Category: Travel Biography

Losing watches

sandybarker

At a recent interview – for the job I am in currently – I was asked to describe my organisational skills. I replied, “Freakish.” And they are.  I am a list-maker. I have reminders – electronic and on post-its and on calendars – for all sorts of things. I do not forget birthdays, appointments, work responsibilities or social arrangements.  My job requires that I adhere to a strict timetable, and I am responsible for decision-making and organization that immediately affects 180 students and 6 other staff members.

I am a planner in most aspects of my life – except when I am in ‘travel mode’.

When I travel I revel in the freedom it affords me. I shake off the shackles of timetables, commitments and calendars. I take off my watch and happily forget what day it is.  On occasion, there are planes or trains to catch at specific times, but mostly I can indulge a side of myself that is rarely seen in my day-to-day and working life.  In recent travels I am happy to plan a day or two ahead, and leave the rest to unfold as it comes.  And I am often happy for others – in many cases Ben – to make big decisions about what, where and how. I give over to the lack of obligation, and it feels terrific.  I haven’t always traveled like this, but in the past few years I have been fortunate with travel companions who allow this side of me to emerge.

My greatest experience of this feeling happened in late September 2006. I stood on the dock of a small marina in the south of Santorini, Greece, and I searched the fleet of sailing vessels for the one with the red G.A.P. flag.

Standing next to me was a tall, dark-haired stranger who seemed to share my nervousness about being in the right
place. “Are you on the sailing trip up to Mykonos?” I asked. “Yes, god I am so glad I am in the right place.” “Me too.” “I’m Ben,” he said with hand extended, “Sandy,” I replied as we shook hands and smiled at each other.  We made our way down to the marina and found our yacht. We were greeted exuberantly by our skipper, Patrick, and introduced to the other 5 people we would share the next 9 days with. All were strangers to me, yet within hours I sat with them at dinner, laughing,
enjoying terrific local seafood and knowing that I was amongst friends.

Earlier that day, when I said goodbye to old friends and left to take up my trip with strangers, I had fretted. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the right bus to get to the right marina to meet up with the right yacht. I had all the same worries about the people on the yacht that a child has about their fellow students on the first day of school. “What if they don’t like me?”was foremost in my mind.

I needn’t have worried. I am still in contact with these fellow travellers 18 months later, and Ben from the yacht is the same Ben who shares my passion for life’s experiences, and peppers my posts about subsequent travels.

We all shared something on that boat that I have never experienced before; an intense feeling of freedom. We slept when we were tired, and we ate when we were hungry. For people from diverse professions all driven by deadlines and timetables, this was liberating.

I lost my watch and did not find it again until packing on the last day. I did not miss it. I forgot what day it was, and
not because the days all melded into one, but because each day seem twice as long as the frantic days of home. Each
day was filled with languid hours, each moment was lived in present tense, which is the key to this kind of bliss – not obsessing about the past, not fretting about the future.

Even the itinerary was ‘loose’. Patrick was the perfect skipper for this kind of trip. He knew the Cyclades islands so
well, that he sailed according to the whims of the weather and the sea. No matter the island on which we landed, he
knew the best places to eat, the best places to see, and how to squeeze every minute from the day without feeling rushed.

Sailing between islands came with its own unique joys. Being on the water with no other place to be at that exact moment, is exhilarating. Swimming off the boat, diving into the bottomless dark blue sea, is exhilarating.
Watching dolphins cresting waves beside the yacht is exhilarating. Breathing salt air, basking in sunlight,
feeling the spray of the ocean on your face, holding on tight to ride the swell and looking ahead as the next island emerges from a hazy horizon – all bliss. 

There are so many terrific stories to tell from this trip, and I will some day, but more than unbelievable meals and
extraordinary sights, this trip unlocked something in me. I have described it to Ben as a loosening of knots. I discovered that life is less about timetables and meetings and the pressure of deadlines. Much more important are the moments when we are completely present.

I consider this particular trip a gift. 8 nights and 9 days in the middle of the Adriatic to remind me to be present, to stop obsessing about unimportant things. Whenever I get too caught up in the rigmarole, I think back and remember to breathe.

Oh yes, I will still be obsessively on time for flights, but when I get to the other end and my real journey begins, I
happily and purposefully lose my watch.

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Loathe of Flying Part Two

sandybarker

On every long haul flight I invariably end up wondering WHEN scientists are going to sort out this teleporting thing.  If you watch episodes of the original Star Trek, you will see Spock and Kirk and the gang talking into their mobile phones, and Uhura chatting away on her Bluetooth earpiece.  The crew even shock alien bad guys with Taser guns.  If so much of the technology imagined by Gene Roddenberry in the 60s has actually eventuated, when, oh when, will teleporting become a feasible alternative to flying long haul?

I saw Jumper yesterday, the film with Hayden Christensen. I watched enviously as he teleported from one part of the world to the next without jetlag, and without having to sleep sitting up while breathing stale air filled with germs.

Oh, how I hate the long haul flight.  I travel frequently enough that flying anything other than coach is not a financial option, and I have only been upgraded once in the past 20 years, so coach it is.  Every time.  As this is the status quo, I have developed some coping mechanisms, some strategies to make it more bearable down the less pointy end of the plane.  Feel free to borrow as many of these as you like.

I always request an aisle seat.  I want to know that I can get up whenever I want – or at least whenever the seatbelt sign is not on.  I want to be able to escape a leaner, a snorer, or a chatter to the airspace of the aisle.  I request these seats when I book.  I double and triple check that I have an aisle seat.  And one of the advantages of checking in so early is that I can guarantee this aisle seat.  It is so important to me that the on the rare occasion I haven’t had an aisle seat (twice), I spend much of the flight in a state of anxious claustrophobia.  Am not afraid of flying; am afraid of being crushed into a small space without chance of escape.  Fellow claustrophobics will understand. 

Once on the plane – and I wait until about 2/3 of the passengers have embarked, as the rush is over, but there is still room in the overhead lockers for my biggest bag – I like to ‘nest’. I put my newly purchased array of magazines, my water bottle and lollies in the seat pocket.  I take off my shoes and put on socks, and I ensure my moisturiser, lip balm, and eye drops are close at hand under the seat in front of me.  I stash my big bag above my head, and all this takes less than a minute.  Other essentials stashed within reach include a notebook and pen in case I am inspired, and my eye mask and ear plugs for sleep time.

The nesting is an important part of my flight, because it is me creating my own little world where I will have everything I need within reach.  Sandy-land in the sky.  Yes, I am aware that this sounds a little O-C and probably annoying for anyone sitting next to me.  Tough!

While waiting for other passengers to embark, I indulge in another small pleasure: reading about the flight menu and the in-flight entertainment.  Neither will meet the standard we enjoy in everyday life, but both take up time, and it is nice to look at the menu and think, “Oooh, we get supper, breakfast and lunch.  That’s got to take up a couple of hours right there.”  And the entertainment?  I purposefully flick to the back of the in-flight magazine and make mental notes.  Mostly I think along the lines of, “seen it”, “heard it was rubbish”, and “saw it and it was rubbish”, but every so often, I turn to that page and internally exclaim, “Haven’t seen it, heard it was brilliant!”  It is a small moment, but a good one.  Of course, many planes have those fancy-schmancy ‘back-of-the-seat-choose-your-own-adventure” entertainment systems which negates much of this.  However, although I generally fly Qantas and other such ‘first-rate’ airlines, I have poor luck in getting on one of these planes.  4 of my last 5 international flights have been on planes only slightly younger than the flight attendants. 

After checking out the meal service and entertainment comes the greatest pleasure of all when flying coach long haul.  It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, you cannot help but feel smug and unbelievably elated.  It is the moment when you realise that the seat next to yours will remain empty for the next 14 hours and 27 minutes.  You can spread out.  And the only other person to share that moment with, is the one sitting on the other side of the empty seat.  A smile and a nod will do it.  No need for lengthy diatribes – you both just know.  YES!

So, I have expounded on the pleasures of flying coach long haul, and we haven’t even left the ground yet.  This is because once we leave the ground, any possibility of further small pleasures evaporates.  Once flying, it is all about the countdown to landing.   Why do you think they have those obnoxious screens with the little plane on a map, moving along at a rate that would make a snail smirk?  Because they (the all-knowing  ‘THEY’ with  their infinite  wisdom) know that even though we let ourselves get distracted by the movies playing on a screen we can only see if we sit on our hand luggage and crick our neck to the left, flying long haul is mostly about ‘Are we there yet?”  So, in between movies and food service, we stare at that stupid map and will the little plane to go faster.

About an hour into the flight, they start to heat up the food in the galleys, and no matter what it is, by that time, in that situation, the wafting aroma excites the palate.  The food when it arrives tends to disappoint, but we sit there with our itsy-bitsy plastic crockery arranging everything as though it is our last meal.  We take our time to butter the bread roll, to cut the cheese into small portions to evenly distribute it amongst the three crackers.  We look up the aisle excitedly as the drink cart makes its way to us, knowing we can order wine, because it is free on long haul flights.  We may even just save the mini-chocolate bar for later.  We eat like rows of praying mantis with our little plastic forks and knives, and we are grateful for this sub-standard fare because it takes up time. 

I should say at this point that I have a trick.  I always order a ‘special meal’ – and I will happily chop and change between ‘low fat’, ‘lactose intolerant’, ‘low glycemic’ and ‘gluten free’ options.  I am not fussed about the meal, but if I order a special meal, it comes out before the main service – often well before.  I may have to wait for that tiny plane to cross the international date line, but I don’t have to wait for that food cart to come all the way down the aisle to my row.  So, I lied a little before.  There is one small pleasure to be had once in the air.  It sounds like this, “Miss Barker, I have your meal for you.”

The other stuff is just there to suffer through – and sleep through if you can:

  • Children who kick the back of your seat or chuck tantrums.  Once in a while I feel like chucking a tantrum on a plane too – maybe thats why I dislike these children so much – because I am jealous.
  • The snorer, who keeps everyone awake but himself.
  • The phantom farter, who seems to think the air-conditioning just sucks the smell out into the atmosphere.
  • The dodgy entertainment system that stops working 3 minutes before the end of a film you have invested 2 hours and 45 minutes in.
  • The state of the bathrooms after 12 hours of flying.
  • The loud talker.  If I can hear her from row 32 when she is in row 19, could someone please tell her it is likely she can lower her voice and the person next to her will still be able to hear what she is saying?
  • Disappearing flight attendants.  “Excuse me, could I please have a cup of tea?” outside of normal drink service will guarantee you will never see that flight attendant – or any of her colleagues – again.
  • The uncomfortable irony of being desperate for the bathroom and more thirsty than you can ever remember  – and the seatbelt sign stays on for eternity.  Never has one little neon red light meant so much.

I did promise to write about airports, as I have been to more airports than destinations, but not tonight.  Tonight I am going to eat a delicious dinner on real crockery, then stretch out on my couch and watch whatever I darned well please.

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Loathe of Flying Pt 1

sandybarker

I LOVE to travel, but the cruel irony is that I hate to fly.

I appreciate that there are people who are desperately afraid of flying. That is not me. I suffer only from loathe of flying. I do not fear the plane falling out of the sky. In fact, often times I am so blasé about flying that I am asleep by the time we take off and I wake after we are in the air.

Mostly the loathing is because of what happens on the ground. I hate airports. I understand that few people actually like the airport experience, but I have had such bad luck at airports that I am often anxious when I get there.

I once arrived at the airport for a month-long trip to the USA where it was winter. I had boots, jumpers (sweaters), coats and ski gear in my carefully packed suitcases. My idiot travel agent had assured me that my airline allowed 2 bags at up to 32kg per bag, so I had one big heavy suitcase, and a small suitcase, its ‘mini me’. My large suitcase was seriously overweight. I argued that my travel agent had assured me I could carry up to 32kg per bag – and all I had was a paltry 27kg. I even called my travel agent, who was so stupid, she swore black and blue that she was correct and that the perfectly coiffed woman standing opposite me was the idiot. I told my agent I would be paying the excess baggage and then billing her. She was outraged at my suggestion – she was outraged, but she wasn’t the one facing an excess baggage charge every leg of a 6-leg journey.

We argued a bit more, and less than 3 minutes later, I had slammed my mobile phone shut (it was the best I could do to display my disgust) and was repacking my carefully-packed bags on the floor of the airport. In the middle of my summer, I lightened my load by putting on a jumper, boots and a long winter coat. When I was done, the small bag weighed almost as much as the big one – a feat in defiance of physics – and I was checked in. Idiot-travel-agent-woman.

In Calgary, I locked my friend’s baby in the car – while it was running, at the 3-minute kerbside drop-off point. Baby in the car, luggage in the car, keys in the ignition, and my girlfriend and I standing there, early morning, temperature well below zero. She started laughing in response to our predicament, albeit hysterically, and I stood there dumb-struck for about 30 seconds.

Thank fortune we had the car boot open, and that I could crawl inside, push through to the backseat, and contort my body enough to flick the lock with the edge of my finger nail. Thank fortune because her husband had lost the spare set of keys the day before. Baby Canyon was none the wiser and thought it was hilarious that Aunty Sandy was doing such a funny thing. I made my flight, but it took me until well into it to start breathing normally again.

And for some reason, no matter where in the world I am, I am selected 9 times out of 10 for ‘random security checks’. Random! As in, ‘You look like a good sort, so I will randomly select you‘? In Denver airport I wished I hadn’t worn my stripy toe socks inside my boots. The security staff did not find them as festive as I did, so I was randomly selected for further searches.

At Heathrow, when batteries were the greatest potential danger, and not liquids, the security officer asked, “Excuse me Madam, is there anything battery-operated in your luggage?” I immediately thought to my personal massager, and to save us both the embarrassment, I replied a simple, “No”.

I do not mind the latest security measures. I would much rather be safe, than to complain about them, and in truth I have flown quite a lot in the past few years, so I have my routine down pat. Shoes off, coat/jacket off, plastic bag of toiletries out, laptop out, bags flat, through the sensor, all back on and in again.

There have been a few glitches, like when I was in Peru. I had packed my hand luggage that morning for the trekking I would be doing at the other end of the flight. And without a thought to the plane travel, I included my Swiss Army knife – the one I’d had for a decade, with my name engraved on it.

When the security officer stopped me and asked about the knife, I indignantly denied it, as I had forgotten how stupid I had been. I cannot imagine the look on my face as I realised he was right and that I was about to lose a prized possession.

While in Hawaii, Ben’s bag was searched by hand after the scan because it was jam-packed, and he realised he had left his pocketknife in the bag. He whispered this me, and I had visions of us being carted away by U.S. security for further questioning. But no, Ben was simply chastised for a 150ml bottle of sunscreen, which was confiscated. “I told him not to pack that,” I said, and Ben looked suitably contrite. Phew.

As my luck at airports leans more towards ‘bad’ than ‘good’, I tend to arrive exceptionally early for my international flights. If all goes well, I have a comfortable window of time in which I can shop duty free, or have a leisurely cup of tea, or even browse bookshops. When it all goes pear-shaped, I have wiggle-room and will stress less (well, a little less anyway).

At Heathrow in 2006, they changed the gate for my flight to Athens at the last minute and my ‘comfortable window’ dissolved into harried running from one end of the airport to the other with 50 of my fellow passengers. When we got to the new departure gate, we were herded onto buses and shuttled to the other side of the airport (a 15-minute drive), and ended up at a gate that was suspiciously located where the original departure gate was.

But sometimes, my ‘boy scout’ approach to flying backfires on me. The last time I flew out of Australia, I arrived 3 hours before my flight. I was the only person at check in, the only person at security and had to interrupt two customs officers chatting so they could okay my departure from Australia. I was all the way through with a wait of 2 hours and 50 minutes until my flight – and I had already changed money. I browsed, I shopped, I had lunch, and I still had another 2 hours to wait.

But superstition and experience just wouldn’t allow me to be one of those people who leaves it all to the last second, and squeezes into their seat moments before the door is sealed, the plane is crossed-checked and we are cleared for departure.  That kind of stress would only make flying even more hellish.

Next time: The joys of long-haul flights, and best and worst airports.

Glitter, gambling, glamour. It can only be Vegas.

sandybarker

Las Vegas. An oasis of guilty pleasures in the middle of the desert. Glitter, gambling and glamour. Right? Well, sort of.

Last year the call went out. My mother wished for nothing more than to return to her homeland, and wanted my sister and I to join her for an American Christmas – in Las Vegas. This is where mum’s sister and her family have lived for the better part of three decades. For Aunt Joanne and Uncle Tom, and their children, and their children’s children, Las Vegas is home; it is where they live, work, go to school, buy groceries, do chores and play.

I hadn’t been there since before I was of legal drinking age (I was 19), so I was looking forward to reconnecting with my family, as well as discovering what all the fuss about Vegas was about. I was not disappointed on either front.

I was delighted to meet (again) my beautiful Aunt Joanne, who has the wisest and kindest eyes I have ever had look upon me, and my Uncle Tom, whose wit is drier than the desert he lives in. I laughed a lot with my cousin, Mary, and loved meeting her daughter, who I had nursed on my lap, now a young woman with a sharp wit of her own. What an ease there was between us, even when time and distance had separated us for 20 years.

My sister flew in from London, Ben flew in from Minnesota, Cousin Cathy flew in from Phoenix, and my mother was overjoyed to have us all there to celebrate Christmas together.

But, I couldn’t shake the question running through my head at a rate of knots: “What is Christmas in Vegas going to be like?” I mean it was LAS VEGAS and I was there to celebrate one of the holiest events on the Christian calendar – not that this is why Christmas is my favourite holiday – but that is beside the point. I was just fascinated by the irony!

I would soon discover that Las Vegas is a city of contrasts, where the beauty of the landscape far outweighs that of the ‘beautiful people’, and much of the fun happens well off The Strip. And Christmas in Vegas? Well, that was all about contrasts too.

We watched White Christmas; we fired handguns. We drove around looking at Christmas lights, and saw a topless review. We spent part of Christmas Day people-watching along The Strip, and the rest hanging out at ‘home’ and consuming an enormous Christmas feast with the family. Oh yes, we squeezed every ounce of goodness out of this particular holiday.

We did fire handguns – Ben, Vic and I. A few days before Christmas we walked through the doors of a gun shop and shooting range on the outskirts of the city. We were greeted exuberantly by a man called John, a gentle bear with no backside to speak of, so his jeans hung dangerously low.

Now, my sister and I had never shot a hand gun before – we were gun virgins – whereas Ben has handled firearms (responsibly) since he was a boy on hunting trips with grandpa and at target practice with dad. The process that day was pretty straightforward. We filled in photocopied forms with basic information, and between the three of us, we produced exactly 0 pieces of identification. Ben opted for the high end stuff; he shot a 50 calibre Desert Eagle and an MP5, which is an automatic. Vic and I were given a .22 and a Glock (.38), respectively.

The shooting range was just a small room with cinderblock walls, partitions and a simple pulley system for flying the targets to the other end of the room. When we walked in, the semi-automatic shotgun one man was firing tore through the sound-proofing of our ear protection. The ‘boom’, ‘boom’, ‘boom’ was felt right through our bodies too. My sister started shaking and spent most of our session in the safety of the gun shop. I stuck it out in the range to watch Ben fire high powered weapons, his back muscles straining against his T-shirt (sigh). Then it was my turn.


I was guided to the end partition, and John helped me load the clip into my gun. It was like it is in the movies. Gun in one hand, clip held in the palm of the other hand, and the two coming together with that ‘ratchet’ sound. Marvelous. I thought back to 15 minutes earlier when I had received my not-so-extensive instruction: right foot back, right arm nearly straight, left arm bent, lean into the gun, left hand cupping right, squeezing palms together to keep the gun steady and gently squeezing the trigger. “Pop”. Not quite the ‘boom’ of the semi-auto shot gun, or the short bursts from the MP5, but a satisfying feeling. I squinted down the room to my target. “Did I hit it?” I wondered. I squeezed the trigger a second time.

Now I voiced my thought aloud, “Did I hit it?” John informed me that I was firing high and just clipping the top of the target. “You need to follow through, just like as in tennis. Although with firing a gun, the ‘follow through’ means that you must keep the gun level and steady, even after you have fired it. This will keep the bullet on target.” Good to know. I tried it again and this time hit somewhere in the midsection of my target. I turned to John with glee on my face. “I did it!” I exclaimed. It was so gratifying.

I continued through the rest of the clip, aiming as best as I could for each shot. This particular gun will fire off round after round quickly, but I was purposefully aiming. At the end of the clip, I felt ‘done’. I still had another clip to go, but I didn’t want to shoot it, so Ben did. Inexplicably, I just didn’t want to shoot anymore. I had achieved what I wanted to achieve: I can now say that I have shot a hand gun. It is a peculiar feeling having that much power in my hands. I came away feeling contented, and with sore biceps.

I had already been out to see Vic and talk her into having a go, but she was teary and adamant that she was not going to. I went back into the range to collect my things, and John said he would talk to her. I thought he had no chance, until a moment later, there was my little sister (all 5’1” of her) geared up and firing a .22 – with a silencer.The silencer was the key. She was good too – a far better aim than me, and she seemed pleased that she had gone through with it.

How odd – and oddly rewarding – an experience. And no I.D. required! Days later I would need photo I.D. to enter Ben’s health club in St Paul as a guest, but I could fire a deadly weapon in the state of Nevada with nothing more than my signature on a photocopied form.

We commemorated the occasion with photographs of us holding automatic weapons, and with our rolled up targets in hand, we bid the boys at the gun shop and shooting range farewell. As we left I noticed the tinsel decorating the shop door. Oh yes, it was Christmas! I was so caught up in the incredibly cool thing I had just done, I had almost forgotten. “Happy Holidays,” I called out as we left.

The contrasts didn’t end there. Ben and I have had really different Christmases throughout our lives. We would be blending our own traditions to have our first together. Now, obviously, Christmas in Australia is hot. My family starts the day with a breakfast of champagne and cold seafood – prawns and crayfish (shrimp and lobster for my North American readers). The champagne was not much of a hard sell, but in our hotel room just off The Strip (The very lovely ‘Renaissance’) we opted for ripe red pears with our champagne, instead of seafood. We sipped the champagne while we opened our presents – mine to Ben a stocking stuffed with lots of smaller gifts (a Barker family thing), and his to me a stunning Sapphire bracelet (I am not sure if this is a family tradition, but it certainly took my breath away). Then we made our way downstairs for a full cooked breakfast, with coffee, which was more Ben’s style.

And the topless review? It was one of my gifts to Ben. Front row, baby! And it was spectacular. Sexy, sassy, a little cheesy, and a lot of fun. The women were every type of gorgeous, from natural fresh-faced beauties to heavily made up bombshells. Did it set feminism back 20 years? No. It celebrated the power of feminine beauty, and was a brilliant night out.
We also saw Cirque du Soleil’s Mystique – tickets were a gift from Joanne and Tom – and as a child of the theatre, it absolutely delighted me. I did not know where to look as the spectacle was all around us and above us. The stage transformed several times, and the journey we were taken on, a gift in the realm of surrealism. It was very easy to get lost in it.

We did gamble a few times, and we wandered The Strip, watching the people – a collection of folks from everywhere you can imagine. We went to M&M World, a merchandise playground for those with an obsession for M&M’s (um, me). My sister and I tried to out ‘cute’ each other with each successive thing we pulled off the shelf. I am such a sucker for that stuff. I found that I absolutely could not live without a Green M&M ruler, and matching keyring. They see us coming for miles, I am sure. They do not give out samples, which is a crime against humanity.

Yes, Las Vegas at Christmas time is a little unusual. The sun is shining and there are no clouds in the sky, yet it is cold, but not cold like it is in Minnesota that time of year. So, perhaps it was the perfect place for Ben and I to spend our first Christmas together – he got his cold weather and I got my blue skies.

And the real reason I love Christmas, is because it is a time when family and loved ones come together. I missed my dad, my step-mum and the rest of my family and loved ones back in Australia, but I am so glad I had my wonderful, bizarre, and love-filled Christmas in Vegas.

Natural Habitats

sandybarker

I am a friendly person. As such, I am blessed (and cursed) to have friends all over the world. The blessing, of course, is that I enjoy these diverse and enriching friendships immensely. The curse is that I miss these friends more often than not. Some of these friendships were forged when I travelled, and others while living in various places on three continents. I am great at staying in touch, even when some of these treasured friends are not (I say this with love, and a wink). For these reasons, much of my travel involves visits to places where friends live.

A tourist can get into a city and explore its nooks and crannies armed with nothing but a guidebook, but to visit a place where a friend lives is to get to know the place – and the friend – in an entirely new way.

Last September Ben flew into Sydney, his first visit to the southern hemisphere, let alone Australia. And in September, Sydney shines. It did not disappoint me, or him, for the days we were here together. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, and warm, salty breezes. On the second day Ben asked, “Why can’t you take me somewhere pretty?” We were in Bronte, about to walk the cliff-side path to Bondi. He was being ironic. On the third day, after seeing the coast, Circular Quay, Botany Bay, Taronga Zoo, Sydney Harbour and various other attractive hotspots, he asked if there were any ugly parts of Sydney. I replied, “There must be somewhere, but none that I know of.” I had a glint in my eye when I said it, and he knew that, for this time I was being ironic. I wanted him to fall for this city as much as I have; he knew that too.

However, when we love where we live we often take it for granted. When I knew Ben was coming, it forced me to view Sydney through fresh eyes. I had to forget the day to day stuff, the traffic and the rude, impatient drivers, the huge piles of rubbish on the side of the road right before the councils do their quarterly ‘clean up’, the abruptness of sales assistants, the nightmare of parking – anywhere.

I had to go back to the roots of my love for this city, which was born about 8 years ago. I had to ask myself, “What made me pick up, and pack up, and move my stuff from the west coast to the east coast, without a job or a home to come to?” I cast my mind back, and I created a list of the must-sees and must-dos. In a week of exploring the city, my beloved Sydney, we worked our way through approximately 1/4 of the list. It’s a start. And on a selfish note, I fell back in love with this city with renewed passion and verve, and made a promise to myself to get out in it more.

I need to remember that the salt air along the coast is revitalising, and summer or winter, can shake me from a slump or a rut. I need to remember how much I enjoy the buzz and energy of a city filled with parks and waterways, and a passion for the arts, a city where the dozens of different cuisines are authentic, because dozens of nationalities reside here.

In essence, I became a traveller in my own town. Ben bore witness to this; seeing me in my ‘natural habitat’, and the passion I have for it. It was a way for him to get to know a different facet of me.

Similarly, I get to benefit from this dynamic when I visit cities where my friends live. They want to show it off, they want me to love it, and see it in its best light. So, I can toss the guide book in the bin as I know I will see the highlights and the hush-hush stuff that natives are not supposed to tell you. My friends in Seattle almost whispered when they told me that it doesn’t really rain 9 months of the year there. This is a fallacy perpetuated to ensure that ‘OTHERS’ do not head to the north-west in droves and ruin the delicate balance of their fine city.

In my recent trip to the US, Ben got to reciprocate. We flew together to Minneapolis/St Paul from Vegas, where we’d just spent Christmas with my family (a whole other story and fodder for a separate blog post). From the sunny skies of Vegas to the grey skies of Minnesota – not to mention it was -5C outside – it would seemingly be a hard sell. Not so. Ben is a Minnesota boy, born and bred, and with my impending arrival, he penned his own ‘to do’ list. And through his eyes I easily saw beauty and light through the cold and the grey.

My favourite thing on his list was, ‘walk across a frozen lake’. When Ben told me he was really looking forward to doing this with me, I said, “I’ve never done that before.”  He replied, “I know.” That it would be my first time made it all the more special. ‘Firsts’ are things we try to do as much as possible.

I had packed my ski pants and jacket for Minnesota, because I knew it was cold there, and that he wanted to do the lake thing. I did not wear these big, heavy pieces at any other time in my 5 week trip, but it was worth packing them, just for this outing. We suited up. Now, I should mention that Ben is hard-core when it comes to the cold; he can bear really cold weather. I cannot. So, when I saw that even HE was layering on the clothes and reaching for the serious gloves and boots, I knew this would be serious cold. Would the running I had done from the house to the car, and the car to the restaurant prepare me for being outside long enough to walk across a frozen lake? I crossed my fingers inside my mittens.

We put Spot, his room mate’s dog, on a leash, and I am not sure, but I think he was even more excited than I was. A few short blocks of walking along shovelled walks – people are so considerate in the mid-west – and we were there. There had been a fresh dump of snow not long before, so we could only see the ice when we cleared the snow away, but it was a lake, and it was frozen, and I was standing on it.

There were little ice-fishing huts dotted along the other side of the lake. I ensured Ben that would be an activity I would never participate in because it combines two of my least favourite things: fishing and being freezing cold for a very long time. I took photos of the bare landscape and houses across the lake, because it was all so beautiful. Even the ploughed streets with their shovelled walks were beautiful. I said so, and Ben just shrugged his shoulders, “Yeah, I guess so.” Could he see it all through my eyes? The beauty of a familiar place? I hope so.

Other outings included the Walker Art Centre where we saw a Kandinsky, and an installation by Warhol, and nearly a collection of Kahlo (it was a two-hour wait and I was hungry – I know, we may regret that someday). We made the obligatory excursion to the Mall of America, which did not disappoint. How could it? There is a roller-coaster inside – and a Ferris wheel! Just in case you finish shopping and you suddenly realise that you needed to ride a fairground attraction that week – there they are, handily right in the middle of the mall!

We also headed to ‘Uptown’ in Minneapolis, the Soho of the twin cities, where we ate at Ben’s favourite restaurant ‘Chino Latino’. As the name suggests the menu is an eclectic mix of Asian and Latin food – including Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, Spanish and Italian. It is a funky place, with hip waiters, groovy decor, and a diverse crowd. I liked it off the bat. That it is a favourite for Ben and he got to show it off, made me like it on a different level. It was part of seeing him in his ‘natural environment’. As too was visiting his parents in the home where he grew up. But again, that is a topic for another day.

Sometimes, when you go to visit somewhere and a friend lives there, they tell you that you must come and live there too. My friends who lived in Sydney long before I moved here from Perth would say it to me every visit. Years later the switch flicked in my head, and I made the move. Mostly, when I visit these places, it is about seeing the friend. The added benefit for us both is that the place becomes another character in our story. We interact with it, we draw on it, we see it – both of us – through fresh eyes. In addition, we are given a context for that person that we didn’t have before. When we’re apart, we will always be able to picture them in their ‘natural habitat’.

And that is a truly great thing.

Seattle Wind-up

sandybarker

So, now that I am back home in Sydney, I have a confession about my time in Seattle: I never went up the Space Needle. And we stayed right near it. Less than a 7-minute walk from it. In fact, it was my beacon when I navigated Seattle. I just headed towards it, because I knew I lived pretty much right underneath. But I never went up. A bit of a visitor’s faux pas, I know, but I do tend to get more from less expected adventures.

To be fair, I was told – by everyone – not to bother if it was raining. And, well, it rained most of the time I was there. The sun did come out my last full day in Seattle, and Ben and I were walking right past the Space Needle at the time, but by then I was kind of over it. Next time. Maybe.

Another confession – just a little one. I nearly hated Seattle. Well, I did hate it, for about 30 minutes on my third day there. I was meeting Ben at his office at the end of day. It was a one mile walk, so about 15-20 minutes. We were going out to dinner from there, so I was dressed nicely, and had bothered with my hair and make-up. As it does in Seattle – at least half of the time – it was drizzling when I left the apartment. No problem. I had my new compact umbrella. After I put up the umbrella, it really started to rain. I pushed on, head down, umbrella shielding me from the incoming weather front.

I was about half way to Ben’s office, when I turned a corner and a huge gust of wind lifted my hat from my head and blew it into traffic. My muffled cry of, “No!!!” was drowned out by the wind and the traffic, just as a car ran over my hat. My new, very cute, ‘I got two compliments on this hat today’ hat. Bugger! Just as I had resigned myself that my hat was gone forever, another gust of wind turned my umbrella inside out, then scooped it up, and blew it into traffic. It was hit by a truck. I did not scream, “No!”, rather various swears for which I deserved to have my mouth washed out. Bugger! At this point I had no protection from the wind and rain, and was quickly saturating.

I ducked into the nearest building, where a very nice woman showed me the appropriate level of sympathy about my hat and umbrella that had been murdered by the wind and the traffic, and about how it was summer in Sydney and NOT freezing cold and miserable, and about how I was wet through and was supposed to go for dinner. I knew I sounded like lunatic, but perhaps she just thought, “Oh, she’s an O-ssie.” Americans do tend to find us endearingly quirky.

I called a cab. If I waited for it, it would arrive in 40 minutes. I called Ben. He got a cab in minutes and rescued me. He too showed me the appropriate sympathy for someone having endured such trauma. His understanding – and the understanding of the nice woman in the warm building – calmed me. I started to dry out in the warmth of the cab, and by the time we got to where we were going, the storm had subsided. As we walked towards the restaurant, I decided that my argument with Seattle should be put behind me, and we should make up. I wanted to give this city another chance for me to love it, and in the end I did.

Cool stuff I did do in Seattle:

  • Bill Speidel’s Underground Tour from Pioneer Square. So, the short story is that Seattle was once at sea level – or slightly below – which meant the city was flooded twice a day when the tide came in. The founding father’s put into action a plan to raise the city, a feat they accomplished in only 30 years! Much of the original city still exists – at basement level – under the newer city, and for only $14 guides will take you to the underground world of Seattle. These guides not only possess the keys to the city, they know lots of brilliant stories and historical stuff, so it is an interesting way to spend two hours.

http://www.undergroundtour.com/

  • The Seattle Children’s Theatre. By day I am an unassuming Drama teacher, so discovering the Charlotte Martin Theatre at the Seattle Centre (a collection of arts buildings, museums and performance arenas surrounding the Space Needle) was an unexpected treat. This is where the Seattle Children’s Theatre is based. I emailed them, and one kind lady let me come and meet her. She talked me through the work they do, showed me around the facilities – “Wow!” – and invited me to watch their current production, The Never-ending Story. The organisation produces high-quality children’s theatre with professional adult actors, as well as running a diverse learning program for children ages 3 to 18. Perhaps one day they will be in desperate need for an Aussie girl with vast experience and copious enthusiasm.

http://www.sct.org/index.aspx

  • Experience Music Project. Also at the Seattle Centre is this an incredibly cool music museum. Frank O. Gehry designed the building, which is a futuristic exploration of form and colour. It reminded me of the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles. And with good reason: Gehry designed that too. Inside is a mini concert hall and on the day we visited an 8-piece Jazz band was playing – part of the 2008 Jazz Festival. The strains of their music filled the giant structure and we could hear them playing intermittently throughout our visit.
    The centrepiece of the museum is a 30-foot tall sculpture made entirely of guitars – all types of guitars – forming a giant funnel – like a musical tornado sweeping through the lobby. That is remarkable enough, until you realise that some of the guitars are actually playing. If you put on the headphones at the base of the sculpture, you can hear the music being created by automated guitars suspended above your head. Other exhibits include a rock memorabilia journey through Seattle’s modern music history. I was thrown back to university days, and many a night groaning along with Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain, but the roots of Seattle’s music scene are in underground jazz from early in the 20th century, much of it actually taking place in Seattle’s Underground labyrinth. My experience of Seattle’s history came full circle.

http://www.empsfm.org/index.asp

  • Uptown Espresso. I finally found a place that made brilliant coffee. On my last day in Seattle, Ben and I went in search of pancakes. Rather, we wanted a big cooked breakfast, with no thoughts given to calories or healthy eating. We did a net search, which wasn’t particularly helpful, and I was starting to get grumpy for lack of food. We decided to just head out into our ‘hood, Queen Anne. After some fruitless meandering, we happened upon an old-style diner, called Mecca Cafe. It smelled like bacon and maple syrup, so we made our way in, our eyes adjusting to the darkened room. We took a booth with red vinyl seats, and pondered the extensive menu. Exactly what we were looking for and we had nearly missed it.
    When the waitress came, with a pot of brewed coffee, and I asked about espresso, she directed me across the street, saying we could bring the coffees in to have with our breakfast. She then poured Ben a cup of diner coffee. He could have stood his spoon up in it. I offered to make the dash across the street to Uptown Espresso. I had walked past it a few times on my way back from the grocery store, each time promising myself to give it a shot when I didn’t have hands full of shopping bags. I had never made it back, until this moment. On entry, the warm and inviting smell of smooth coffee hit me like a physical force. I ordered, my latte no foam, and a soy latte for Ben. I watched the barrista make it with care and skill. I was almost in tears. I ran back across the street with both in hand, waiting to share my first taste with Ben. “I think we’re going to love this,” I said as I sat. We both tasted, we both smiled, and Ben said, “Oh yeah.” We drank in silence. The food arrived – waffles, pancakes, eggs, bacon. It was all great. We ate with gusto. Perfect. We then spent the rest of the day in the city, walking, shopping, exploring and burning off breakfast.

http://www.uptownespresso.net/home.html

I also never went to the flagship Starbucks store, but I did walk past it several times, and I did stop to take a picture. Next time. Maybe.

Post-travel Blues

sandybarker

Coming home is one of the best things about travelling. I mean, what can beat coming through the door after a long absence and being greeted enthusiastically by a pet? Well, this was not exactly the homecoming I received from my cat yesterday morning. She was so ticked off about my extended absence that she ignored me completely for most of the day, and when she did speak to me it was only to ask for dinner.

Coming home is also one of the hardest things about travelling.

I write this post from my home in Sydney, and outside the sun is bright and the air is warming up to today’s 26C maximum. It feels wrong. After a month in the cold weather of North America, this bright, hot, sunny day is completely incongruous with what feels normal to me.

These feelings, these ‘post-travel blues’, are more than just the physical adjustments to spending 30 hours in transit, and being 5 hours behind in the day (Seattle is 19 hours behind Sydney, thus is 5 hours ahead throughout the day – don’t spend too much time thinking about it). The physical stuff is jet-lag and while I am suffering that too, P.T.B.s are about acutely feeling the differences – large and small – between where you’ve been and home.

For me, the weather is the most obvious difference between Sydney and Seattle – my last port of call. I got on a plane wearing a coat, long pants and knee-high boots, which were all stifling when I landed in Sydney. Easily rectified, however, as after Immigration, baggage claim and then Customs, I was home within 10 minutes of hugging my friend, Lisa, ‘hello’. The boots were off before I got through the door. And within an hour of landing, I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

The real feelings of despondency didn’t hit me until I saw Lisa off, and was walking back down my driveway. It was then that I started to sob, and I didn’t stop for some time after I was back in my apartment. This place, where I keep my stuff, and where I sleep more often than not, and where my cat lives, felt – at once – familiar and foreign.

I have spent most of the past month in one place, which means I unpacked while in Seattle. I had drawers for my clothes, and the suitcases were put away. I learned the neighbourhood, our little corner of Seattle, Queen Anne. I knew shortcuts, places of business and used the monorail to get about. I knew the aisles of the local supermarkets, and I even knew people, whose faces I saw everyday, enough to say ‘hello’. The corporate apartment where Ben and I were staying (he is still there and will be for the next month), was ‘home’. I had a mere two suitcases full of stuff, and that was enough. Besides clothes, I had my laptop, a book I subsequently finished and left on a plane, and my journals.

Back in Sydney, I have already filled half a dozen shopping bags with things and clothes that I do not want or need. Living in another city – even for just three short weeks – has made me realise that I am not attached to most of the things I have accumulated in my 7 years of living in Sydney, even things I so desperately wanted at the time. This realisation is one of my great gifts from this past bout of travelling: stuff is just stuff after all.

Now, I am not going to take a vow of poverty and rid myself of everything. I have not had such a grand epiphany as that. I am just reminding myself of something that I have known for some time: I am ‘at home’ most when the feelings about that place reflect what is truest to me at the time. This is not a new concept, just that ‘home is where the heart is’.

My travels over the past years have been a combination of tours, trips, visits and adventures. I did not feel ‘at home’ in Bali, but did in Greece, like I had deep roots there. I have felt ‘at home’ in Vancouver, a truly favourite city, and L.A., where I have long-time friends. I have even felt at home while swinging in the hammock of my rainforest hut in Peru. It is not the place, but what is in my heart and mind while I am there that brings me to this inner peace.

I fell a little in love with Seattle, and now I hurt because I am not there. It is a beautiful city with diverse people, a multitude of terrific restaurants, many artistic pursuits, and yes, I even got used to the weather. My last day out and about I wore only a denim jacket for warmth, which would be unlikely if it was 6C in Sydney. And of course, more than anything else, Ben is still in Seattle, which makes being home in Sydney bitter-sweet.

So, to cope with these post-travel blues, I will head to the gym, see my Sydney friends, and go to favourite cafes for coffee(!). I will celebrate Australia Day this Saturday, and then psych myself into going back to work next Tuesday. I will likely fall back in love with Sydney soon enough, remembering why I chose to live here. In the meantime, the cat is now cuddling with me on the couch – how quickly she forgives – and I am looking ahead to future travels. I head to the south coast of Western Australia in February to see my family and celebrate my dad’s 60th. It is a truly spectacular part of the world, one which I have yet to see in warm weather. Beyond that I am not sure, but I do know that my April holidays cannot come soon enough. Then I can get back off the beaten track.


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Flying Fish

sandybarker

I am not a food critic by any means, and I will not attempt to become one in this post, but Ben and I have been really impressed with restaurants we have eaten at in Seattle.  And there are so many to choose from.  Ben and I are staying close to downtown, so we are spoiled for choice within walking distance – or at most, a short cab ride away.

Last night we went to Flying Fish in Seattle’s restaurant district, Belltown.  What an extraordinary meal.  We ordered carefully, so that we could share bites, and we chose a local bottle of white on recommendation of the waiter.  We know we like New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs – and there were several on the menu to choose from – but we have wanted to stay true to the region when ordering wine here.  I have mentioned that Washington and Oregon do a ‘good red’, so when our waiter admitted this to us and still recommended the Washington Pinot Gris – “It partners really well with our menu” –  we agreed to try it.

We were not disappointed.  While we ate crusty bread with butter, our wine arrived, and he was right.  It was a terrific bottle of King Estate, which partnered well with the Thai crab cake I had to start, and the crispy calamari Ben ordered.  We both ‘ummmed’ as we tucked in.  We swapped bites a few times, and admitted ‘yes, you chose well too’, but ultimately we were happiest with our own selections, and we savoured them.  The portions were not skimpy, but we took our time. 

Before we knew it, and before I had a chance to find the bathroom, our mains were sitting before us.  Ben had the seared tuna and I had the mahi mahi.  I looked over at his plate with menu envy.  I took a bite of the mahi mahi and it was a little oily, and not quite what I expected.  I saw Ben’s obvious enjoyment, and put my cutlery down.  “Not good?” he asked patiently.  I have sent stuff back before, and I don’t really like being that person.  “It is okay.  I think I just ordered badly.”  Within seconds our waiter, Jeff, was by my side.  “Are you not enjoying that?”  I looked up at him, “It is just a lot heavier than I thought.  I think I just ordered poorly.”  He said he would be back in a second and he returned with the menu. 

We read it together, and yes, the fish was served with an apple butter sauce.  I guess I just thought it would be more apple than butter.  He did not hesitate and asked me to select something else.  I looked over at the tuna, and Ben offered me a bite.  It was delicious.  “I’d like the tuna please?” I asked, humbly.  He whisked the menu away with a genuine smile and went to get my tuna.  Ben kindly suggested I find the bathroom; he would wait for me to get my main, and then we could finish together.  When I got back to the table, the tuna was placed before me (it is seared for a micro-second).  Magic.  A little glitch of my own doing smoothed over within minutes, and we were off on our food Odyssey once again. 

If the wine had proved a good match for the starters, it was an even better pairing for the salty crusted tuna and risotto cake with Asian-style sauce and bok choy.  We ate slowly.  Mostly to savour the exceptional combination of flavours, but also to pace ourselves.  The portions were generous, and we wanted to finish every bite, because the food was so damned good!

We both cleaned our plates, again.

The bottle of wine was coming to an end, and Jeff poured the last glasses as he appeared with the dessert menu.  “See?” I said, looking up at him, “You look like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but you are in fact the devil.”  He laughed, and recommended his favourite dessert, the chocolate grappa brownie.  Our eyes flew to the menu.  There it was, “Warm Grappa Brownie, vanilla ice cream, milk and bittersweet chocolate sauces”.  Oh my.  We chose that and the cheesecake, because we both love a good cheesecake.  Jeff returned to take our order, “We’ll have the brownie and the cheesecake – we’re just going to put them both in the middle of the table and fight it out.” 

Ben and I have been fortunate enough to have had some extraordinary meals in vast corners of the world, including Hawaii, Greece, and New Zealand, but I have to say, and I know he agrees, more often than not the desserts just do not complete the meal as they should.  We will have brilliant starters and mains, even great house-made bread, paired with terrific regional wines, but then dessert comes and it is an anti-climax.  We did NOT have this experience last night. 

The desserts arrived just as we were finishing our wine, and they looked good.  Both of us took pause to appreciate how pretty they were.  “I don’t think we’re supposed to eat them.  I think we should just look at them,” offered Ben.  I agreed, asking if he had his camera so he could take a picture of me with dessert.  He didn’t, so we turned our attention back to the table, and we got up the nerve to break the brownie.  We approached with care from both sides and dipped into the flourless brownie, soaking up some sauce and nicking the scoop of ice cream on the way to our mouths.  The ‘mmmm’s that followed were involuntary.  It was so unbelievably good.  And it was served with a chocolate/vanilla shortbread cookie, which added a whole other dimension of crunchy buttery goodness.  Praise all that is good!

We looked over at the poor cousin, cheesecake, and wondered how it could possibly compare.  But it did.  It was created with a ginger biscuit crust, served with poached pears, and throughout the filling was a cacophony of spices.  “It tastes like Christmas,” said Ben.  I just nodded and ‘mmm’ed in agreement; I had momentarily lost my ability to speak, but he nailed it with that description.  Both desserts were fantastic and we happily alternated back and forth between the two, commenting on how, at last, we’d shared a brilliant meal, complete with a brilliant dessert. 

The check came as we sat in blissful silence with two more empty plates before us.  Ben compared the desserts with his favourites ever, at Chino Latino in Minnesota, and at the Lindt Cafe in Sydney.  These two desserts were at least on par.  I mentioned that the brownie was remarkably similar to a molten chocolate pot I make back in Sydney when I have people for dinner.  “You can make something like that?” he asked incredulously.  “Um, yeah, I can,” and I promised to make it for him as soon as I am back in my own kitchen – and he is there to eat it.  I was inspired by presentation and accompaniments at Flying Fish, and it was outstandingly good, but, yes, I can make a fine dessert.

Flying Fish is the brain child of Christine Keff, who was inspired by a trip to Thailand where the menus at beach-side restaurants are simple, changeable and reflect only what is fresh that day.  Her philosophy translates in Seattle to a high-end restaurant where the complex menu changes daily to reflect the fish and produce that is fresh that day.  In fact, in researching this blog, the menu has already changed since last night – you could still get the brownie today, but even the desserts are changeable, as the cheesecake is missing.  The mahi mahi is still there, but no longer served with an apple butter sauce.  Did I do that?  Doubtful, but a timely change on the menu. 

To create a new menu daily based on what is fresh and available, is not an innovative concept for restaurants.  It is just that Flying Fish does it so well, and that the menu is highly creative, diverse and extensive.  So, next time you’re in Seattle, check it out.  Or, live it vicariously at the following site: http://flyingfishrestaurant.com/.

Bon appetit!

Seattle Surprises

sandybarker

Seattle Surprises

In Seattle, the seagulls are freakishly huge, the homeless call me ‘Ma’am’, and the sunsets are incredible. 

I have taken to buying something extra when I go to Safeway, which is the neighbourhood grocery store.  There is always a homeless man standing outside, asking for change – and it is never the same one.  I have grown tired of avoiding their eyes, because, quite honestly, I don’t like ignoring a human being who has spoken directly to me, but I do not want to give money to every homeless person I see either.  In Seattle, it is an unfortunate thing to say, they are everywhere I go.  More so than any other city I have spent time in, and they are unfailingly polite, “Excuse me, Ma’am, could I please have some change for some chowder.  I love chowder.”  Today I met this man’s gaze and said, “I have bananas I can give you.”  He smiled, “I love bananas too.  Thank you,” he said as he tucked them into his coat.   

I had bought the bananas with this interaction in mind.  There was no homeless man standing outside Safeway when I went in, but as I had figured, he was there when I came out.  I just didn’t want to be empty handed.  I will have to go back to the store tomorrow for bananas, but they don’t mean the difference to me between eating tonight and not.  And I am mindful that the cold, although quite a bit colder here than I am used to in Sydney, disappears when I walk through the doors of our centrally heated apartment.  I just feel particularly fortunate here, and like I can do a little thing for someone.  I had been warned about the number of homeless here by a friend who recalled it as a stand out feature of the city.  I just forgot about it, until I arrived and was confronted with it daily.  What am I supposed to do?  The etiquette escapes me, as I do not encounter the homeless on a daily basis back home. 

Fortunately, Seattle has much more to offer than the sad faces of cold and hungry men and women, although, it is not outstanding coffee, but I have already covered that. 

The seagulls here freak me out a bit.  They are huge, and strangely compelling in their hugeness.  I naively asked a local, “What type of birds are these?”  She smiled at me rather oddly, and simply said, “Seagulls.”  Okay, so when I say that they are huge, I mean it; the wing span of some is over a metre.  I think that qualifies as ‘huge’.  If one of these gulls was diving for my chips as I sat on the beach, I would recoil in horror, go indoors, abandoning said chips without a second thought. 

We were quite mesmerised by these Uber-gulls in flight the other day.  Ben (my boyfriend who is currently working in Seattle while I am a lady of leisure) and I hopped a ferry out to Bainbridge Island last Sunday.  It was one of those rare winter’s days when the sky is brilliant blue and although the air is crisp with cold, you still want to get out in it.  So we did.  The ferry ride revealed much about Puget Sound on which Seattle is situated.  With great appreciation we got our first glimpses of the Olympic Mountain Range, which lies west of Seattle.  It is beautiful.  I could use more clever superlatives, but it is a rocky, snow-capped mountain range, and when seen across the water, ‘beautiful’ is the perfect description.   

To the south is Mount Rainier, which on Sunday was not quite clear, but silhouetted against the milky blue of the southerly sky.  It stands alone, about 70 miles from Seattle, and is a northwest Mecca for climbers.  Once out on the sound, we looked back at Seattle and saw what is not wholly evident from being in Seattle looking out at the sound; it really is a spectacular-looking city.   
Seattle City Skyline

The skyline reflects the diversity of a multi-cultural city built on the back of rough, 150-year old industries, like logging and mining.  The architecture is eclectic, with Art Deco-style buildings sitting beside strikingly modern circular and angled buildings.  The restored dockside buildings are another contrast, fringing the city with colour and bustle.  With the Cascade Mountain Range in the background, and the still waters of the sound (the deepest natural harbour in the world), Seattle is simply, a stunning city. 

Our attention was called skywards as we watched the giant seagulls soaring above the ferry, effortlessly, and keeping pace as though they were tethered to it.  They flew in a formation more reminiscent of Top Gun fighter pilots than geese flying south.  And once in a while, one would peel away from the formation, gliding past us, as though a surfer catching a great wave.  A gentle flap or two of the wings and the same gull would be over our heads again at the front of the ferry.  This whole dance was mesmerising, and we realised we were watching the sky for a good portion of the trip.  I took some video footage that barely captures how ‘cool’ they looked.  And that is the best way to describe them – just super cool. 

Bainbridge Island is a pretty spot.  It is the closest of many islands that populate the sound.  And I got the sense that it is populated by people who know full well that they live somewhere special.  Lots of beautiful wooden homes out on the point looking out over Puget Sound back to Seattle.  They are a 25 minute commute to downtown Seattle, yet they live in relative tranquillity and amongst the pine trees.  If the town seemed lovely, but just a tad ‘smug’, well then I supposed there is good reason.   
Bainbridge Island back to Seattle

We wandered up from the ferry, a little adventure really, because we knew nothing about the island beyond how to get there.  Within two minutes we came across a wine store.  It came to our attention because of the sign that said ‘wine tasting’ and ‘open’, which registered with our great love of wine, and our even greater love of tasting new wines from an unknown region – for free.   We were the only ones in there when we entered, immediately we were engaged in an interesting conversation with a guy in his mid-thirties, who admittedly got into the wine business because of ‘alcohol’.  He and his father had been consuming it in great quantities when dad mentioned that the wine store down the road was for sale, and they should buy it.  And so they did.   

He was knowledgeable, if not a little arrogant, but perhaps that was the whole ‘I live on this pretty island’ thing.  He talked to us about wines in the immediate regions – Washington and Oregon.  I was fairly naïve about how good these wines were before I came here and tried them first-hand, but have been impressed with many, particularly the reds.  I have also enjoyed the fact that, like Australians, these north-westerners, really know and love their wines.  Even the corner stores here have a decent selection, and there is a large gourmet grocery store a few blocks from here (the apartment) that has a huge and varied collection.  We browsed there the other day for a long while and left with three bottles.  Now we just have to drink it – and the bottle of red that we bought from the unusual man in the wine store. 

The rest of the day on Bainbridge unfolded pleasantly.  The wine man sent us to Café Nola for lunch, which was a popular pick.  We waited about 10 minutes for a table, but arrived at the right time, because a dozen people followed us in and sat watching us eat, willing us to finish quickly.  While we waited for our food, we watched the servings leave the kitchen and make their way to other tables: huge!!  I was glad we had ordered fairly light, although the pancakes and bacon looked amazing.  I am a little in love with American pancakes, and even more so, their waffles.  NO OTHER COUNTRY IN THE WORLD DOES PANCAKES AND WAFFLES LIKE THE AMERICANS.  There, how is that for a bold statement?  It is true though, although that day we had salmon sandwiches.  I have consumed my body weight in salmon here.  It is so fresh and affordable, compared to back home.  

We strolled back down the main street via those little shops where you look but rarely buy – ‘lots of shiny things’ says Ben.  Our last stop was the wine shop where we picked up the bottle Ben had eyed earlier and then we were back on the ferry, a little tired from our big day out.  The cab ride to the apartment from the ferry revealed what I had guessed: the sun setting beyond Seattle on a sunny day is absolutely heart-stopping.  It falls behind the Olympic Mountains, which stand resolute in a grey silhouette while the tendrils of red and orange mingle with wispy clouds.  Nice.   

So, how much good food, good wine, breath-taking views and good company can two people take?  Not much, because at the end of our mini-adventure we were pretty much shattered, and had a quiet Sunday night in with a simple salad, oh and a bottle of wine.       

Seattle is the Home of Starbucks

sandybarker

I am naïve. No, really, I am. Until I was on my way to Seattle, where I am for the most of January 2008, I did not know that Starbucks was born here. I have subsequently walked past the flagship store – twice – and it looks very nice, but today I actually went into the Starbucks closest to where I am staying. And in Seattle, that is close, because you cannot swing a dead squirrel in Seattle without hitting a Starbucks.

Before I go any further, I must clarify two things: one is that I am a coffee snob. I like my coffee made by a qualified person – a barrista – with freshly ground, well-selected beans that are hand tamped, and brewed through a machine that is cleaned frequently to avoid that burnt taste. I like my milk to be heated to the perfect temperature, not overly frothy, not scorched, and not lukewarm. I am the Goldilocks of coffee lovers. I am painfully fussy and have returned more coffees than I have had hot dinners. Okay, an exaggeration, but only slightly. I have some favourite places in Sydney where I will drive out of my way to drink the coffee, and they take care. As a result, their coffees are hot, creamy and smooth. They look like bowls of liquid caramel, which is why ‘cappuccino’ is a colour; coffee should not look like grey dishwater.

The second thing I must clarify is a popular misconception about North Americans. Americans do like Starbucks. Well, many of them do, but on the whole Americans are not as obsessed as their northern cousins. Canadians LOVE Starbucks, like it is a form of communion, or something. In Seattle there are Starbucks stores dotted all over the city, but they are in competition with Seattle’s Best Coffee (I have yet to see if they are right, but I am beginning to think that is a weak mantle to wear), Tully’s and the Cherry Street Coffee House chains. In Calgary and Vancouver there is literally a Starbucks on every corner; every third person walking down the street carries a green cardboard cup.

Back in Seattle, today, I approached my local Starbucks with trepidation, because let’s face it, I know their coffee is not good. BUT, I was 20 minutes early for an appointment, so I decided to give them a chance to prove me wrong. I waited in line for approximately 8 seconds, and my order was taken by not one, but two employees behind the counter. A good start to the whole experience.  Now, I have been ordering coffees in North America long enough to know that a ‘flat white’, which is what I order at home, does not translate, so instead I asked for a small skim latte, no foam. No problem, I am understood and I pay the US$2.78. I do not have to wait long for my coffee, as the line formed behind me after I came in.

I am given a rather large cup, lid on, and when I take the lid off to add my sugar I am staring at anaemic froth. Confusion must have crossed my face, because the woman who made the coffee asks me if it okay. “I just get a little confused ordering coffee here,” I say with my best Aussie accent, “Is this a small?” She says it is a ‘tall’ – which is the smallest coffee on the menu board, but there is a smaller cup available. She is kind when she tells me to order a ‘short’ latte in future. Oh, how silly of me.  I wasn’t misheard, a ‘small’ is a ‘tall’. I look at the foam, “And if I don’t want any foam on my latte?” I am not being a smart ass, but there is an inch of foam staring at me. She is even nicer when she remakes the whole thing into a ‘short’ cup, but to be refunded the 33c difference between the coffee I ordered and the first coffee they made, required a manager and my signature.

At last my skim flat white – a Starbucks short skinny latte, no foam – is ready. I take the lid off, add my sugar, and taste. It is so weak, and the coffee flavour so bitter I add more sugar and sprinkle some chocolate on it. I stir it again, and take another sip. Lukewarm, and grey. Nope, can’t do it. I should have just thrown my two dollars in the bin, because that is where the coffee ends up after three sips. I truly wonder how they can mess it up – how can the coffee be burnt first thing in the morning? Surely they clean the machines at least once at the end of the day?

I peeked behind the counter to watch them make the coffee; it is all automated. They do not grind the beans as they use them, they do not tamp the grinds they need for each coffee, the system is automated. A machine makes the coffee; there is no other human input beyond the pressing of a button. And having tasted the result of one shot in the smallest cup they offer, the machine must be set to ‘weak’.  I realised it is no wonder that so many people add a flavouring to their Starbucks coffee.  It is so it tastes like something worth consuming.  It is a shame, really, because there must be staff behind that counter who love coffee and want to make something great.

This was not my first Starbucks coffee; I have had it before, several times. And each time I hope to be pleasantly surprised; today was no exception. I just wasn’t, and life is too short to drink bad coffee. It is too short for other things too, like finishing boring books, but that’s a whole other discussion. I still plan to go to the flagship store at the Pike Place Markets. I am curious now, to see if they have barristas or automation.

One last thing: I had coffee at a Cherry Street Coffee House the other day – on Cherry Street, so perhaps the flagship store of that chain – and it was good. I will go back before I leave the city.

Okay, and just one more last thing: Caffe Artigiano is a small chain of coffee houses in Vancouver, and their coffee is outstanding. They can actually claim to have the best baristas in Canada from 2003-2006 (Canadian Barista Championship) AND they can make a flat white to cry for (although it is called a ‘latte, no foam’). I had one 6 days ago and the sweet, smooth memory lives on.