Solo Para Conocer

         

        I was standing outside my kibbutz room with a towel wrapped around my wet hair, full of excitement for my first solo adventure. Eighty of us from 20 countries had come to Israel to study and work. As I dried my hair, the newly arrived guy from the U.S. walked by and smiled at me. Mark. At the welcome party that night we danced every dance. Afterwards, I climbed into his single bed. 

          A few days later we abandoned our responsibilities and explored Israel. We had coffee with an Arab family on their rooftop. We floated in the Dead Sea. I told my uncle in Tel Aviv that I’d just met the man I was going to marry. At the end of the summer we parted with a promise to reunite in the U.S and create a life together. A life full of adventure, sensuality and travel. And we did. For 9 years we worked as little as possible and spent months going to Europe, Central and South America and across the U.S. Finally, one summer we returned to Guatemala and began to ask each other “And now what?”

          Along the Gringo Trail in the 70’s we’d keep running into the same people going to the same places. I called it “Society of Traveler’s Meetings”: a gathering of hippies boasting about who spoke the best Spanish, had endured the worst bus ride, travelled the longest and had the most harrowing encounters with police and thieves. We bragged about riding the Marrakesh Express, getting all our luggage stolen in Columbia and skinny dipping in Ibiza. But the conversations were wearing thin. One particular night in Chicicastenango I was bored of the one-upsmanship. I was even tired of telling our stories. I wanted to get off the beaten trail. Or maybe off the trail entirely. There was an endless loop of indecision and possibilities on repeat in my head. Were we really just hedonists? Maybe we should start careers, have a family. But if we stopped being travelers, who were we? Just tourists? We loved waking up to roosters crowing, spending days in souks, riding chicken busses surrounded by unintelligible languages. But I missed swimming with my sisters in our parent's swimming pool while our father flipped burgers. I wanted to be part of the circle of friends that played volleyball on the island. How about if we go to Lake Atitlan? Mark suggested. I objected. Everyone was going there. There was even a gringo with a pancake cafe in Panahachel. But, he said, no one was walking there! It could be done. It was only a bus ride away and, according to a map we were given, simply over one mountain. “ It’ll be an adventure!” That’s all it took. Adventure was our cocaine. 

          And so, we fashioned some equipment from plastic shopping bags, bought some sardines and water and got on a bus. When we saw a vague path winding up a hillside I shouted “let’s go!” Hours later we were still breathlessly trudging up the steep rocky path hoping it was the right way. We hadn’t seen a soul until a man walked towards us. He was stooped over from the huge bundle lashed to his back. As he got closer, we could see that it contained an assortment of bulging sacks topped by three sewing machines. “Senor, senor!” we called “Este es el sendero a Lago Atitlan?” (Is this the path to Lake Atitlan?) He seemed surprised but answered, “Si, Lago Atitlan. Pero es muy, muy lejos.” (Yes but it’s very, very far.) We were undeterred. After another hour we finally reached the top, looked down the other side of the mountain expecting to see the lake. There it was. Two more mountains away. I took a photo, sighed and kept walking. 

          Once again, we talked about our future. “When we leave Guatemala this time maybe we should go back to South Carolina, make a home and some real friends. I could get another teaching job or something. ” I said. “

         "Well, we may have “do money” awhile but we don't need much money to travel.” 

         “My dad always says ‘I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor and rich is better’” 

         “Yikes, let’s never say that.” 

          When it got too dark to see a path, we laid out our plastic sheet, opened our sleeping bags and ate our sardines. Tomorrow we would have to assess our situation but for the moment we were content knowing this is how adventures begin.

                                                                                                    From my journal June, 1976 

After several days of running around looking, we finally found a boat to take us down the Amazon. The “Patricia” may not be much of a tub but she’s our Amazon Queen. Yesterday it finally left after many “mananas”. The boat is loaded to the gills with gasoline barrels and onions, barely enough room for our double hammock. The crew sleeps here and there. Last night all of our spirits were super high as we’d waited so long to finally get moving. The stars shining and the Amazon reflecting the lights…rocking in my hammock I could hardly fall asleep from the excitement. Mark said, “Ya know this is a moment when you really love travelling.” All I could do was smile and say was. “yeah.”

         First priority: finding water. We followed smoke rising in the distance until we saw a little boy scrambling after a darting chicken. He yelled in his indigenous language to his parents who peeked out from behind bamboo walls. We glimpsed pots steaming over a cooking fire. Showing them our empty canteen, they gestured for us to follow them to a man who spoke Spanish.
        
            “Why are you here and where are you going?” he asked.
            “Lago Atitlan."
            “Pues, es muy, muy lejos,” (well, it’s very, very far). Check.

        

We filled our canteens with water and purification tablets, waved to the friendly villagers and hiked on, down one mountain and up the next, continuing our conversation.

         “Maybe I could get a part time job and do some side hustles,” I suggested.
        “ We could weave hammocks!” Mark proposed.
        “Or start a day camp.”
        “Or grow herbs and spices.”
        “Or start an agricultural commune.”
        “Or a food coop.”
        “I can sew…kind of.”
        “Those blankets in Momostenango!” Mark remembered. “We could start an import business,”
        “Or we could….have a baby.”
        “But even if we have children let’s not get so caught up in conventionality that we stop having adventures.”
          “Of course,” I confirmed. “That would miss the whole point.”

           
            By nightfall we started to doubt we were going the right way. Up ahead we could see what looked like a hut. It was actually a thatched lean-to that farmers used while harvesting. Our next campsite. It wasn’t the worst place we’d ever slept.

                                                                 Letter home to my parents from Europe, June, 1973
                                                               Hitchhiking through Germany on our way to Holland

As the sun set we found ourselves stranded without a car in sight.  We were finally offered a ride with a family to Baden Baden.  We hoped they’d invite us home to sleep but they dropped us off in front of a hotel.  It was full. We were stuck.  Enter a drunkish German version of Baba (Grandma) Rose.  She spoke no English, found we had no German money and paid for a ride to a youth hostel.  Then she talked to the caretaker and, even though they were friends, we were told we couldn’t stay there because we didn’t have a hostelling card, whatever that is.  We did the only thing left to do—we slept in the Black Forest.  Talk about creepy!  We were both up all night worried about wolves and Nazis.

  

            Following rising smoke the next morning we encountered two men hauling firewood who immediately asked the question we heard most frequently: “Why have you come here?” We gave our usual answer: “Solo para conocer,” (just to know). They took us to their village store which was hardly a store: a few cans of sardines, dusty bottles of Coke and a few warm beers. We rewarded their help by buying a round of beers and after just one, our new friends were totally drunk and riotously laughing. “Cheap dates,” Mark joked.
            “Seriously! And who schlepped all of the Coca Cola up here?” I wondered.
            Further up the trail we started seeing cultivated fields and knew we were approaching a larger village. We waved to a pack of children playing tag and followed them to a man who introduced himself as Maestro Luis. He was there to teach the indigenous children Spanish.
            “It’s so exciting that you’re here,” he said. “We don’t get any visitors. Come tell the children about your country!” Inside his one-room classroom the children barraged us with questions.

           “How much does a pencil cost in the United States?”
            “How many kilometers away do you live?”
            “Why don’t you have any children?”
            “Why have you come here?”
            “Please, sing your national anthem for us,” Luis suggested.
            “Do you know it?” I whispered to Mark.
            “Ah, do you?”

            

We stumbled through it as best as we could. When the school day ended Luis offered the benches in the classroom for us to sleep that night. He was walking home the next day and invited us to go with him. We were happy to accept the upscale sleeping arrangements and particularly his guidance in getting closer to the Lake. But reaching it would mean that we’d have to decide what to do next.

                                                                                                   From my journal after reading
                      The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge by Carlos Castaneda.

            Que sera sera no? Today I watched and waited for a little green grasshopper that had             crawled up my leg to tell me the secret to life. Is this because I am open to anything             or is it because I am desperate for suggestions?

            We had to hustle to keep up as we followed Luis for three hours down the mountain. “You’ll stay with us,” he insisted, “We’ll be glad to have you.” His smiling wife greeted us with their baby bound to her chest. It was a simple house with a dirt floor, two rooms, an outdoor kitchen and an outhouse.

            As night fell we helped the señora slap tortillas onto the comal to eat with fresh vegetables from their garden. With the lake within sight, it felt like a celebration. The next morning we thanked them profusely, waved goodbye and walked to the shore for a boat to Santiago de Atitlan.


            We rented a little lake-side house for a couple of weeks. It was a miracle of luxury with a bed, running water and a flush toilet. I arranged to spend the afternoons with an indigenous señora in town learning embroidery and practicing Spanish with her husband. As I stitched the traditional bird images, I recounted our adventures to him. But as I told him where we'd been I kept asking myself where we were going. Every night we talked about the future.
            I began every conversation with what I knew to be true: “The things I’m looking for are fun, excitement, alternative realities, universal truths, sensuality…”

            “Me too. Speaking of sensuality…” Mark murmured as he ran his hand inside my blouse and I leaned in for a kiss. “Remember our first lover’s weekend in Israel laying in that seaside hotel room in Natanya?”
            “Uh-huh. We talked about naming our first daughter Natanya.”
            "I can almost see her now…”
            “Stop! I feel like I’m going crazy from so many choices.”
            “Tranquilo Carol. Just remember. It’s all a trip.”

Natanya and our granddaughters Emilia and Lana. 

Epilogue

Now, 50 years later I’m back at Lake Atitlan.  I can see the mountains we climbed from the window of my casita. Rereading my journals, I’m struck by how many bad ideas we had. We never wove hammocks, grew herbs, started a commune or a food coop. We did actually import blankets from Momostenango but we weren’t so good at selling them.  One covers our bed today.  Luckily, we’ve  been dispelled of the silly notion that having money is a bad thing.

Above our bed is the photograph I took from the top of the mountain.  It reminds me that we were adventurous and  brave.  That hasn’t changed. We naively started businesses and learned on the fly.  I nursed Natanya at the desk of my father’s CFO as she taught me accounting.   Our employees at Jack Rabbit Photo gave us quick lessons in photography.  I've glimpsed alternate realities through the eyes of musicians, dancers and artists. Mark still reaches under my shirt and smiles. I still lean in for a kiss.  We were so stupid.  We were so smart.  It’s quite a trip. 

Returning to Lake Atitlan

 

                

         There’s a photo on our bedroom wall that Mark and I took from the top of a mountain in Guatemala fifty years ago.  We’d confidently hiked there using a bogus map with camping equipment fashioned from shopping bags, planning to walk one day to Lake Atitlan on the other side.   It was the kind of thing we did during the nine years that we travelled as much as possible and worked on
ly enough to keep moving.  The photograph shows what we discovered:  the lake was two more mountains away.  Over the next 5 days we followed rising smoke from one Mayan village to another seeking water and food and talking about our future.

Porta Hotel courtyard.

        When I heard about Joyce Maynard’s one-week memoir writing retreat at Lake Atitlan, I knew that was the story I wanted to revisit.  The trip began in Antigua where I joined a group of 14 other women for dinner.   The luxurious Porta Hotel demonstrated how far the tourist infrastructure has improved since my last visit but the curvy, bumpy   roads to the lake the next day showed what hasn’t changed. After a short boat ride we pulled up to Joyce’s dock and were greeted by a marimba band.   Our happy group danced. 

     

     Joyce built Casa Paloma from an undeveloped piece of land she purchased over 20 years ago.    Now lovely casitas, massage palapas, dining spaces, a yoga platform, porches, a stone sauna, kitchen and living room perch on the hillside. Everything is connected by steep stone steps that require careful navigation. Huipils, carvings, masks and paintings fill the walls. There’s a swimming dock, kayaks and stand-up paddleboards waiting on shore. We were given gifts:  vibrant hand woven rebozos.  There were snacks: tortillas with guacamole and smoothies courtesy of Rosa who fed us sumptuously all week.  Each accommodation offers a view of the shimmering lake and the towering volcano.    My very comfortable casita even had an outdoor bathtub under a thatched roof.  A nearby porch with a swinging bench made from a hand-carved canoe was the perfect spot to enjoy  morning coffee before a bracing swim in the lake. 
  

Joyce and me.

               Joyce Maynard has written over 20 books and has contributed to newspapers and magazines since she was a teen ager.  Her career took off after she wrote an essay for the New York Times, “An Eighteen Year Old Looks Back on Life” and she gained notoriety for her book “At Home in the World” about her relationship with JD Salinger.  Two of her books, To Die For and Labor Day have been turned into movies.  Throughout two marriages, she has supported her family by writing, never having “the luxury of writer’s block”, she says.  “I am endlessly interested in hearing women’s stories,” she told us.  Using a large white board and her arsenal of tools, Joyce led us to dissect each essay.   First of all what exactly is the story? It should move like a road trip: start somewhere and get somewhere.  “I used to…and now I…” she kept repeating.  She decries adverbs, and interpretive language.  We were prompted to add more descriptions, edit out needless dialogue and never to underestimate the intelligence of our reader by explaining everything.  It was a tough lesson.  Some were told to start completely over.  I’d been confident in my essay but it didn’t survive her scrutiny.  “I’m giving you such a hard time! But that’s because I know you can do better.”  She was right.  I worked hard on the rewrite and the story is much better.  (see  finished essay “Solo Para Conocer” in another blog post.)

                It’s clear that Joyce has a genuine reverence for the culture.   Everyone who works at Casa Paloma is local and paid well.  “I don’t want to pay the people here as bargain basement workers but I couldn’t have built this place in the US.” she said. Each day began with a description of its significance on the Mayan calendar.  There was a cacao ceremony and a shaman’s ritual about choosing happiness.  Local women gave us massages. We toured a nearby town to learn about medicinal herbs, bee keeping, coffee roasting, dying and weaving.   A fisherman paddled by to talk about his life and the changing ecology of the lake. 

Rosa fed us sumptuously
and taught us about cacao. 

                I spent each day absorbed in stories:  the trajectory of my life upon returning to Lake Atitlan, the intimate insights from the other essays, the mystical Mayan customs, the history and nature that surrounded us.  Joyce has built such a remarkable place. It’s clear to see why so many who come call the retreat one of the most meaningful weeks of their writing lives.

If You Go:

https://casapalomaretreat.com/

 

The view from my casita.

 

 

               

Cooking in Colorful Oaxaca

           

        Oaxaca is the kind of place where people celebrate every occasion with a parade. You might come upon several in a day: brides and grooms sashaying out of churches surrounded by marching bands, twirling dancers in colorful skirts and giant puppets. There are vibrant murals of playful skeletons painted on houses, streets strung with cut paper banners and thriving artisan traditions that stretch back centuries. Oaxaca, Mexico is also famous for its cuisine which has roots in pre-Hispanic Zapotec culture. 

         Fascinated by the flavors and unfamiliar ingredients, Mark and I booked a day to cook with Chef Miguel Alvarez at Quinta Brava. He’d returned to his home town to start this cooking school after working in several restaurants around the world. “I decided to go back home and continue learning about my heritage and about proper Oaxacan cooking cuisine like in my grandmother’s cooking. I traveled around the state of Oaxaca to learn about techniques, flavors, and procedures to try to go back to the roots of…ancient Oaxacan cuisine cooked like in the villages in generations before.” His large compound, just outside of town, has been in his family for generations. Next to his house are gardens of fresh herbs, goats, chickens and a fat pig named Bacon. Dogs roll in the grass. There is an indoor kitchen with an electric stove and an outdoor kitchen with fire pits topped by comals (huge flat griddles). Shelves are stacked with tortilla presses and walls are full of hanging utensils. We joined ten other visitors at a shady table and talked about what we hoped to cook. 

         Miguel took notes and sent us off to the neighborhood market to shop. Tables overflowed with a kaleidoscope of colorful vegetables and fruits: varieties of bananas in shades of yellow, huge green cactus leaves and orange and red tomatoes. We gathered up bunches of cilantro, tomatoes, garlic and several kinds of chili, peanuts, plantains, limes, quesillo cheese and squash blossoms. We asked the vendors about pitayas, a red fruit with a spiny skin, dared each other to try the chapulines (grasshoppers) and bought handfuls of pale yellow sugar mangoes to take back to the hotel. We learned that the white limestone rocks that were piled on tables are used to soak corn kernels to make them digestible before they’re ground. 

     

        When we returned, wood fires were burning. First we learned how to grind the corn into masa on a flat stone called a metate. It’s a tricky technique that looks simple when the Mexicans do it. Then the masa was formed into tortillas in a wooden press and laid on the very hot comal. “Flip it once to seal in the water and a second time to puff it up,” we were told. We stuffed our tortillas with squash blossoms and cheese. They looked like art projects.

 “Mole is a sauce… it was an offering for the Gods in pre-Hispanic time,” Miguel explained as he pointed out the ten little bowls stretched along a table. Each was for a different mole or salsa we were going to make so we divided into small groups and proceeded according to his instructions. My group had an unusual assortment of peanuts, sesame seeds, tomatoes, onion and a variety of peppers and spices. He showed us how to toast the spices and then the nuts very quickly in a hot pan. We charred the tomatoes by putting them right onto coals in the fire. “The kind of wood you use becomes part of the recipe,” Miguel said. Once that was done, we boiled everything in a pot with some broth and then blended it until smooth. We used the moles and salsas to top the tamales and tacos we made. We also made pozole which turned out to be the class’ favorite. It’s a rich soup made from prepared corn and a variety of peppers, broth and spices.

        

        It took hours to make and eat the wonderful feast. But there was still a dessert made from mashed plantains and bread crumbs along with our choices of nuts, chocolate, coconut and cinnamon, rolled into balls and deep fried. Quite full and happy, we poured toasts of mezcal and relaxed in the lovely garden. A few days later Miguel sent us the recipes. I’ll do my best to replicate them but without the colorful town of Oaxaca surrounding my kitchen they may not taste the same.

Piccolo Spoleto Changes Lives

 

 2024 Poster by Tate Nation

                My life changed in 1979 as I stood on the empty lot that would become Charleston Place Hotel and hollered over my shoulder, “OK parade, follow me!” A cheer went up and hundreds of colorful characters snaked behind me down King Street.  I actually don’t know how it happened.  Seems like divine providence because I wasn’t even part of the arts community in those days.  I was an elementary school teacher.  Most likely I was not the first person that the Office of Cultural Affairs had asked to organize the Piccolo Spoleto parade, just the first one that said yes.  I recruited my eccentric friend Jules Garvin who lived in a jam-packed costume shop on the corner of King and Calhoun Streets.  Volunteers raided his racks and became an instant circus troupe; art teachers made two-story tall puppets and a high school band showed up.  The jolt of excitement I felt when the parade started marching super changed me into the rest of my creative life. 

The Top Notes Piano Ensemble

                When I moved to Charleston from Ann Arbor I was shocked by the relative lack of cultural activities.  But Spoleto and Piccolo changed everything.  In my subsequent career as the founder and director of the art center Creative Spark, we had several roles with Piccolo Spoleto.  For many years, we produced the children’s festival in Marion Square where multiple stages of local talent delighted crowds of families.  In partnership with the Charleston Housing Authority we ran Storefront School for the Arts in several locations.  Kids painted, danced, wrote and sang under the guidance of local teaching artists.  This year I will perform again with my 8-hand piano ensemble The Top Notes at the noontime concert series at Circular Church. (May 29 at noon, free.)  We look forward to this show all year.  And for several years I’ve written about the festivals for local newspapers.   I’ve also attended countless performances and heard many people tell of how it’s affected them.

The Jewish Choral Society

                Madeline Hershenson talks about her 19 years directing the Jewish Choral Society as being about more than the music.  The choir was comprised of people from various religions and musical experiences.  The diverse repertoire ranged from sacred hymns to show tunes by Jewish composers.  They sang exotic songs in Hebrew, English, Aramaic and Ladino. “What is Jewish music anyway?” she asked.  The singers became a close knit group and their joy and enthusiasm radiated to the audiences.  Friendships formed across age differences and backgrounds. “Peace was created,” Madeline said.

                Greg Tavares credits Piccolo Spoleto with changing his life’s trajectory.  “I would never have moved to Charleston in 1995 if I had not spent the few summers before working at Store Front School for the Arts.  I was 24 years old when I first came to town.  I knew right away that I had to move here.  I credit Piccolo Spoleto with why I live and work here today.”  Along with Brandy Sullivan and Timmy Finch, Greg founded Theatre 99 in 2000 which presents imrov comedy all year, five days a week.  His own troupe The Have Nots is frequently on stage.   In 2001 they began producing Piccolo Fringe, a comedy series for the festival. “Local groups like Mary Kay Has a Posse play on the same stage as the national acts we bring in,” Greg describes to emphasize the valuable opportunities for local talent.  Now, Theatre 99 is one of our city’s cultural mainstays.

The Have Nots

            Tate Nation, Piccolo’s only 3-time poster artist, appreciates the advantage that having his paintings in marketing and on merchandise has had.   He says, “My involvement with Piccolo Spoleto has had, and continues to have, a tremendous impact on my life and career as an artist. This year’s festival will mark my 25th year as an exhibitor in the Piccolo Spoleto Outdoor Art Exhibition. Much of my focus throughout the entire year is aimed towards creating new paintings in preparation for my exhibit. I’ve met and become good friends with many of the region’s most incredible and prominent creatives, and a large part of my business throughout the entire year results from customers and clients who I’ve met while exhibiting there.”

Tate Nation's "Back Doors"

                The festivals run concurrently but unlike Spoleto, all of Piccolo performances are either free or low cost and the talent is drawn from the Southeastern region.  It’s also much bigger with over 700 performances in 17 days.  Like Spoleto though, it’s highly curated and spans the literary, visual and performing arts.  As our city fills with the vibrancy of the festivals, it’s worth taking a moment to consider how they’ve enriched our cultural landscape.  They’ve brought entertainment, broadened our horizons and provided opportunities for creativity to flourish.

If You Go:

Piccolo Spoleto will be May 23 to June 8, 2025.  For a complete schedule, please see https://www.piccolospoleto.com/

. 

 

 

Cooking in Colorful Oaxaca

 

                                                                                               

                Oaxaca is the kind of place where people celebrate every occasion with a parade.  You might come upon several in a day:  brides and grooms sashaying out of churches surrounded by marching bands, twirling dancers in colorful skirts and giant puppets.  There are vibrant murals of playful skeletons painted on houses, streets strung with cut paper banners and thriving artisan traditions that stretch back centuries. 

                Oaxaca, Mexico is also famous for its cuisine which has roots in pre-Hispanic Zapotec culture.  Fascinated by the flavors and unfamiliar ingredients, Mark and I booked a day to cook with Chef Miguel Alvarez at Quinta Brava. He’d returned to his home town to start this cooking school after working in several restaurants around the world. “I decided to go back home and continue learning about my heritage and about proper Oaxacan cooking cuisine like in my grandmother’s cooking.  I traveled around the state of Oaxaca to learn about techniques, flavors, and procedures to try to go back to the roots of…ancient Oaxacan cuisine cooked like in the villages in generations before.”

                 His large compound, just outside of town, has been in his family for generations.  Next to his house are gardens of fresh herbs, goats, chickens and a fat pig named Bacon. Dogs roll in the grass. There is an indoor kitchen with an electric stove and an outdoor kitchen with fire pits topped by comals (huge flat griddles).  Shelves are stacked with tortilla presses and walls are full of hanging utensils.  We joined ten other visitors at a shady table and talked about what we hoped to cook.  Miguel took notes and sent us off to the neighborhood market to shop. 

        Tables overflowed with a kaleidoscope of colorful vegetables and fruits: varieties of bananas in shades of yellow, huge green cactus leaves and orange and red tomatoes. We gathered up bunches of cilantro, tomatoes, garlic and several kinds of chili, peanuts, plantains, limes, quesillo cheese and squash blossoms.  We asked the vendors about pitayas, a red fruit with a spiny skin, dared each other to try the chapulines (grasshoppers) and bought handfuls of pale yellow sugar mangoes to take back to the hotel.  We learned that the white limestone rocks that were piled on tables are used to soak corn kernels to make them digestible before they’re ground.

                When we returned, wood fires were burning.  First we learned how to grind the corn into masa on a flat stone called a metate.  It’s a tricky technique that looks simple when the Mexicans do it.  Then the masa was formed into tortillas in a wooden press and laid on the very hot comal.  “Flip it once to seal in the water and a second time to puff it up,” we were told.  We stuffed our tortillas with squash blossoms and cheese.  They looked like art projects.    

                “Mole is a sauce… it was an offering for the Gods in pre-Hispanic time,” Miguel explained as he pointed out the ten little bowls stretched along a table.  Each was for a different mole or salsa we were going to make so we divided into small groups and proceeded according to his instructions.  My group had an unusual assortment of peanuts, sesame seeds, tomatoes, onion and a variety of peppers and spices.  He showed us how to toast the spices and then the nuts very quickly in a hot pan.  We charred the tomatoes by putting them right onto coals in the fire.  “The kind of wood you use becomes part of the recipe,” Miguel said.  Once that was done, we boiled everything in a pot with some broth and then blended it until smooth.                 

                

We used the moles and salsas to top the tamales and tacos we made.   We also made pozole which turned out to be the class’ favorite.  It’s a rich soup made from prepared corn and a variety of peppers, broth and spices.  It took hours to make and eat the wonderful feast.  But there was still a dessert made from mashed plantains and bread crumbs along with our choices of nuts, chocolate, coconut and cinnamon, rolled into balls and deep fried. 

                Quite full and happy, we poured toasts of mezcal and relaxed in the lovely garden.  A few days later Miguel sent us the recipes.  I’ll do my best to replicate them but without the colorful town of Oaxaca surrounding my kitchen they may not taste the same.  

For More information please see Quita Brava

The Sharing Economy is Changing Travel

 

 

                “Port wine is like men, the older they are, the more complex.”  Sergio was waxing philosophical between sips.  My husband and I had booked a private wine experience at his shop (“it’s my wife’s shop”­) in lieu of one of the tourist-packed Douro River vineyard cruises in Porto.  While we selected our favorite vintages we were charmed by Sergio’s love of his city’s “aging elegance” and how he’d won the nation’s blind wine tasting contest. Being with him was emblematic of our trip  .Portus Wine

                Throughout the month we used the sharing economy to book several experiences that brought Portugal’s culture alive and helped us avoid the forced march of large group tours that we abhor.  We cruised the river with Sylvia Tomas and Pedro Lemos, an ambitious young couple.  They’d found a neglected boat and fixed it up for tours. As we waved to passengers crowded onto the decks of passing ships, Sylvia told us, “The difference is we don’t want to seem like a business.  We want to seem like

we opened the door to our house.” Pedro grew up in a family of sardine fishermen so his stories of the city’s history were enlivened by childhood memories.   Meanwhile, we became fast friends with the 3 other passengers on the tour, fascinating young women who’d emigrated from the U.S. to Israel.  It was a great choice among the many river tours offered on Airbnb Experiences Porto

                 In Lisbon’s “Onion Square” we shared a dramatic moment with our tour guide Beatrice. “We are standing where people greeted the ships returning from the Far East with new foods, exotic animals and spices….To them this ocean was a vast scary place where you might fall off the edge of the Earth. When they tasted onions they ate them like apples…. Pepper made them sneeze.  Chocolate was a revelation, magic.” Then she compared it to our current perspective on exploring outer space.  “What magic will we discover there someday?”  We

booked that memorable experience on a Free Walking Tours  site where you pay what you will.  They’re available in hundreds of cities worldwide.

                On the site  Go With Guide we arranged an informative Jewish History Walking tour where we walked through historic neighborhoods and heard about the Inquisition.  We became acquainted with the cuisine of Portugal on a food tour that we booked on Airbnb Experiences. “We have 365 recipes for cod, one for each day,” our guide Eloise began.  Then she led us to a dozen small restaurants where we tried everything from fish to cheeses to flaming pork. 

        

        The food tour ended with the ubiquitous pastel de nata pastry so I was delighted to attend a cooking class to make them that I booked on Get Your Guide.  What a wonderful afternoon.  The 6 other students were from around the world and shared their stories as we baked and our teacher Katia was the real deal: “My grandma used to bake 100 natas each day and I was the delivery girl.  So I’d deliver 95 or 96…”

                A big highlight was sharing a meal at João’s apartment that we booked through Eat With This website offers dinner parties in local’s homes all over the world.  The lavish meal he prepared for the 8 of us was delicious and the international company was very lively.   João offers his dinners quite often and it was apparent that they were an important part of his income which we were happy to support.

         

       The sharing economy is changing the way we travel.  It’s a lot more than Airbnb and Uber. You can rent everything from a parking spot to ski equipment or travel for free by trading work, pet sitting or house swapping. It’s a great alternative to either being with a group the whole time or being on your own. 

Surprises in Portugal

 

 

        It seems like everyone is going to Portugal, just got back or wants to go.  No wonder.  Renowned for its beauty, cuisine, culture and history, it’s an attractive destination.  My husband and I spent a month there this summer and found all of that to be true but there were some surprises.

        Getting there and getting around was very easy.  A quick Charleston to Philadelphia flight and a redeye to Lisbon got us there at 9AM. The return flight was even quicker. We planned our itinerary around the train system which is the best in Europe.  They’re comfortable and efficient and a great way to meet people. It was easy to not have a car since UBERS came in an instant for very low cost.  Furthermore, pedestrian safety is among the best in the world.  Cars always yield to crosswalks.

        The food was diverse. They say that Portugal has 365 recipes for cod, one for each day. Stacks of dried cod (which is imported from Norway nowadays) are in every store.  But our food tour guide Eloise introduced us to excellent Iberian pork, cheeses, chorizo and octopus.  There’s wonderful seafood of course but also plenty of ethnic cuisine.  And how nice that it’s safe to drink the tap water.

Dried cod for sale

        It’s both modern and historic.   While we sat in a square surrounded by churches built centuries ago, a busker sang and asked for requests.  Soon the crowd was singing Barbie movie songs, complete with dialogue! But pride in cultural runs deep. In Viana do Castelo we were entranced at a week-long festival that began in 1772.  Saints were carried from  church altars and put onto ships to be blessed at sea.  Citizens walked four hours in parades dressed in traditional clothes and stayed up all night to cover the streets with pictures made of rock salt.  “I get tears in my eyes every year,” our new friend Rosa told us.

Decorated streets in Viana do Castelo 

        And then there’s the politics.  Portugal banned the importation of slaves in 1761, almost 100 years before the U.S. (although it continued in their colonies).  But the Inquisition lasted decades longer, until 1821. We were struck by how democracy was won during a peaceful, one-day coup in 1974 known as the Carnation Revolution where the citizenry flooded the streets and put flowers into gun barrels, ending over 40 years of fascist rule.  It was the first country in the world to decimalize drugs and has one of the lowest drug usage rates in Europe.  Interestingly, a Portuguese man who works for a U.S. company told us that work-life differences create some friction.  Portuguese have 3 weeks of paid time off by law.  U.S. bosses are sometimes annoyed that their European employees don’t take work with them.  A waiter shared that he and his wife enjoy a nice standard of living due to the guaranteed minimum income laws and expats were eager to  boast of receiving medical care for a fraction of the U.S. cost.          

        And then there’s the wine.  No surprise that it’s so wonderful, but it’s surprisingly inexpensive.  Another delight:  tiny chocolate cups of ginjinha (a cherry liquor) sold from doorways all over the country.  

Chocolate cups of ginjinha

        And then there’s the pastry.  How many bakeries can one country support?  Apparently one on every block.  People linger over cappuccino and conversation so we made it our daily ritual too.  It was our duty to compare the ubiquitous pastel de nata (little custard tarts) that every city creates its version of.

Pastry for miles!

        

Portugal’s tourism is increasing and it’s easy to see why.  Vacationing there is comfortable, interesting and easy.  Compared to other European countries, it’s less expensive and it’s full of delightful surprises.