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.

Cheese Whiz Waffles and Panty Rippers

Reina's hangover helpers --Cheese Whiz and ham waffles

Our sense of smell is a remarkable gateway to our past. There are scents that transport us to a time and place with the inertia of memory on auto-pilot. Zest soap: my great-grandmother’s bathroom. Tiny Tom donuts: the CNE fairgrounds, Labour Day weekend. Gasoline on a still and frozen winter morning: snowmobiling with my grandfather. Alone, they are generic smells, but they take us to individual and treasured parts of our being. I could type out a list of words and I bet five bucks you have a story or person attached to it. Pot roast. Drakkar Noir. Those grade school purple-inked ditto machines that we all got high on before a pop quiz. Wet dog. Sulphur. Mothballs. Root cellars. Lilacs. Tequila. Espresso. See?

When I leave Body Blitz at day’s end, I distinctly smell like spa. If I’ve been to Jimmy’s coffee shop on my break, then I smell like a hybrid: Americano meets spa. Both accessible and instant escapes. Mid- January, a sexy Italian fusion joint opened beside our spa. As I exit the spa’s back door now, I am spirited away by the best smell I know. Fire. The kitchen’s Tuscan wood fire grill cuts out the King West neighbourhood I stand in and throws me headlong into Africa. I’m taken to the Tuesday night markets in Entebbe where vendors beg for your business, motorbike taxis insist on their services, skeletal dogs pick at open garbage heaps and wood smoke clouds the air.

Coconut snapper at Iris Sunnyside, Hopkins Village

The smell of fire takes me a lot of places around the world, and as I walk towards home, away from Gusto and their Tuscan grill, I find myself back in Belize.

Lonely Planet had warned that Belizean food wasn’t remarkable enough to rave about, but not terrible enough to complain about. Arriving with few expectations we readied ourselves for a solid three week feed of starchy rice and beans, wimpy chicken and dismissable warm beer. Kim and I quickly found ourselves with not enough hours to eat all that we wanted.

Mayhem and marvel at Wish Willy's

Caye Caulker, a car-less island 45 minutes from Belize City, was the most satisfying eating safari I’ve been on. Mobile vendors presented a carousel of inviting snacks in the form of warm, spice-hopped corn and chicken tamiltos. We bought jugs of just-blended melon, mango, orange and banana juices (to help balance the local paint-thinner vodka). A sinewy boy sold us iPhone-sized squares of his mother’s prized coconut fudge at the Split for less than a dollar. We had thick and dense banana bread and impromptu pillowy brownies at Wish Willy’s. We didn’t order the brownies, it was merely part of the Wish Willy experience that night. Maurice, a giant chef with a giant personality,  made his way to each table, regardless of whether customers had been served or were midway through dinner, to offer them a generous wedge of his signature brownies, straight from the pan they were just baked in.

By far, our experience at Wish Willy’s was the most comical. We could tell by the number of Belikin beer bottles on each table that “rush” or “fast” was not on the menu (and adherent to the Belizean motto of “Go Slow”). In fact, there was no set menu. A few entrees scratched out on a blackboard offered suggestions, but nothing that was advertised was available. I asked for conch skewers and was served spicy shrimp. Kim requested the curried pork but was convinced to try the snapper. Maurice later insisted she had chops because he ran out of snapper, but a beer later he asked Kim how the snapper was.

Step aside Colonel Sanders

Syd’s Fried Chicken took my Top Swoon Meal award. For $4.50 US we had a chicken leg and breast that was the equivalent of a wayward Thanksgiving turkey. A small army of vocal cats joined us in the garden area for dinner, expressing their mutual love of Syd’s chicken. It was like a Belizean take on Shake n’ Bake served with enough rice to throw at three weddings. With a petting zoo underfoot.

Reina’s Bakery was a carb-load sanctuary after a night of rum-heavy panty-rippers at the Thirsty Lizard. For $2.50US we had Bon Appetit magazine-perfect waffles with ham and (say it isn’t so!) Cheese Whiz. Kim was reduced to moaning over that brunch (mostly due to the Cheese Whiz and ham fusion, somewhat due to the panty-rippers). The syrup was dark and heavy and the punchy coffee helped realign our rum-logged heads.

Sometimes Things to Eat For Less Than a Dollar proved to be not-so-great gastro-intestinal ideas in Belize. This was discovered after buying grapefruit juice (to finish off the rocket fuel One Barrel rum we’d been nursing) and tablate from a singing Rastafarian on the bus. He hopped on as we idled at the Dangriga station with a cookie tray and a song and sold us a coaster-sized tablate for 50 cents. It was definitely a member of the fudge family, heavy on the sugar, butter and coconut frontier. Probably made with a little E.coli in less than sanitary kitchen conditions. But, c’mon, for 50 cents? It became our version of a cheap and instant cleanse when paired with the river juice probably made with ditch water.

The buses in Belize offered a convenient assortment of local ’fast-food’ options. Vendors randomly jumped on the buses at unmarked stops along the Hummingbird Highway to hawk massive cinnamon buns, hot tamales and durosa. The durosa was another under-a-buck option that was questionable. Wrapped in a corn husk it was enticingly described as shredded plantain in a sweet coconut milk-tamale stuffing. It was more like wet barf in a corn husk. Kim wouldn’t let me finish it.

Belizean Seaweed Shake--they promise to "Bring out the man in you"

Better finds were the Irish Moss seaweed shakes at The Shak in Placencia (also available pre-made at convenience stores in plastic bottles). The shakes had an egg nog consistency and a subtle-not-sickly sweet custard taste with a good hit of nutmeg. The peanut shake was too much like Kraft peanut butter blended with table cream. Whipped a little thicker, it could have been served on a bed of noodles with cilantro as a Thai dish, not as a sweltering afternoon thirst-quencher.

Cheap eats were easily found near the beach in Caulker, allowing us to ditch our Pee-wee Herman one-speed bikes in the sand and kick off our flip flops while our order made its way to the grill. Budget Man and Fran’s pumped out hefty coconut curries and slaw (Budget Man by day, Fran by night) that were full of heat and authentic Belizean kick. Fran’s communal picnic table was never empty. Her blackboard seafood specials varied and when she sold-out, she went home.

In Hopkins Village we made dusty and dark treks to  IRIS Sunnyside cafe for golden coconut-crusted grouper and collards. (Since our return home I’ve given the coconut-crust treatment to shrimp and chicken). We subjected ourselves to the wind-whipped patio of The Barracuda Bar and Grill at Beaches & Dreams Resort (warm and boozed by the 2 for 1 sunset drinks) where we had blackened Cajun barracuda bites that we still rave about. Alaskan expats and chefs Tony and Angela Marsico also impress with killer flatbread pizzas, high octane cocktails and spoiled resort views.

Bravoo Over Proof -- bottled headache!

And the ceviche! Electric lime and generous amounts of conch and shrimp…we had it everyday.  I couldn’t get enough of the soursop juice, Marie Sharp’s grapefruit hot sauce, The Shak’s banana pancakes, mango-coconut shakes and salty plantain chips. Kate’s Bakery baseball-sized pumpkin muffins in Hopkins set the bar too high for anything I might find in Toronto. And the street hotdogs in Placencia with embarassing amounts of mayo, chopped onion and jalapenos? The jerk snapper and Dog House coconut water and rum sundowners? Unmatched.

Yeah, big sigh.

Best pit stop on the Hummingbird Highway

I drift back to Placencia and our most expensive beers of the trip ($15US) which we downed sitting all fancy and rich-like at Francis Ford Coppola’s Turtle Inn. On the flip side, I smile bigger at a flashback of our last Belikin beers which we had in plastic cups with (more!) of the infamous Belize steamie dogs at Jet’s Bar in the Belize City airport (on AOL’s Top 10 Airport Bars in the World list). I think of the charming simplicity of Mrs. Bertha’s tamale stand. The mmmm-inducing lobster and baked breadfruit at Rose’s in Caulker. The greasy and dangerously good fry-jacks (deep-fried dough) in Cahal Pech, immersed in a cacophony of tropical bird sound.

All this because I smelled a fire.

We can travel to places so easily. The best part is we can bring them back with us too.

How To Not Dive in the Blue Hole

Travel for me is extremely dangerous. As soon as I have a boarding pass in my hand, a carry-on breaking my shoulder and half a murky airport coffee, I’m gone. I instantly forget that I have any other obligation or responsibility. A career. Rent. A fixed address. This all becomes foreign to me.

I generally miss a little bit of Canada’s shiny sanitation, but quickly adapt to days dictated by the sun’s command. Life in flip flops. Only bikini strings attached. Happy Hour. Recreational reading interspersed with recreational napping. Deep-fried dough items whenever available.

Kim and I had been reading about Belize with PhD student diligence since November. Hot on the heels of our transcendent time in Egypt, we needed to pinpoint our next destination. We knew we were well-versed and cohesive with extremes after sleeping in the White Desert and Quebec’s Ice Hotel.

An innocent comment about an Expedia seat sale to Belize for $430 return had us both vacationing in fast-forward. We were due for some heavy beach time and travel that wasn’t so intense (i.e.: the very taxing 1,000km journey from Cairo to the Siwa Oasis across to the Red Sea endured in part with two wilting and bitching Brit honeymooners who shared the ride).

While Kim mapped out more logistical information, I took charge of the Gross Things To Eat and Drink List, as per usual. I noted Lonely Planet warnings that Belizean food was nothing to write home about, but nothing to complain about either. Imagine our surprise when we became rabid, glowing fans of absolutely everything served to us. Only two dishes earned a boo and hiss: conch skewers that had a Hubba Bubba consistency and a Garifuna durosa. The durosa was supposed to be a plantain-coconut milk-tamale thing stuffed in a husk. It tasted and looked like wet cat barf.

We ate half the sea in no time. Caye Caulker was a steady showcase of the best grilled fish I’ve ever had. Coconut-crusted snapper, jerk grouper, blackened barracuda, conch tacos and lobster on Caribbean steroids.

Mobile vendors lazily pedalled around the island hawking coconut fudge, lemon tarts, pillowy fry jacks, dense banana bread and sweet potato chips (that tasted strangely like fish popcorn). We tried it all. We worked our way through every Happy Hour rum list until we reached marathon rummer designation. We lost count of the panty-rippers (rum with pineapple juice and coconut water) and began to feel like we were rewriting the script for The Rum Diaries.

We stopped at an internet cafe (which also had a Happy Hour between 3—6. Which, is actually three hours and should be properly called Happy Hours) and learned via email that the latest episode of The Bachelor had been filmed at the very Lazy Lizard that we’d been sucking back 2 for 1 panty rippers at. To boot, we inadvertently followed The Bachelor trail by taking a charter boat out to the Blue Hole. (*Disclaimer: I have never watched an episode).

When I travel, I tend not to do any of the things one is supposed to do in certain places. Like, scuba diving at the Blue Hole, even if The Bachelor stars did. Kim and I were more than content to let the divers sink down into the depths with the sharks that they already reported they could see from the surface.

Kim is adverse to sharing swimming space with sharks, and I have come to realize that I prefer to be on the surface of water, not below it. I would suck back the oxygen in a scuba tank in record and fatal time. If an eel ever grazed my leg I’d be a goner. I’d propel myself out of the water so fast I’d have air bubbles in my brains and veins. No thanks. (*Second disclaimer: I took the PADI course with my brother when I was 20ish. Took all the in-pool sessions and wimped out when it came to do the open water dive certification at Tobermory).

1. I prefer all water to be 104 degrees (which means I could only ever dive in hot springs where no fish live).

2. I’ve seen Open Water.

3. There are fish tanks where you can see the same things at a regular breathing rate. In fact, my brother has a 200 gallon one I can gaze into while being fully clothed, fully breathing, with a whiskey in hand.

4. There’s nothing cool or flattering about a diving mask or the mask-face it gives you for the next three hours. So there.

Instead, Kim and I enjoyed the calm of the water from above, especially after the back-breaking SMACKSMACKSMACK of the fibreglass boat for two hours. It was like being repeatedly sacked by a pissed off NFL left tackle. I think my vertebral column compressed a permanent inch.

But, we had to join the shark-mad divers to get out to our preferred destination on Lighthouse Reef Atoll. Here, on the sleepy 45-acre Half Moon Bay, there’s a colony of red footed boobies that we had to see. We paid $250US to see these boobies and they definitely put-out! From the observation deck (which we had to ourselves), we were immersed in a magnificent racket of courtship and animated displays. The male frigate birds were huffing and puffing up their brilliant red sacs (it takes them 20 minutes to inflate), eyes no longer able to make contact with the object of their affection.

The boobies joined the cacophony and cruised in on the air currents to the tree tops surrounding us. Oblivious to the binoculared humans, the social frenzy continued. Kim and I popped open warm Belikin beers and I thought to myself, this is probably the greatest bird moment of my life. We’re standing (sizzling) on top of a platform, mere inches from my beloved boobies (I’d seen the blue-footed boobies in the Galapagos). There were a few chicks, all wobbly as Bambi, heads bobbling, all big puffs of down with beaks that they were still familiarizing themselves with.

The boobies took first prize as my Belize highlight. The atoll was a surreal dream of a landscape with tipsy coconut palms, kitty litter sand and scrambly hermit crabs that created the illusion of the ground moving. Indeed, it was, with top-heavy crabs!

Prehistoric lizards craned their necks, an osprey swept over our heads in a whisper and sandpipers seemingly on stilts picked their way along the water’s edge. And the water! Like it had been injected with turquoise! The clarity became most evident when the divers on our boat pulled on gear for their second dive into the appropriately named “Aquarium.” There was no need to dive. Kim and I could see black durgons and tangs skittling around in the boat’s shadow. Jellyfish blobbed by. Reef sharks teased the divers, moonlighting as their tougher cousins. In Placencia, we could see paprika-coloured starfish 15 feet from shore. Eagle rays glided by like space age aqua vehicles below the pier we adopted as our sunset depot.

This kind of imagery can’t be diluted from your mind. I wish I could insert a scratch and sniff app here. Then you could smell the density of the sea. That clean and wet and salt-heavy breeze that makes your skin tight and sticky. That heady smell of sea and peace. The persistent heat of the Central American sun, biting your shoulders, colouring your feet as you polish your heels in the coarse sand.

Can you hear that bird colony? It’s like a rave that’s somebody’s just turned the light switch on. Some of the birds could double as audio for video games. The males are so sexed up and full of bravado that they are blind to observers. Life carries on here as it does.

There is a distant crash and hush of the waves breaking on the reef. The wind gains momentum between the cayes and blows hard against the resilient palms. Our footsteps are pulled out with the tide as we walk back to the pier, our conversation takes on a higher pitch, the kind that comes after such a exhilarating moment.

Our trip is just beginning, and already I am restored and invigorated by the sensory massage of Belize.

An Elixir for a Shivery March Night: The Bounty of Belize

Lighthouse Reef, beyond the Blue Hole. Turquoise-injected waters so stitched in my mind that it would be impossible to dilute the imagery with the passage of time.

Stop the waffle presses: Ham and Cheese Whiz waffles at Reina's on Caulker for 5 Belizean dollars ($2.50 US).

Beef burritos as long as my arm at Let's Go Eat, San Ignacio. Spiked with Marie Sharp's hell-hot haberno hot sauce.

Jerk chicken and shrimp ceviche from Enjoy Bar on Caulker. Best served in the sand.

You can teach old dogs new tricks. Even how to surf. Two of Jungle Jeannie's four surf-mad German shepherds.

Hi-tops in Hopkins Village.

Horse is in the garage.

Collapsed lighthouse, Half Moon Bay, Lighthouse Reef.

The comical red-footed booby. I'd seen the blues in Galapagos, so, a 2 hour ride out beyond the Blue Hole to their colony on Half Moon Bay (Lighthouse Reef) was essential.

Male frigate birds trying to impress the gals. It takes nearly 20 minutes for them to inflate their sexy sacs.

Entrance to Actun Tunichil Muknal cave, the Mayan Underworld. Start heavy breathing now.

LOTS of self-talk going on here at the ATM cave. Glad I didn't stuff my bra with Kleenex that morning. Tight squeeze all around.

Last bit of sun at Caves Branch before entering the cavern of the Crystal Cathedral waterfall.

Jungle Jeannie's Inn by the Sea, Hopkins Village. Cue up crashing Caribbean waves soundtrack here.

Beach cabanas, Caye Caulker. If you can't walk on stilts, you can sleep on them.

Sundowner cocktails on Caye Caulker, 5:30 sharp.