Author Archives: Mary

Are There Others in the World? — Split, Croatia

Leave a reply

The write ups of Diocletian’s Palace on travel forums reflect the contradiction of a main tourist attraction that both doesn’t exist and is always open. After looking up the Palace on online maps and searching for opening hours and entry fees, we figured out that Split’s main attraction is…Split. There is no actual palace.

The Palace is instead a set of ruins from 305 AD that daily life has taken over. Now filled with hotels, shops, restaurants and a fish market or two, the Old Town of Split is the Palace, walled in with three main gates for access: Golden, Silver and Iron, all of which are made of stone. Well, the arches are stone, presumably the original gates were made of namesake materials. The Golden gate is presided over by the enormous statue of Grgur Ninski, a medieval bishop who brought Catholic masses to the masses by translating them from Latin to Croatian. He looks like a giant wizard, which I suppose is fitting enough. The fourth wall of the grounds doesn’t have a gate as such as Diocletian wanted swim up (boat up) access so built his palace, really his retirement home, right on the water. Reclaimed land on that side has become the modern day Riva promenade.

Among the warren of streets, there is a central square with cathedral, bell tower and men dressed up as centurions in a classier, European version of Times Square superheroes. Walking away from that square we turned down a side street and passed a cafe. I heard my name just as a friend from Vancouver walked up beside me. We’d recently realized we’d be in Croatia at the same time but expected it to be a few days away in a different city. So now I can take credit for introducing her to Froggyland.

Type “off the beaten path” along with any city into Google and do whatever comes up — in Split it was Froggyland. A tragedy that photos were prohibited, words can’t do it justice, but you can see some pictures on their site, froggyland.net. A hundred years ago, a Hungarian taxidermist caught 507 frogs in his local swamp, and over 10 years stuffed and made little dioramas of them in human situations: frogs playing poker; frogs on parallel bars; frog musicians playing songs for drunk frog brothers; and with greatest irony, frogs doing the high jump. 507 frogs. 507. It’s bizarre (frogs shackled and tortured in a frog inquisition) and amusing (a frog classroom with frog students whacking each other over the head with rulers, and bored frogs with their heads in their flippers).

The Hungarian was a taxidermy legend. There are no seams so he deboned, stuffed and wired them internally though their mouths, without cutting them open. Modern taxidermists are agog. The best part was when the attendant introduced the exhibit with great pride, “This is the largest collection in the world!” My sister paused and asked gently, “Are there, uh, others in the world?”

Hvar You Doing? — Hvar Island, Croatia

Leave a reply

When people first get to Split they immediately book a boat to an island. Or so it seems, judging by the excursion kiosks stretching along the Riva into the horizon. Not a reflection on Split, I hoped.

Hvar (pronounced fast like “HowAre you doing?) was our choice for an island hop. It won out based on ferry schedules despite its reputation as a party island.

There should be more synonyms for narrow, crooked, picturesque, cobblestone streets. Hvar added in hills, more churches and multiple monasteries. And met what must be a federally mandated ratio of restaurants and gelato places to Hawaiian shirt-loving tourists.

Being a scientific family, we marched to the tourist info office for a list of sights, which I proceeded to check off with a pen once we had wrestled the map from the attendant. The tourist office was a small room a sole person standing behind a desk. No brochures, only a pad of those placemat mats. The attendant seemed annoyed that we were there and exasperated that we asked any questions at all. Sightseeing seemed to be for show, in any case, as only one of the eight attractions we came across was open to the public. We peered faithfully into the windows of locked churches and monasteries; glanced up at the fortress a Grouse Grind away; and pondered the bizarre coupling of the theatre/armoury before moving on. It was more of an excuse to wander the streets eating ice cream which was fine by me.

Very meta, we caught a water taxi from Hvar Island to another island for a day trip within a day trip. We by-passed the nude beach in our quest for a sandy one. Croatians cleverly make use of any terrain for a beach: cement jetties, sea walls, rocky outcrops where they precariously perch plastic loungers, cliff tops and small strips of sand just big enough for a half a dozen people to lie side by side like sardines. We chose sardine beach but perched ourselves on nearby rocks instead. The cove was ringed by stone retaining walls and trees and filled with turquoise water that sparked when the sun shone on it. Cold, though. It took a friendly Italian tourist hooking my arm to haul me out bodily, likely tired of watching me mince my way around the sharp rocks in my bid to come out. It wasn’t a less painful way to emerge, just quicker.

We finished the day eating local Croatian cuisine (i.e. Italian, more on that later) and hopped back on the ferry to Split back home. Just as the party people arrived.

More is More is More — Zadar, Croatia

Leave a reply

Despite only coming to Croatia for 10 days, we have six towns on the agenda. The less-is-more philosophy is hard to follow when traveling.

The Old Town of Zadar is walled in to keep out marauders of old and cars of new. Pedestrian-only streets of cobblestone are worn to shiny so that they look wet in the evening light. The largest street, Kalelarga, means literally “large street.” It is lined with clothing shops and outdoor restaurants. The parallel streets on either side have the cheaper tourist shops and kiosks.

Walking around the crooked side streets, we stumbled onto cozy restaurants with outside seating, raised patios and courtyards. And tourist prices. But while the servers are few and generally harried, they let you linger at the end of the meal to the point where you forget to pay and get up to leave.

Other than walking the streets, there are 14 churches to see in this small area, the oldest of which dates back to the 9th century. We decided to defer entry until the internal light show started at 8 pm, feeling lucky that we’d timed it right based on the poster proclaiming, “Only two days left.” Turns out 9th century architecture can charitably be described as smooth (simple, bare, unadorned, minimalist, upright) and the light show was similarly unprepossessing, consisting of a multitude of office projectors powered by snaking cords, projecting what looked like Celtic designs on the various blank walls. The most interesting part was an unseen pigeon caught in a projector’s beam and magnified to horror-like proportions.

But what Zadar is known for is the sea organ. Made up of slits in the cement sea wall and strategically placed blow holes, the waves roll in to produce a pan pipe-like music combined with whale sounds that rises dramatically when a boat’s wake sends the sea crashing against the wall.

The 30+ degree heat mocked my assertion that I wasn’t interested in swimming or beaches and had me and my sister jumping into the Adriatic to cool off. Very salty. And almost as buoyant as the Dead Sea, so I was able to float vertically, standing up, without having to tread water, much.

To cap off the moment, we pulled ourselves back out of the water to see the sunset perform a crazy sun salutation light show across what looked like an electrical grid sunk into the ground. The rays heat up metal veins that activate mini lights of blue, green, purple, red, making them dance across the large circle. With the sea organ quiet at first, then loud and insistent as the waves roll in, church bells pealing and the grid’s lights set off by the wonder of physics, Zadar more than surpasses the often lukewarm write-ups as not being a picture-postcard town. And made me eager for the rest of Croatia. More is more is more.

Ne Koala — Zagreb, Croatia

Leave a reply

The travel writing book I’m reading begs me to avoid the “I woke up at X, then ate breakfast at Y before having lunch at Z” syndrome. One technique, the author offers, is to write your day in five sentences. So here is my 5-part attempt, although I’m liberating myself from the actual sentence count.

1. Despite having six devices between us, Mom, my sister and I met in Heathrow Terminal 2 at a predetermined location, old school. Some textual challenges getting the messages to come out on the right device with the right app but we’ve figured it out now. This is the family portion of the trip although we are a member short. It’s a milestone birthday for Mom and we’ve assured her that Croatia will make her the coolest traveler among her set. Although I mentioned this being a seniors tour in a previous post, I can’t keep it up in good conscience since Mom can outlast me in stamina and probably outrun me in a foot race. And my sister? No contest. I’m just hoping she doesn’t make us go camping or sea kayaking or rock climbing or spelunking. Now that I reread this, I don’t think she is going to have much fun.

2. Airline apologies have gotten cagier. The plane took off 90 mins late and the pilot’s apology was “We are sorry for the delay. It was either due to the late arrival of the aircraft or actions of the Heathrow air traffic control.” Is that how it works now? Multiple choice apologies? If so, there should be a formula for the options: a) a white lie that makes you sound blameless; b) throw the nearest person under the bus; c) the truth, “completely my fault and here’s why.”

3. I’m looking forward to the food in Croatia based on the airplane snack. Instead of a small bag of dry pretzels, we received a tidy box with cheese and olives in oil, although that just made the cheese taste like olives, and bagel-crisp-like crackers that listed the second ingredient as white wine. Just as champagne brings out the flavour of strawberries or the other way around, free airline white wine brings out the flavour of white wine crackers. Especially when the flight attendant empties the bottle into your glass, because really, there isn’t enough for the person beside you.

4. I slacked on homework to learn even the basics of please and thank you in Croatian. I was reminded of that as we boarded the plane and paused by the flight attendant greeter while waiting for the line to move. My sister pointed to a sign by the door in Croatian with lots of accents and u’s. I said, insightfully,”Oh, wow!” The flight attendant, surprised, “Can you read that in Croatian?” I put on my best, most resolute voice and said, “It says the door must be closed before the plane can take off.” The flight attendant was taken aback but I’ll have a harder time when signs don’t have the English translation right there below the Croatian.

5. As a corollary to #4, I went to the back room of the Zagreb hotel to pay the bill and was chatting with the manager/owner (desk clerk?). He taught me yes (da), no (ne), please (molin) and thanks (sounds like koala with a bit of throat clearing). I asked his name and was practicing different phrases. Probably too enthusiastically as he asked how old I was and when I told him, he said regretfully, “You’re too old for me.” I guess I should dial back chatting up the hotel staff, or practice the phrase, “Ne, koala.”

Come On! Just Go Already! — London, England

Leave a reply

An elderly couple tripped on my heels as Zone 1 boarding was called. When I looked back, they smiled and said, “We’re just following the people who look the richest.” We all automatically glanced down at my faded t-shirt, sweats and scruffy Toms, the closest legitimate shoe to a slipper. “Well, you look like you know where you are going,” they amended. In my defence, I paid extra to get a seat that turns into a bed. Wearing the closest thing I could find to pyjamas just makes sense.

I was boarding business class on a flight to Heathrow, thanks to an upgrade offer I couldn’t refuse and an enormous talent for rationalization, i.e. will I regret paying the extra money in two years. My fellow passengers are on a seniors tour. I’m sort of starting one myself: the coming leg is present from my sister and me for my mother’s 80th birthday. But first, a quick overnight in London to meet up with friends, Brits I worked with in Brazil the summer of 2012. I’m hoping to re-enact our Brazilian cabs rides, singing along to Call Me Maybe on the radio every morning on the ride into work, but really it is just dinner.

London has changed a bit since I was last here. The baggage carousel now has sensors on the chutes so luggage waits patiently for a break in conveyor belt traffic before making a dash for it. Even baggage forms neat queues in England now. Timid bags wait overlong on the edge of the feeder lane despite large spaces on the belt. I found myself rooting for those. And like an anxious parent, hoped my bag would be well-behaved and not fling itself mindlessly on top of another bag, outing itself as embarrassingly North American. Of course, after 30 min, came the carousel rage, “Come on, bag! Just go already!”

But suitcase in hand, one broken Tube, an express train and two underground lines later, I made my way to the overpriced hotel near Kings Cross which I would charitably describe as stable-like. I’m in the equivalent of the servants’ quarters, listed euphemistically as a triple room. I’ll concede that three people could lie down side by side in the room but that is about it.

My reunion dinner was a mix of great food, liberal libations, fond reminiscing and interesting updates: marriage, engagements, new jobs, and someone bought a farm (in a good way, with sheep and chickens). Fun and fascinating and a reminder of how connecting with people melts the years away.

And best of all, my friends redefined my strategy of rationalization. Instead of using a 2 yr measure of regret, they employ the Deathbed Challenge. By that rule, I can see a lot more perks in my future. I don’t intend to regret.

Tomorrow starts the Croatia portion with family before meeting up with a friend for Turkey, Budapest and Krakow. When I’m on my deathbed, will I second-guess breaking my trip to meet up with my London friends for one night only? Not a chance. Come on! Just go already!

Keep Calm and Carry On

2 Replies

I was tempting fate when I signed myself and a friend up with Airbnb to stay at a “luxury chic loft in the West Village”on a recent trip to New York for Canadian Thanksgiving.

I was aiming for “excess, extravagance, magnificence,” but got, etymologically speaking, the true origin of the word luxury –“dislocated,” “wrestle,” and “strain”. The root the word “reluctance” comes from.

1. Two days before leaving, I get an email from the Airbnb host saying our apartment was cancelled. Me: “??!??” Him: “No, we *tried* to cancel but Airbnb wouldn’t let us. I just wanted you to know.” (I repeat, ?!!?!)

2. The next day he says he’s moved us to a different apartment and we’ll have to move again for the last night. Sigh.

3. On the day of departure, my flight from Toronto to NY is cancelled. Long line but rebooked. The flight is then late.

4. I get pulled aside to a back room when going through Nexus in Toronto. They yell at me for using my phone while I’m waiting (to text the Airbnb host that I’m going to be late). I hastily put it away and apologize. (Signs everywhere not to use phones that I would have seen had I not been using my phone.)

5. I pull out my doughnut to feel better. They yell at me again. I look up with maple dip crumbs on my chin. “This is your second warning! No cell phones! NO EATING! THIS. IS. NOT. A. RESTAURANT!!” (No signs this time.) I swallow both the bite of doughnut and the hot defensive words bubbling up on my lips.

6. I get called to an inquisition desk halfway down the long room. Another guy yells at me for answering 3 times that I haven’t checked bags.. even though I answered correctly all 3 times that I haven’t, in fact, checked any bags.

7. The no-food-no-phone guy comes to the back specifically to yell at me for not declaring my doughnut. The did-you-check-bags-or-not guy berates me at the same time for not having done my fingerprints correctly even though the system OK’d them.

8. I finally slink out, subdued, only to find a dead end when trying to get to my gate, F38.

9. Frustrated, I walk all the way back along the extra-long corridor and finally tackle an airport woman. Her: “Uh, your gate is F83 not F38”.

10. I sit at my gate defiantly eating the rest of my doughnut while typing on my phone!

But then I get to NY and I’ve got a fresh start. I ignore the fact that the second bed in the apartment is an air mattress, and instead luxuriate in the fact that it nests around me like a hammock as it slowly loses air over the weekend. If I lean too much to the right it tips me onto the floor. All that much easier to get up.

NY activities are plentiful and beautifully varied:
— a walk along Highline Park to Chelsea Market
— a stroll past the trendy restaurants, cafés and bakeries in Williamsburg to the Mast Brothers Chocolate Factory
— reading and people-watching in Central Park
— a successful shopping spree at the Woodbury Commons outlets, and
— “Buyer and Cellar”, a laugh-out-loud one-man play off-off-Broadway about Barbra Streisand shopping at a Caesar’s Palace-style boutique mall she has established in her own basement to display her Capitalism-run-amuk belongings. Both hilarious and a surprisingly poignant story about loneliness and connection

But when it comes right down to it, there is no luxury like walking out the door and sampling (uh, gorging on) the weight-increasing food of New York:
— oysters and scallops at Clarkson’s just off Houston
— a feast of frog legs, lobster and duck three ways at David Burke’s Townhouse on the Upper East Side
— brunch at Grey Dog in the Village, a Benny’s Bagels-type atmosphere, with a huge menu
— chicken lollipops and afternoon tea in the 34th floor lounge at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel
— true NY-style thin crust pepperoni and cheese pizza at Joe’s in the Village
— a medium rare cheeseburger and chocolate shake at the Shake Shack just past the Port Authority
— and to crown it off, the sumptuous upscale Mediterranean Ilili in Chelsea. Warm eggplant, thinly sliced cross-wise, roasted in a tamarind glaze to start; fluke carpaccio with thin red jalapeños to follow; and lobster hummus, perfectly poached lobster claws on a bed of oyster mushrooms with the smoothest, although slightly bland, hummus and mini puffed up pita balloons. Ilili is known for its Brussels sprout side dish which based on the reaction of the couple beside me was disturbingly orgasmic. More so as it became clear the couple was actually a youngish (ie my age) father and his 20-year old daughter who said “I’m so happy I’m sharing this experience with you” to each other throughout the meal.

Ultimately I do realize that simply the fact that I can fly to New York for the weekend is luxury in itself. And I appreciate that no matter what happens while you travel, if you follow the advice on the luxury chic West Village apartment’s shower curtain — Keep Calm and Carry On — you’ll thrive. Even when your return flight is cancelled by mistake and you end up sitting in the back of the plane with a broken TV.

No, That’s My Neck

Leave a reply

I’ve never eaten with my eyes more widely open, or my tongue bizarrely protruding from my mouth for that matter. My birthday gift from my sister was dinner out at a restaurant of my choice. I gave her five suggestions, then happened to be watching a rerun of some crime show where the victim was killed in a blind dining restaurant. Metaphorical light bulb! One of those restaurants opened in Vancouver this past fall. Dark Table. Which led, a week later, to my sister’s boyfriend saying, “No, Mary, that’s my neck!”.

You start on the lighted, unheated porch that, in rainy Vancouver when your sister and her boyfriend have gotten stuck in traffic, is a bit chilly. But the porch is sheltered by trees and bushes closing it off from the sidewalk on 4th at Trafalgar, and there are lovely pine benches to sit on. The hostess gives you a menu and drinks list to look over. Once the whole party has arrived, you place your order. You have a choice of wine: a pinot grigio or some red — by the glass or bottle. You can also order a cocktail, juice, tea or coffee. The menu offers 2-course or 3-course prix fixe options. The $39 3-course comes with a surprise appetizer and dessert and your choice of 6 entrées, including a surprise option. We all chose the beef tenderloin with peppercorn sauce, medium rare, passing up the garlic prawns, rosemary and jalapeño ravioli, goat-cheese stuffed chicken or veal schnitzel. Once your order is placed, you wait for your server to come out to the porch to get you. The servers are all blind or visually impaired, which is part of the owner’s motivation for opening this restaurant, as well as the O.Noir restaurants he owns in Montreal and Toronto.

Our server, Violet, is a lovely 20-something-year-old. She speaks calmly and explains everything to us, about how there are no obstacles in the restaurant to navigate, like stairs, planters, narrow turns and how no one will jump out and try to scare us. I wonder to myself if her spiel changes based on the fears of previous diners. Like the instructions with electrical appliances that warn you not to sleep with a curling iron in your hair. Anyway, people jumping out to scare me hadn’t previously been on my mind, but of course now it is. Through the course of the meal I pump her for information and find out she is the only server on tonight and is covering approximately 15 people. She has to remember everyone’s names and where they are placed at each table in order for it all to work. She says she usually manages up to 20 people at a time. She didn’t once make a slip and was a very attentive, if silent on her approach, server. But back to the beginning.

Violet asks us to tell her when we’ve all entered the vestibule from outside. With the door shut behind us, it is pitch black. Completely. My eyes go all bushbaby:

We are taught to move around the restaurant in a chain, with our left hand on the shoulder of the person in front of us. I try to walk small as I can hear people talking at tables around us. When a guy says “Try to keep your legs tucked in” to his date I’m now concerned with tripping over people’s legs. We are brought to a standstill after walking 20 or so steps and told one by one to feel a chair in front of us. It is amazingly disorienting to have no sense of where you are in your physical space. My sister, Lisa, is beside me so I feel around till I touch her shoulder. She is close so we are at a small table. Her boyfriend, Peter, is across from me.

Violet describes the layout of the table and the simple rules. If we need anything at all, we are to yell “Violet!” loudly. We never do. Everything is so well organized, and, I have to admit, set up so that it is very easy for us. The breadbasket is held in front of us in turn and I take my slice of homemade, fresh, crusty French bread, as well as Peter’s. I hope he plans to pass on his wine too, but no luck. The basket is taken away, purportedly as they have a basket shortage but most certainly to avoid a train wreck by having extra items on the table. Drinks are handed to each of us in the air in front of us and once I locate Violet’s hand, I make sure I get a good grip on the glass before she lets go. It is amazing how much better I am at communicating when I’m afraid of a lapful of wine. We test ourselves by toasting and clinking our glasses across the table, and buttering the warm bread. I don’t have enough butter because half of it ends up on my knuckles.

Then comes the meal that I turn into a competition of who can guess the ingredients. Violet puts each plate down on the table in front of us while making a cute beeping sound like a truck backing up to give us a sense of when the plate has landed. I hold my water and wine away from the table during this procedure as instructed. This is the first time I’ve eaten an entire salad in a long time. If you can’t see it, all of a sudden the food is just gone. Maybe that’s the trick to eating healthy. Peter complains that his fork is getting to his mouth empty most of the time. I confess I don’t have that problem as I’m using a mix of my fork and the fingers of my right hand. So much easier to eat blueberries that way. Lisa smartly comments that if I were blind in a room full of sighted people, then using my fingers would probably not be acceptable. Good point. I try to behave with some dignity for the main course but find myself stabbing my vegetables and potatoes with my fork and taking bites off of the fork rather than cutting the food on my plate. I chase the food around looking for the tenderloin. It is supposedly cut into “bite-sized” pieces. Here, the technique is to bring the fork as close to your mouth as you can without rubbing peppercorn sauce into your face, then sticking out your tongue and waving it around until you hit the meat. (That’s what she said.) Pretty sure using my fingers would be more acceptable. In the course of my hunt for the steak, I capture an asparagus spear that is making a run for the plate’s border and has almost made it to freedom. The surprise dessert has chocolate in it which is all that really matters. It is another one that is there one minute and gone the next. After clicking my fork around the plate in a grid search pattern, my fingers roam every inch to ensure I’ve eaten it all. Also the best way to get all the mousse topping. The napkins are unfortunately small.

We decide we have to visit the washroom just to see how that works. Our table is at the farthest end of the restaurant so again we chain up with Violet leading the way. This time we have to weave our way a bit. It feels like we walk for ages but that could be due to the shuffling and me constantly stepping on Peter’s ankles. Once we get into a closed off vestibule, the bathrooms themselves are semi-lit. I’m perversely disappointed by how easy it is. Lisa reminds me that continuing the fully dark theme might present health code issues.

Back to the table and the dinner is over. I crawl under the table to find where I’ve kicked my purse. I stand up and at the ready to join the train to the door. I’m supposed to fall in behind Violet then Peter. Not being clear on how I’ll know they’ve walked by me, I stick out my hand and manage to catch Violet in the eye, the damage somewhat deflected by her glasses. She passes by and I poke Peter in the neck. He reminds me I’m supposed to be aiming for his shoulder. Lisa pays in the semi-lit vestibule and takes a few times to get the PIN right in the dimness. Then outside where the hostess tells us what we’ve eaten.

The whole experience is fun, interesting and enlightening (at least I didn’t go for eye-opening). The flavours come out clearly as do the textures. The conversation was also engaging as I found myself using names more often and judging response from the tone of the voice. I also found myself trying to exert some element of control: I kept a death grip on my water and wine glass and was especially careful to always put my cutlery in the same position. I also compulsively felt for the edges of my placemat and the table. The dining in the dark concept is meant as a learning experience and was originally started by a blind man in Switzerland who would blind-fold his guests so they could experience food with all their senses. I bet they used their fingers too.

Photo of dinner

Photo of dinner