fridge, the subway and morning wind sprints.

“Home is the nicest word there is.”

Writers do have a license to exaggerate, but, when I say that my partner and I looked at 3,489 house listings on MLS, the truth is hot neon pink.

Since April, we have combed every neighbourhood in Dundas, Waterdown and Guelph. In weaker moments, we (mostly I) looked at prospects in St. George, Niagara-on-the-Lake, Paris and even Dunnville (lakefront!).

I turned my nose up at Burlington because it was too generic. Kim put the brakes on my escalated searches in Westdale, the fancy-pants area of Hamilton. “Babe, it’s Hamilton! We don’t want to live there.” Kim grew up in Hamilton and I grew up in Brantford. I didn’t even breathe a word about checking out Brantford properties, so, we called it even.

Our initial MLS prowling was casual and happy-go-lucky. We cruised around Waterdown and Dundas, slowing down to marvel at houses that weren’t for sale—but ideally what we were looking for. The first two-storey stucco charmer (with a For Sale sign) was on Melville Street in Waterdown. It sold before we even had a chance to get a sneak peek at the interior. We kept tabs on a few Dundas properties and discovered Collins Brewpub and Detour Coffee Roasters in between. I was set in the critical beer and coffee department.

We didn’t become die-hard buyers until Kim sold her Bronte home in June, after just five weeks on the market. We’d heard and read horror stories about carrying two mortgages and come May, the real estate market was already beginning to flat line. Once we had the green light to buy, every morning coffee was downed in front of my laptop, driving around the MLS map. I considered commuting back to Toronto for work, and with some clever transit-hopping, I could probably do it from Dundas. Kim liked the prospects of having a sub-twenty minute drive to her job.

Fast forward to the end of July—and then the end of August. We hesitated in booking a planned trip to Iceland in the fall thinking the September market would be hot. We willed ourselves to consider a house in Morriston (which I had never even heard of), because it was a bloody gem. But, my pedestrian-friendly lifestyle would be void. The job prospects for me were relatively zero. Kim and I drank cheap beer on the deck of the token Morriston Chinese restaurant, reading our fortune cookie messages aloud. Mine alluded to buying the house (that we could see from the deck of the restaurant). I figured I could work in the kitchen and learn how to make those really tasty pineapple chicken balls once and for all.

Of course we loved the Morriston house. It was a jaw-dropper by all accounts, but, the annoying drone of Highway 6 traffic and the airbrakes of trucks at the only stoplight had me agitated in under five minutes. It’s not that we were being picky, but, noise pollution was not going to be tolerated—even if it was a really dreamy dream home.

I sold Kim on the idea of Guelph. It had all the pizzazz of the big city because it was a university town. There was Thai food, hiking trails along the river, a covered bridge just like the one in Bridges of Madison County, a bookstore with an arty movie theatre, golf courses galore (the way to my gal’s heart) and, c’mon—a donkey sanctuary(the way to my heart)! We spent a night at the swank Norfolk Guest House to fully immerse ourselves in the city. Could we live in Guelph? Yes! We picked up a 6-pack of the local Wellington Arkell Bitter craft beer. Kim adopted a donkey from the sanctuary for me for my birthday. It all seemed to be falling in place.

First there was the brick home on Tiffany. The stunner on Suffolk. The sweet serenity of the 1920s cottage on King.. The cozy spell of Powell. I was certain we’d be calling Guelph ours in no time. I was ready to ditch my massage therapy career for any kind of job at the donkey sanctuary.

We drank more Wellington Arkell so as to not jinx anything.

Tiffany had a suspicious bow in the exterior wall. Suffolk had a conditional offer seemingly overnight. The King cottage had nowhere for a hockey bag, snow tires, golf clubs or, overnight guests for that matter.  Powell had a basement designed for Smurfs (and a dodgy foundation to boot) and a backyard  that had a view of the adjoining neighbour’s sloppy carport and the unfinished siding of the adjacent house. Too close for comfort.

With our opposing schedules, Kim and I had to capitalize on our days off (which seemed to be falling every other week), madly texting MLS numbers to our no-holds-barred agent, Jane Gardner, to arrange viewings.

Kim took advantage of weekend open houses while I toiled in the spa, wondering—could this be the one? I gave her full permission to buy on the spot. I’d read enough about bully offers and bidding wars in Toronto Life and The Grid. HGTV Realtor Sandra Rinomato was our gospel. We knew we’d have to act pit viper-quick and go in with a killer offer.

Falling in love with houses (repeatedly) was like playing dodge ball with an emotional wrecking ball. We gave up on Guelph and decided to take off to Texas. We needed a house search sabbatical and the balm of a beach and some serious sunshine.

We’d been through over 20 houses and the cons of each sunk the shining pros. Yes, we were becoming disenchanted.

We joked about my near-career at the Great Wall Chinese restaurant. But, it was beginning to look like the most promising option. Kim reminded me that we had to stick to our guns and not sacrifice what was most important to us: quiet, privacy, personality, possibility. We wanted a home that was “us,” and my mom insisted that we would know. “Your knees will knock and your heart will stop.”

Kim was still waiting for the knocking knees. I amended my mother’s statement and suggested that knee trembling could be the sign too. Were we being too picky?

I started looking at industrial lofts—really gorgeous spaces with exposed brick and cathedral ceilings but no outdoor space and $600 monthly maintenance fees. Kim gently axed the lofts and a fixer-upper in the Grange in Guelph when we did the Google map street view. Unless I was eager to start dealing drugs, the hood was more grunge than Grange. Another gem was immediately shut down when we learned that a high-rise sat to the left.

There was always something. Barrie street had a pool (ugh, no and groan). A hot tub (even worse!).The Park Road one-bedroom in Dundas would be a bitch to re-sell (but, it was a magazine spread with a fairytale creek in the backyard). There was urea formaldehyde foam insulation. There were train tracks too close to the house. Bulldozers clearing the land for a new subdivision. Neighbours with a jacked up 1992 Tempo with no wheels in the driveway next door. Listings for $449,900 that still needed massive kitchen renos and bathroom overhauls. What, no shower? At all? Or, the house in Guelph with so much wood panelling it could have doubled as a sauna.

And, I’m not even addressing the state of “decor” in many of these listings. When was red carpet ever okay? Why have flowers thrown up on every wall in the house? Why the Pepto pink tiles on all surfaces of the bathroom?  Why are you collecting rocking horses??

Kim and I can easily scare the life out of each other with some detailed accounts. Like the bathroom with eight light fixtures and Roman-esque pillars. Or the basement with the “tomb” at the end of it. Or the other basement with the dirt floor covered in mysterious tarps. The floors of the house on the hill in Dundas that tilted every which way but level. And, don’t even get me started on the knickknacks.

By October, we were ready to call the house hunt quits for the winter. We digested the idea of staying in my Annex apartment until spring—the market would kick-start again by the end of March. As Kim sleepily printed out another street parking pass, I hoped she wouldn’t have to slog from Toronto to Hamilton for work much longer.

And then, it happened, when we had really resigned ourselves to a spring market. We were going to visit Kim’s sister (who, lucky dog, looked at ONE house and bought it, just like that) in Ayr, and had decided to scan the nearby Cambridge listings to coincide with our visit. Maybe we could find a home on the Grand River? Why not Cambridge? We’d scoured everywhere else.

We booked a day of four showings and fell for the first one. The 1861 stone cottage had to be ours. The exposed stone, studio carriage house (with a tie-up on the exterior for the horses), deep windows, wide plank flooring, leather-wrapped granite counters and 12 -foot ceilings…screamed us. Kim was sketching designs for a kitchen island that night. I was already set up in the studio, sipping French press coffee and writing about St. Lucia. We could see our friends in the backyard, circled around the bonfire. Our joined family clinking glasses at Christmas as the golden bird emerged from our double-oven (Mom, you’ll do the turkey, right?).

For a week we mentally moved furniture in but reserved our excitement for the inspection. We paced back and forth to the FedEx on Bloor, scanning documents and agreements to our realtor. We drank wine until we got the go-ahead to pop the champagne.

And then, 3,489 houses later, we had found ours.

Home.

As Laura Ingalls Wilder said, “Home is the nicest word there is.”

 

Editor’s note: Want to buy or sell a house in the K-W region? Check in to Jane Gardner’s site at Royal LePage. (ps. THANK YOU JANE!)

Deep Fried Texas

It started off with an innocent appetizer upon our arrival. Feeling the Texas heat seep into our bones, chugging pints of the local craft brews and then…somehow our trip transformed into an eight day pilgrimage of deep-fried crab, avocado, pickles, pulled pork and bacon-wrapped this and that. While Virginia may be for lovers (as their license plates dictate), Texas is for eaters.

If you didn’t get the memo–on the 8th day, God made deep-fried jalapeno balls stuffed with pulled pork and called them something fancy: Armadillo Eggs. And they were good. So good they came with directions to the emergency room 2.5 miles away from the cholesterol crime scene.

T-Bone Tom’s Steakhouse is the deep-fried go-to in Kemah, Texas. Guy Fieri of The Food Network’s Diners, Drive-ins and Dives (DDD) gave his coveted approval to the Armadillo and Shark Eggs (jalapenos stuffed with crab, shrimp and cheese) and DDD ear-marked T-bone Tom’s Sausage Sandwich. Kim and I could barely eat our balls (four ostrich-sized “eggs”) and packed up the monster sandwich for a shared brunch the next day. Have you checked out the interactive site for DDD? The Food Network On The Road allows you to search a city and find out where Guy has been and burped.

Our original intention was to find some surf and turf at Stingarees on Bolivar Island. We took the free car ferry from Galveston with crab legs and salty tequila-punched margs on our mind. However, Stingarees was closed until 6pm but the marina also housed the more casual Down Under pub where we joined day-drinkers and birder-types heading home from the tidal flats and burrowing owl stomping grounds. It was a tough decision between the fried fare: crab patty burgers, po’boys, boudin balls (deep-fried pork and rice balls) and fish tacos. Kim opted for the greenest choice–deep fried pickles with a dilly mayo. I ordered the fried shrimp po’boy on a buttered and fried bun. Hypertension level: soaring to a record high.

It gets worse (but better really, from a totally non-health conscious point of view). At the Fisherman’s Wharf we ordered a round of Saint Arnold’s Elissa IPA and the Galveston Trio. This platter is exactly what you would demand before the electric chair: Gulf shrimp stuffed with jack cheese and wrapped in bacon, deep-fried panko-rolled crab-stuffed jalapenos on a bed of fried matchstick onions and, stop the presses–a rich crab and queso (cheese) dip with a pile of tortilla chips for dunking.

Analysis so far? Texans love their deep-fried balls. At Landry’s Seafood House in Kemah we uncovered the ball show-stopper: crab-stuffed avocado “lightly” fried with a heavy-duty chipotle ranch dip and fire-breather side salsa.

Feeling rather sluggish on my morning runs along the jetty of Surfside Beach, we thought chicken sandwiches at Sharkey’s would be a smart departure from the steady feed of stuffed balls. My vision of 12 grain bread with thick slices of beefsteak tomato, some greens and non-deep-fried chicken was squashed. The white bread Texas Toast was saturated with butter–enough to allow me to skip lip balm application for three days. And, there was more mayo than chicken on the sucker.

Of course, to round out our Texas experience, we had to do a taqueria. They lined the freeway in between every Cracker Barrel, Denny’s, IHOP, Whataburger, Jack-in-the-Box, Chick-a-fil and Fudrucker’s. At El Pike Regio we packed back Pirata Regios–tortillas loaded with beef and guacamole and a thin hot-as-hell salsa. For $10 bucks we had tacos, a gallon of agua de Jamaica (hibiscus juice) and a smoky bean and jalapeno soup. Olé. Plus, we could watch the latest Spanish soaps at full-blast on three flatscreen televisions.

And just as we had sworn to a salad-only existence once we returned to Toronto, we discovered these at the convenience store. Margarita beer chips with that perfect kettle-cooked crunch. Paired with a Landshark lager and a lampshade, these chips took my Best Ever award, ousting my fall back Terra Sweets and Blues.

 

Editor’s note: I’m happy to announce that after eight hoggy days of pig-outs, sleep-ins, extended happy hours and being relative beach butts, we are actually gout-free. And, kind of longing for those Texan deep-fried balls.

Pumped About the Pumpkin: Fall for These!

It’s here. The time of year when flip flops slowly give way to scarves and the security of denim jackets. Crisp, curling leaves litter the sidewalks and the air is heady with sweet smoke from stoked wood fireplaces. Halloween “fun-sized” candy creeps into workplaces, because when it’s fun, calories don’t count, right?

Embracing the seasonal change is made easier by limited-time-only autumnal pleasures. Fall is not only signalled by a temperature drop and bracing mornings, but by the return of frothy pumpkin spice lattes and decadent cream-cheese stuffed pumpkin muffins. Kraft caramels, candy corn and Cadbury Screme eggs (with lime green fondant) also act as a pleasant balm to summer’s end.

This year, everyone and everything seems to be pumped by the pumpkin. Godiva sucked me in with their oh-so-pretty pumpkin spice ganache and pumpkin cream cheese truffles. Seriously, the chocolates could double as costume jewelry or museum showpieces under glass.

Rumour has it that Paulette’s Original Donuts & Chicken is seducing Leslieville with get-‘em-while-you-can pumpkin spice donuts. Tim Horton’s is hot on the scene too with day-glo orange sprinkles adorning the usual offerings of glazed goods.

Cool Hand Luc on King West promised me another barrel of pumpkin ice cream was to arrive this week. The day I stopped in they were sold out. I settled for a thick and rich butternut squash soup instead and marvelled at how a place could serve up soup and ice cream with equal popularity and success.

The seasonal showcase is alive and well at Jimmy’s Coffee on Portland too. The generous and dense slabs (think Texas Toast) of pumpkin loaf are woodsy, moist and perfect gut-fillers for romantic fall walks through the transforming trees of Trinity Bellwoods Park.

 

*I can attest to the year-round addictive qualities of Jimmy’s sweet potato and pecan muffins too. With big hits of nutmeg, these heavy-weights are the best thing to pick at with a dark Hendrix roast in the dying afternoon light on the front patio. It’s like swallowing all of October. (Loaves and muffins are both made by Circles and Squares bake shop.)

For die-hard pumpkin pie lovers, drop into Wanda’s Pie in the Sky in Kensington for a sugar and spice and everything nice fix. If you can resist instant gratification, tote your slice home and do it up with proper East coast flair: drizzled in dark ribbons of maple syrup. I’ve been spoiled by the introduction and can have pumpkin pie no other way.

Pumpkin cheesecake in the making. Culinary wizardry credit to PJ Moore.

For pumpkin strayers but autumn lovers, The Pie Shack in the Beaches is hawking wedges (a “slice” is ¼ of a pie in these parts) of apple cinnamon pie this month. Add a dollop of ice cream, whipped cream or cheese to round out your sweet fantasy because $6 is cheap happiness.

Not into the baked goods and calorie monster lattes?

Grab a stool at Hair of the Dog on Church street where they’re pulling pints of Great Lakes Brewing Company’s pumpkin ale. With a swizzle of whipped cream on top, this one could be liquid pie in a glass. Handlebar (located in Kensington Market), the kid sister bar of Leslieville’s Avro pub, is serving Nightmare on Mill Street, another homerun for the Mill Street microbrew—this time marrying pumpkin and spices in a non-cloying way. The clove finish and just-baked pie inhale is the best way to toast fall.

If you’d rather pull on pajamas and download the 1978 slasher Halloween (starring siren Jamie Lee Curtis), turn on the gas fireplace and rest assured with your LCBO pumpkin beer bounty. Mill Street has 6-packs of Nightmare on Mill Street and its Oktoberfest brew on sale.  Black Creek Historic Brewery has launched a 500ml ginger-kicked pumpkin ale, joining the fall guy club with Beau’s 600ml tribute (Weiss-o-Lantern) and St. Ambroise’s 4-pack (whose apricot beer is legendary). Up the booze ante with Shipyard’s Smashed Pumpkin (Portland, Maine). Warning: at 9% alcohol, you might end up as a jackass-o-lantern.

Creative and ambitious sorts can stop in at Bloor Superfresh just west of Spadina to purchase the kind of pumpkin Linus dreamed of in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown ($90). Mid-size but still gargantuan selections will set you back $25 (urban pumpkin prices, groan), but, they are gourds on steroids and you’ll need some serious muscles or steroids to get the suckers home.

 

Other fall things you should keep on your radar:

 

Thanksgiving poutine

Smoke’s Poutinerie is advertising (insert drum roll and dramatic gasp here) “Thanksgiving Poutine.” All the usual suspects (fries, curds, gravy)—loaded with turkey stuffing. Yeah, holy crap.

City of the Dead

Get in the full Halloween groove with the Necropolis Cemetery tour on October 21^st at 1:30pm. Visit the graves of William Lyon Mackenzie and his family on 200 Winchester Street near Riverdale Farm.

Church Street October 31st

On October 31^st, Church street in Toronto is the place to prowl. The gay village strip closes to vehicular traffic from 7—11pm and drag Queens do it to the nines. The costumes are what your 5-year-old self envisioned, but never accomplished with pipe cleaners and crepe paper. Bar hop from the slick Smith bar to the thump and boozy martini grounds of Byzantium to the beefy boy crowd at Woody’s. Or, just spike up a hot cocoa and enjoy the zany parade of the dressed-up and dressed-down on the street. Tricks or treats will be easily found.

1984 Flashback

 

 

 

Dear Lynn Crawford: A Cuban SOS

 

Dear Lynn Crawford, steely Iron Chef competitor, former executive chef of Four Seasons New York and Toronto, top dog at Rubywatchco and firecracker host of the Food Network’s Pitchin’ In–

CC: The Barefoot Contessa, Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver, Anthony Bourdain

S.O.S! Cuba needs your knives and spice racks!

Ten years ago my partner and I went to Holguin, Cuba. The water was just like the glossy brochure: like 7-up, like Perrier, like all those things that are promised.  The sand is tumbled diamonds, as soft as walking through flour.

But, the Cuban food. Insert groan here. Welcome to the all-inclusive buffet, more commonly referred to as the “barfet.” There has to be a PhD thesis in here somewhere—about the hysteria created in normal citizens over an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s as though we believe that our stomachs are sudden bomb shelters. We must take stock! Eat as much as we can! Quick! More!

But we couldn’t. Even if we wanted to, we were appalled at how the entire barfet offering was deep-fried. All the fresh fruit was submerged in cloyingly sweet syrup.  The sodium content of normally healthy vegetables made my aorta take on the pace of Morgan Spurlock’s Super Size Me documentary heart.

The fish was so salty it tasted like it was sweating on my plate. I was retaining more water than information. Although, that might have had some correlation to rum intake. In this vein, Cuba took top marks. The daiquiris and pina coladas were boozy, frothy textbook perfect rum shakes. They became our meal replacements because we couldn’t bear another agonizing walk along the buffet line.

Scroll forward ten years, back to Cuba. Back to Holguin even—but without the cushy, sanitized all-inclusive experience.

I had earned the Willy Wonka golden ticket–a travel writing scholarship awarded by the Adventure Centre, that had me hopping on 10 day Geckos Viva Cuba tour as a participant. I had the opportunity to eat, imbibe and delve into textures and terrains of Cuba that were amiss in my not-so-cultural visit in 2002. And write all about it for the Matador Network.

So, Lynn Crawford, I knew eating was going to be a daily challenge. And I’m no fusspot! I’ll eat testicles, insects, that green glop on the lobster’s head, hot sauce made from fire ants, piranha, tripe soup even!

I knew that Cuba had one reliable fall back in its pizza, so I wasn’t totally alarmed about returning to the island for two weeks. Which makes me feel like a fussy teenager, unwilling to try anything that might have the likes of curry or cilantro in it.

Cuban pizza is a godsend though. In Trinidad, 20 minutes from the south coast’s best beach (Playa Ancon) I found solace AND the best mango and pineapple pizza on the terrace of Restaurante Trinidad Colonial. For 10 bucks I had a pizza as big as a bicycle wheel and two cold beers, oblivious to the sheets of rain blamed on the aftermath of Tropical Storm Isaac.

I know what you’re thinking. Surely, on a tropical island there has to be some enterprising chef taking advantage of the local produce veta madre (mother lode).  There has to be something more amazing than pizza to eat!

I’ll take a pass on the guavas. Those suckers have lethal pits for anyone with dental work. Clarification: guava pits are dangerous for anyone with teeth, in general. They are as hard as peppercorns!

I applaud the Cuban pineapple though. The watermelon is a little anemic, its flesh was a consistent cat tongue colour, and not as sweet as the Californian cannonballs we import. Cuban bananas are often freckled more than an Irish kid and ready for banana bread, but the plantain…it makes for such addictive chips—I’d even take a pass on Tostitos for the dense and starchy crunch of plantain.

So, Lynn, here’s my beef. Cuba has avocadoes as big as footballs and they refuse to make guacamole. When I returned to Toronto I immediately pulled up the menu of Julie’s Cuban Cafe on Dovercourt. HA! Guacamole. Our Geckos guide Leo sneered at me when I said he could make a mint if he opened a tortilla chip and guacamole stand. “That is Mexican. We are Cuban.” So! I balked, “I’m Canadian, I make guacamole!”  He wouldn’t budge on his stance. The Cuban avocado is like green butter, as rich as a handful of macadamia nuts. It’s often served on a side plate with sliced beets, green beans and wimpy carrots. Boo.

I want guacamole.

Leo teases me with talk of the Christmas avocado, three times bigger than the ones we’ve seen for sale along the Obispo in Havana. Shame. I bet a Christmas avocado would feed 40.

Cuba needs a Christmas avocado guacamole intervention.

And how about some hot sauce? I thought every island had their own fiery concoction. I am at the rationing stage of my Marie Sharp’s grapefruit hot sauce, procured on a February trip to Belize. In fact, I’ve hoarded two extra bottles that were intended as gifts. It’s citrusy with a surreptitious drop-kick. Surely Cuba could whip up its own blazing counterpart?

The only condiments that grace a Cuban table are (50% of the time) white vinegar and oil. Slim pickings. Some of the hotels we stay at have ornate displays of HP, A-1, ketchup and mustard—showcased like they are fine wines.

One hundred percent of the time, mayo makes an appearance. It’s the Cuban cure-all. Mid-trip we take shelter from the rain at ZinZin in Santiago de Cuba. Between serenades from the Cuban playing showtunes on his Flamenco guitar, our server delivers fresh bread and an accompaniment to our table.

Tipsy from afternoon mojito intake, we all greedily grab at the bread. It’s so fresh and pliable! I slather on more butter than I normally would, slightly starved from a slim ham and cheese toastie lunch by the pool.

“This isn’t butter,” Jacqueline remarks.

I agree.  “What is it?” I struggle to place the taste.

“Mayo!”

We are eating not “bread” per se, but sliced hot dog buns with mayo. And we think it’s the best thing ever.

I entered the danger zone that night.

Lynn, the baguettes in Cuba could be used in a cricket game as bats. I am embarrassed to be so complimentary of white hot dog buns!

Could you run a workshop on 12 grain bread baking? Even 7 grains would do. Any grains? The bread that is served with breakfast is already in a crouton state. Is it pre-toasted?

I wouldn’t even feed most of the bread I eat in Havana to birds. They would never fly away again with its weight. Every endemic Cuban bird would become a flightless turkey.

Am I simply missing North American preservatives? Food dye #5?

I am a big cheerleader of eating local and I KNOW that Cuba has very local mangoes, sugarcane and coffee. The island outside of city centres is verdant and pastoral. The red dirt pulls me back to Prince Edward Island in a flash.

All the essential elements of an awesomely stocked kitchen grow in Cuba: sweet potato, lychee, okra, peanuts, coconut, plantain. Pork. Beef. Chicken (often joked about in trip guides as being “born fried”). Lobster, red snapper, mahi mahi and shrimp are on every menu. But, they get overcooked to the point of the fish doubling as a shoe insole.

And the stew. Not a stew at all. I had a rabbit stew at El Nardo and it was actually a rabbit leg in OXO cube gravy. At El Barracon in Santiago de Cuba I have the lamb stew, and it’s just lamb in gravy. The kind of gravy I loved in high school on a $2 plate of fries. Not stew. But the gravy is better at El Barracon.

So, why? Why the OXO cube gravy? Why all the mayo? WHY all the lacklustre stale white bread-cheese-ham sandwiches?

I am barely surprised when I place my order at Plaza Vieja Factoria and am told that they are “out of Cuban sandwiches.” How can Cuba be out of Cuban sandwiches? It’s like Manhattan being sold out of Manhattan martinis.

I do find passable snacks like Pelly pork rinds. Cubans are mad about their “aerated chips.” All of them are of the cheezie family consistency—more air than substance, and called chicarrons.  Even the chicarrons would be better with guacamole.

Don’t even get me started on the coffee. Most mornings I can’t figure out if I’m drinking coffee or tea. The UHF shelf milk (long lasting milk that doesn’t require refrigeration) adds floaty bits that make the cofftea more mud puddle than breakfast beverage.

I come to realize (and in the end, even our Cuban guide agrees) that Cuba prides itself more on quantity than quality. Dinners are like Italian weddings with seven courses. I would never normally eat a plate of watermelon and pineapple followed by black bean soup, some polenta, then a plate of soggy green beans, avocado and boiled beets and another dish with a chicken breast and three cups of rice. PLUS, one of three typical desserts: ice cream, bread pudding or sponge cake. With espresso. Ugh.

Creme de Menthe on bread pudding. If a Christmas tree barfed, this is what it would taste like.

Lynn, can you help? I know the premise of your Pitchin’ In show. The whole island needs your kitchen brains and pizzazz. I know you’ve already set the menu: snapper flambéed in dark rum, grilled espresso-rubbed pork and plantain on sugarcane skewers, mango cobbler with avocado gelato…

SOS.

Cuba needs you Lynn Crawford.

(But, we need you too, in Toronto.)

Signed,

I-ate-pizza-for-10-days-Jules

Viva Cuba?

I’ve unpacked my bag long enough to launder my favourite tees and jeans, only to put them back in the same bag versus drawers.

Last week: Edmonton, Alberta and the fever pitch of the folk festival. This week? Viva Cuba. Scroll back just a month ago to an email from Joshua Johnson, Dean of Education at Matador U. Josh suggested I apply for an upcoming travel scholarship with the Adventure Centre.  My writerly pal Keph Senett had taken the Olympic travel writing gold the previous year and landed a travel writing gig with them in Turkey.

Unaware of where I might be flung if I was a lucky recipient, I sacrificed sleep to post “The Genesis of a Traveler” while prepping  for a camping get-away the very next day in the dunes of Lake Huron.

We eventually returned from the wi-fi free woods (with resistance), campfire smoke still permeating from our clothes, desensitized to stress and far-removed from any type of routine other than basic human instincts of eating and sleeping. My inbox was percolating. Life had continued on and moved forward as we toasted marshmallows and communed with fireflies.

After deleting 50+ tripadvisor, expedia and Flight Centre HOT DEALS adverts, I was about to have my Sally Field moment of “I can’t deny the fact you like me right now. You like me!”  I had been shortlisted for the scholarship! (Insert internal jumping up and down here). Josh wondered how I felt about jetting off to Central or South America for two weeks, and getting to write and blog all about it for Matador.  He asked me to pick from a slew of dates in July and August as my mind raced all over the map from the Bolivian salt flats to Antofagasta, Chile. Maybe Big Corn Island, Nicaragua?

It was the best lottery I had ever played. The odds were tremendously good. I chose the latest dates in August, only because I had already jumped on the Edmonton folk fest press trip at the beginning of the month and thought I should work a few days in between trips to fluff the feathers of my holiday-generous boss (thank you Sara DeRuiter!).

Disclaimer: I do have a day job which finances my writing habit that I am exceedingly grateful for. And now, having acknowledged this on a social media platform, I probably owe my boss tequila shots or something to that effect for yet another work sabbatical granted. But, I digress.

I returned from the woods just as Josh left to go on his own camping trip in upstate NY. We were playing offline tag. When he returned he said, “How do you feel about Cuba?” And, more importantly, if I felt like he thought I was gonna feel about a writing gig + trip somewhere fab, he suggested I “get those shifts covered.”

I will leave for Havana on Monday still scratching Edmonton mosquito bites on my ankles. Between massages at my day job at Body Blitz I am doing a Cuba crash-course.  Of course, I don’t imagine I’ll pull up much Spanish from the dark recesses of my 1994 brain. Prior to my volunteer work with Youth Challenge International (94-95)) in Costa Rica, I enrolled in a three month Spanish course at the local college.  All was lost when my placement was in Alto Cuen, a village where the locals spoke Cabecar, not Spanish. However, I still remember these all important phrases:

“El gato es negro.” (The cat is black)

“Nunca comer más de lo que puede levantar.” (“Never eat more than you can lift.” ~Miss Piggy)

My meagre Spanish barely revived when Kim and I went to Holguin, Cuba in 2002. In my spirograph life of circles, it only makes sense that I return. Our time in Holguin was largely awash in rum (aka: The Original Rum Diaries made more famous by Johnny Depp). Our goal then? Tanning to a respectable shade of mahogany. We did nothing but lie prone and have a ball. A rum ball. Cuba libres, mojitos, daiquiris. It was your typical all-inclusive, culturally-exclusive resort. But it was February and we were from warmth-starved Canada. We had a homing instinct for the beach, and found exactly that. The ocean was as clear as Perrier and I swear you could see all the way to Florida underwater. We gave top marks to the sun and a boo to the menu. We renamed the hotel buffet the “barfet” and survived on nothing more than poolside pizza and pieces of gum. We were like boa constrictors, feeding ourselves once a day, basking and then shedding.

It’s time for a re-visit.

Pressed for time, I will have to cheat on my info uploading by renting Che from Queen Video (about Marxist revolutionary Ernesto “Che” Guevara). Probably putting sleep on hold until my flight Monday morning, I’ll try and watch The Motorcycle Diaries again too, with hunky Gael Garcia Bernal portraying the young Che on his 1952 South American expedition/transformation.

I think I’ve got rum research down pat from our time in Belize earlier this year. And, I have a Hemingway novel under my belt (The Green Hills of Africa), which will lend to my appreciation of the Museo Hemingway. In 1939, Ernest Hemingway rented a villa at San Francisco de Paula, 15km southeast of Havana. He bought the house a year later and lived there until 1960. Lonely Planet urges a stroll through his garden to see his sentimental dog cemetery, his old fishing boat El Pilar and the pool where Ava Gardner swam naked.

On the bird front: the world’s smallest bird, the zunzun, lives here (Gran Parque Natural Montemar). The bee hummingbird is only 6.5cm long (think toothpick). Ivory-billed woodpeckers were last spotted in the early 80s in Parque Nacional Alejandro de Humboldt. Reading more about the flora and fauna I have learned that there is a “friendly” edible rodent (4kg)—the jutia. And, one of only two clear-winged butterflies in the world lives in Cuba (the mariposa de cristal). Oooh, and whale sharks frequent the Maria la Gorda area on the eastern tip from August to November.

Other miscellaneous Cuban highlights:

1. Responsible diving means minimizing your disturbance of marine animals. Lonely Planet says, “Never ride on the backs of turtles.”

In Luxor, Egypt, turtles are still allowed to ride on turtles.

2.”Most Cubans drink their rum straight up and, on more informal occasions, straight from the bottle.” ~Lonely Planet

3. Ron a granel (rum from the barrel) is also known as “drop her drawers” and “train sparks”

4. “Local chickens are born fried” and SPAM is alive and well.

5. There are over 200 cinemas in Havana.

6. Gyms in Havana and Holguin welcome foreigners for ‘friendly’ boxing training.

I’ve packed my pre-requisite Clif Bars and trail mix in lieu of SPAM and I think I’ll take the one-two punch of a Papa Hemingway Special (daiquiri made with grapefruit juice) at El Floridita versus a sinewy Cuban in satin shorts. Although, legend has it that Ernest pounded back 13 doubles in one sitting. Maybe a round in the ring is a better idea.

Stay tuned for updates August 20—September 1^st as I hop on the Geckos Viva Cuba trip from Havana to Santiago de Cuba to Camaguey to Trinidad to Santa Clara to Havana!