tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452482602004935522024-02-19T06:19:05.922-05:00Tiburón -Shark- ŽralokTiburón -Shark- Žralok:
Writing Cooking TravelingAndrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-19322814192848673342011-01-12T14:02:00.000-05:002011-01-12T14:02:07.614-05:00Las Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián<style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7XGILno7X1AJhxTc6dfB8aZNKcZEq-N-YtoILCeBCJoYoqt6MWtorc2XzxTru3aSILxykzmOSqgeEBgu_dNpJLELHnRyEBM1Eu9L_TbXTij9dvfdqje7Xzj-UD1dcTU_MRUFwFX7knwxK/s1600/6a00e55279ce688833010536ced1d6970c-500wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7XGILno7X1AJhxTc6dfB8aZNKcZEq-N-YtoILCeBCJoYoqt6MWtorc2XzxTru3aSILxykzmOSqgeEBgu_dNpJLELHnRyEBM1Eu9L_TbXTij9dvfdqje7Xzj-UD1dcTU_MRUFwFX7knwxK/s320/6a00e55279ce688833010536ced1d6970c-500wi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from moncheopr.typepad.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span>The action this weekend is in Old San Juan as the annual Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián kick off Thursday and don't let up until Sunday night. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>For some that means <i>artesanos</i> (craftmen) filling up the plazas during the day (and often into the night) with their beautiful crafts while live bands play. Restaurants and bars offering up special menus for lunch, dinner, and late night catering to the all-night party crowd (well, until 2 a.m. thanks to a decree by the highly esteemed <b>cough</b> mayor of San Juan, Jorge Santini, that forces the bars to call it a day around that hour… Yeah, sure) barhopping down narrow, cobblestone streets. Its a weekend where Old San Juan is filled to the brim with drunken revelers, occasionally broken up by percussion bands, theater troupes, and people wearing giant paper mache heads.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>For others, las Fiestas, or simply <a href="http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fiestas_de_la_Calle_San_Sebastian">San Sebastián</a> as this once weeklong religious festival turned four-day party is referred to (I call it the craziness), means kilometric traffic jams to come in and out of the old city, parking miles away near the Capitol building (if you’re lucky enough to find parking that close), and being packed like sardines in massive crowds composed of the aforementioned drunken revelers in narrow, beer drenched streets. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><a name='more'></a>Some people are into that sort of thing, some people are going to be safely working the night shift from the newsroom (thumbs up).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>But my agoraphobia aside, for many this is the ultimate party of the year and the official end of the Christmas season. It’s definitely an experience, specially if you’re just visiting the island and wondering if it’s like this all the time. No, we’re not that cool.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5fDqOxxPoQQoApaVZRAlvfkdcJG4Qi5KyLgr8AKohE5cDRQGTXLeBG0TSf8aCG08Z8yOAAELn5dG-A2di_nEIq4ToRIg6G8sbBVe7t943Ds4Ga-_fNj0NeETWP0021wZRSyeiqdSiDEP/s1600/cabezudos.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5fDqOxxPoQQoApaVZRAlvfkdcJG4Qi5KyLgr8AKohE5cDRQGTXLeBG0TSf8aCG08Z8yOAAELn5dG-A2di_nEIq4ToRIg6G8sbBVe7t943Ds4Ga-_fNj0NeETWP0021wZRSyeiqdSiDEP/s320/cabezudos.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from ferrervideo.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span>The music selection this year is probably San Sebastián's most promising feature, and while they have dedicated the festival to reggaeton artist Tito el Bambino (sigh…), they will also be paying tribute to three great Puerto Rican musicians: Andrés “El Jíbaro” Jiménez, Antonio “El Topo” Cabán Vale, and José Antonio “Tony Mapeye” Rivera, who will be part of the closing concert which also includes Roy Brown, trumpet player Jerry Medina, Chabela Rodríguez as well as cuatro groups, trovadores and a folkloric ballet troupe. In short, on Sunday you can look forward not only to the end of the craziness but also a wide selection of traditional Puerto Rican music being played by some of the best, live, at 3 pm in la Plaza del Quinto Cetenario (where the Totem pole is). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>In Plaza de Armas, there will also be performances by salsa legends Andy Montañez, la Sonora Ponceña and merengue group Grupomania to name a few. There will also be reggaeton but you can find out about that on your own time.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmNjTHBBmBkqcZJHn2O-lKGFp2nS8NmmqMXhWp4_OTzGrRuGvLwvUtiRAM_bWYyIfTENb7vcTPGZc-Mf3lRhsS5T0Ph716fq9hOHw9Ej0gthz-SB3beodLuArbDl_m_MUaK3rFc6uwd-gQ/s1600/843422-Fiestas-de-la-Calle-San-Sebasti-n-2-3-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmNjTHBBmBkqcZJHn2O-lKGFp2nS8NmmqMXhWp4_OTzGrRuGvLwvUtiRAM_bWYyIfTENb7vcTPGZc-Mf3lRhsS5T0Ph716fq9hOHw9Ej0gthz-SB3beodLuArbDl_m_MUaK3rFc6uwd-gQ/s1600/843422-Fiestas-de-la-Calle-San-Sebasti-n-2-3-1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from travelblog.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span>Drinks and food-wise, most of the Happy Hours are concentrated right on la calle San Sebastián (although check out my <a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/niarribaniabajo-858679.html">article</a> for Viaje reviewing some awesome places NOT on San Sebastián) and almost all include discounted Medalla (our local beer), Don Q Cristal rum drinks, Coors Light, and Peroni. Others have Bacardi and Dewars drinks also on the knocked off prices list. All these places will be packed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>Actually, to be clear, all of Old San Juan will be packed so if you're going to brave the crowds plan on having: 1) a full tank of gas, 2) the patience of a zen master, 3) the liver of a blue collar Irishman. For more information about the goings on follow <a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/">our</a> special coverage in the Entertainment section (or Flash!), <a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/elpatrondelasfiestas-861826.html">here’s a preview</a>. </span></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span>**<i>No, I’m not being asked to shamelessly promote the paper I work for, I’m just showing support for my colleagues who will be interviewing, photographing, and taping the craziness in the name of journalism.</i></span></div>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-25271552174183666302010-10-22T13:07:00.000-04:002010-10-22T13:07:27.741-04:00Excuses, excuses<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-JlpQjqoanziNBRBp15fchqBdjVV7S4quSzHfmMN4DDwWFYikw856acTlhdM5cPPQ7H2OWwgOxXaWrTkvXqskSxitFQUMrFxtCGwFboajS-NQh5YZLlkuPyYbbv6PaDB_o_5eiyNZdgq/s1600/Photo1098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-JlpQjqoanziNBRBp15fchqBdjVV7S4quSzHfmMN4DDwWFYikw856acTlhdM5cPPQ7H2OWwgOxXaWrTkvXqskSxitFQUMrFxtCGwFboajS-NQh5YZLlkuPyYbbv6PaDB_o_5eiyNZdgq/s320/Photo1098.jpg" width="240" /></a>I've been traveling, I've been writing for the paper, I've been watching Mad Men...<br />
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Here's is a recap of what I've had published this month.<br />
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<b><a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/musicaenvivo247-790062.html">Música 24/7</a>:</b> Cierran las calles. Empiezan con la famosa 6th Street, la calle de las barras, en Downtown. Poco a poco, durante la semana, el tránsito humano reemplaza el tráfico de carros por casi todo el sur de Austin, Texas. Y se desparrama la música. Baja por South Congress, cruza los puentes y se insinúa por South Lamar, la escuchas aunque no te lo propongas, aunque no estés viendo en el show.<br />
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<b><a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/vibranteeleastenddelondres-798670.html">Vibrante el East End de Londres</a></b>: Salir de la estación Aldgate East del Underground es ingresar al meollo de la acción y el bullicio. Decenas de personas de todas partes del mundo recorren con prisa, esquivando vendedores y promotores, las calles laberínticas del East End de Londres, donde se conectan los barrios de Whitechapel, Brick Lane y Spitalfields.<br />
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<b><a href="http://leitesculinaria.com/54942/writings-learning-to-cook-puerto-rico.html">In One Cook's Hands</a></b>: I grew up on <a href="http://www.daisycooks.com/pages/recipes_detail.cfm?ID=6" target="_blank" title="carne mechada recipe">carne mechada</a> and fried plantains the way most American kids my age were raised on pot roast and mashed potatoes. My brother and I would get home from school and dart through the kitchen past Carmen, the woman who’s cooked and kept house for my grandmother since as far back as I can remember, as she flipped a fork-tender bistec (steak) as it sizzled or hovered over a pot of simmering beans that exhaled the smell of recao and garlic with the steam. Yet it never occurred to me to ask her how to make any of the soul-soothing <a href="http://www.topuertorico.org/cocina/" target="_blank" title="Puerto Rican cooking">comida criolla</a>, or comfort food, she piled high on my plate. Puerto Rico is where I was born, where I grew up, and where I currently reside. But it’s not where I learned to cook.Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-31864990457647219702010-10-22T12:50:00.002-04:002010-10-22T12:54:55.861-04:00Quiz Night at the Dial Arch<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbmK1RCoCBgCnHJ0dA-8sIoG8JZnwtdkcIeStXts9WsYiAEDY0M_BcOAs5g0BRcvcDOIeZe7QCqQwgSC343AD-f8_nuZCYzNCAjUDhUwIGUt1Q7I5w7vGEoO2raVwGbqbqcCwiioWpg-j/s1600/DSC04163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbmK1RCoCBgCnHJ0dA-8sIoG8JZnwtdkcIeStXts9WsYiAEDY0M_BcOAs5g0BRcvcDOIeZe7QCqQwgSC343AD-f8_nuZCYzNCAjUDhUwIGUt1Q7I5w7vGEoO2raVwGbqbqcCwiioWpg-j/s320/DSC04163.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It’s amazing how quickly the brain sorts information, specially when lubricated with a room temperature ale at an English pub in Southeast London. The quizmaster—a thirtyish bartender with a microphone and a list of questions—made the rounds of the booths and tables, repeating the question, “What is the capital of Uruguay?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">My brain, a depository of useless information, ideal for activities such as this, went through the following process: map of South America, Uruguay is not Paraguay, Uruguay is across the river from Argentina, Buenos Aires is across the river from… “Montevideo!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">Five of us at the table, my friends looked up at me. “Are you sure?”<br />
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<a name='more'></a> “Yes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEhMkOpx6jGp2ePP-epVpjmvtIGis2APqs806gnrN9rx0esNsytV6bhVihhtH56OTI4PiEEaYMLuJXCUUizs-JtMeL4Pdjaus7wa4_CEdVjAx8-zNTgOtITFbGygE5QFa6Nkbc4l0qxS_/s1600/DSC04157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEhMkOpx6jGp2ePP-epVpjmvtIGis2APqs806gnrN9rx0esNsytV6bhVihhtH56OTI4PiEEaYMLuJXCUUizs-JtMeL4Pdjaus7wa4_CEdVjAx8-zNTgOtITFbGygE5QFa6Nkbc4l0qxS_/s320/DSC04157.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>We wrote down the answer on our already rather soiled piece of paper, satisfied smiles acknowledging our progress, each question getting closer to our goal tonight: Not be last place.</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was exchanging marathonic facebook messages with my new best friend Andie, the friend of my ex who I was going to be staying with in London, she asked if I minded going to the pub with them on Sunday night for their weekly <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quiz_night">Pub Quiz</a>. I never mind going down to the pub and inquired about this Pub Quiz. A tradition in the UK, usually more widespread among towns and communities, where everyone goes to the pub—usually on a Sunday and even people who don’t drink—pay an entry fee (ours was two pounds each), and get handed a sheet of paper on which to answer a variety of trivia questions, occasionally go to lightning rounds where you can win a free drink, and overall just drink and think. I know, awesome, right? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QRn8SKqQusQVWwJGM53HAs48rmkhVwyMuCWor6aRQAY5oYns4_IWDahmby9zuB-3XGRjKWn0mKVfRTHBgZh1J3dHU0ZtJUNLgnHkDXHLX0LcJKZilggToatEI1qdyRY1FTrUO0BMrxQa/s1600/dialarch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QRn8SKqQusQVWwJGM53HAs48rmkhVwyMuCWor6aRQAY5oYns4_IWDahmby9zuB-3XGRjKWn0mKVfRTHBgZh1J3dHU0ZtJUNLgnHkDXHLX0LcJKZilggToatEI1qdyRY1FTrUO0BMrxQa/s320/dialarch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Having nailed the Montevideo question, Andie and I got up to get the next round. I’d landed that morning at Heathrow and after a roast lunch at a pub in Covent Garden—pubs were something of a theme during my five days in London—we took the <a href="http://www.thamesclippers.com/">Thames Clipper</a> from Sharing Cross down past Greenwich to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Arsenal">Woolwich Arsenal</a>, where Andie and her boyfriend Tom live (and where the football/soccer team Arsenal originated). It’s the London equivalent of Bayridge, a nice area with a lot of diversity and historic buildings—most of them arms factories, the lawns in front of them decorated with old cannons— that have been converted into flats or, as in the case of the <a href="http://www.dialarch.com/">Dial Arch</a> where we found ourselves that night, pubs.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d been given a crash course on what to expect in terms of English beers and ales. First of all, they are not the same thing. To Americans the term beer covers everything from Budweiser (or piss, as its known in Europe) to microbrews. But the English have <a href="http://beeradvocate.com/beer/style">gradients</a>. A beer is generally a lager, the yellow, lighter beer served cold, while an ale is a darker, more complex type of bitter served at room temperature. I asked where Guiness and other dark beers fell within this labeling matrix and we finally just came to the conclusion that Guinness is delicious and left it at that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgda1FrufQSlZovc7AwC100dMyOYrUzh816Vgv1a66eDL27FB-u5xT5ahz5kFs9hIZKL6vQBl_emQur17Qxk1NDkrpBHnoleSSyzsSXNF6xnRjJ5NVmbCY3E9Bbkv1zPcUirM3qLc34pTEY/s1600/DSC04160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgda1FrufQSlZovc7AwC100dMyOYrUzh816Vgv1a66eDL27FB-u5xT5ahz5kFs9hIZKL6vQBl_emQur17Qxk1NDkrpBHnoleSSyzsSXNF6xnRjJ5NVmbCY3E9Bbkv1zPcUirM3qLc34pTEY/s320/DSC04160.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>At the bar I knew that I needed to try some ales but as a former resident of the Czech Republic, and having been starved of decent Czech beer on tap for several years now, I had to order a Pilsner Urquell. One of the best things about the Dial Arch, though, is that they have 2 ounce tasting glasses so I got to sample one of their in-house cask ales and have my beer, too. Day one in England and I’d been doublefisting since lunch. The ale was surprisingly bitter but I think the hardest aspect to overcome is the temperature, because the expectation is that beer should be cold. But this wasn’t beer, it was ale. </div><div class="MsoNormal">We picked up a Pimm’s for Andie, a Guinness for Tom, and couple of other beers for our friends , some crisps (potato chips) and headed back to the table where the question was, “What was the name of the tree where Eve got the apple that tempted Adam?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JmACkNcHYMoo9m3Gl0_OICQhO2cjsU5f25X-aqBQdSKZY6lxGEIITbmSEHFYWRQCUyosnWHHXw2wfLf10a7fbv4gvtVM01iGcH-HCljMYbOxyJJQA_TcZnYD1VhyphenhyphenKq6DWZqyL_lnJess/s1600/Ilovebeer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JmACkNcHYMoo9m3Gl0_OICQhO2cjsU5f25X-aqBQdSKZY6lxGEIITbmSEHFYWRQCUyosnWHHXw2wfLf10a7fbv4gvtVM01iGcH-HCljMYbOxyJJQA_TcZnYD1VhyphenhyphenKq6DWZqyL_lnJess/s320/Ilovebeer.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>In my brain two simultaneous images came up, the Hieronymus Bosch painting of <a href="http://suziehemphill.squarespace.com/storage/Bosch-garden%20of%20earthly%20delights.gif?__SQUARESPACE_CACHEVERSION=1249419396802"><i>The Garden of Earthly Delights</i></a> (not sure why...) and my high school English teacher Ms. Otero, who made us analyze Genesis as a work of literature. Somehow this combo resulted in, “The Tree of Knowledge.” To which I quickly added, “Wait, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">We wrote it down and the round ended. We swapped answer sheets with the table next to us and marked off right and wrong answers as the quizmaster announced them. Every time we realized we’d gotten one wrong we cringed but that’s what the beers were for. </div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end of the night we achieved our goal: the table next to us came in last place (without any tampering from us, mind you) and we came in next to last place. Overall, a very successful evening.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, and in case you were wondering what time it is:</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mpGLHILKzyQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mpGLHILKzyQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-27238197744152257412010-09-17T14:54:00.001-04:002010-09-17T14:55:16.690-04:00Los 3 Cuernos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGb0hLIABSFi2grDBTBtYQS-SFa3Xh1WLR9iJIbmQX3-xQcCZasrw3cSox8N8nLGmrgNf3Y-YnU1GIwsb4n8UAj1PTAX0rFbSo7c0_r5SbMajfac2hjwBl4plP9djc6VGdruUVczcTUkc/s1600/Photo0940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGb0hLIABSFi2grDBTBtYQS-SFa3Xh1WLR9iJIbmQX3-xQcCZasrw3cSox8N8nLGmrgNf3Y-YnU1GIwsb4n8UAj1PTAX0rFbSo7c0_r5SbMajfac2hjwBl4plP9djc6VGdruUVczcTUkc/s320/Photo0940.jpg" /></a></div>Craft store by day, hipster bar by night, is probably the most concise description of the Old San Juan pub known as <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Los-3-Cuernos/264123944614?v=photos#%21/pages/Los-3-Cuernos/264123944614?v=wall">Los 3 Cuernos</a>. This translates into three things: beautiful decor, limited space, and flavored chichaito.<br />
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Walking through Old San Juan at night, streets glistening after a recent rain as yellow and white streetlights reflected off the cobblestones, I made my way from the central square of Plaza de Armas down Calle San Francisco. I fell into pace behind a lady carrying several loaded bags of groceries, slightly hunched, and vaguely aware of someone following her, on occasion glancing over her shoulder discreetly. For some reason she felt familiar to me but I couldn’t place her. Soon the lights of Plaza Colón and the dark shadow of the San Cristóbal fort came into view but instead of turning down towards the plaza she continued past a crowd of twenty-something year olds hanging out of a narrow entrance, up a couple of steps, under a wooden sign with the words Los 3 Cuernos roughly painted on, and into a colorful cave where music played loudly while a few televisions showed old movies in mute. I went in behind her. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yk-5iiRR-5ROav4SRtACVzSfqEGp1HtiCE-hDtMfAffKSlxkfsv1Nn2l_3f6VqBATFCkH7h1EhhbcekAJ5Da_M7m6uqTk7C7_k4qhEVGvEHjE17a-tO_k0GVvcjAcxNMTq5AVURKfGXB/s1600/22045_264134074614_264123944614_3414074_5724446_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yk-5iiRR-5ROav4SRtACVzSfqEGp1HtiCE-hDtMfAffKSlxkfsv1Nn2l_3f6VqBATFCkH7h1EhhbcekAJ5Da_M7m6uqTk7C7_k4qhEVGvEHjE17a-tO_k0GVvcjAcxNMTq5AVURKfGXB/s320/22045_264134074614_264123944614_3414074_5724446_n.jpg" /></a><br />
It turned out I’d been following Nykaulys Cruz, one of the owners and operators of the store and the bar Los 3 Cuernos. Her son, Francisco Alejandro, waited near the back. She cut through the crowd and handed over the grocery bags which I now saw contained several handles of rum and anisette as well as a few gallons of fruit juice. He disappeared into a small fluorescent kitchen and Nykaulys turned her attention to the bustling bar. What during the day is a store counter now had wooden stools in front and behind it Nykaulys’s daughter, also named Nykaulys, a marketing student at Ithaca college, quickly dispensed Medallas (a local beer) or shots to customers waving dollar bills. <br />
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The bar is a perfect example of necessity being the mother of invention. It’s a family business started by the father and appropriated by the son but run by the whole family. <br />
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<b>A store turned bar </b><br />
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Los 3 Cuernos existed for many many years exclusively as a fine arts and craft stores on the north side of Plaza Colón. This square—named for the statue of Christopher Columbus atop a tall white column at its center—is flanked on the eastern side by the fort San Cristobal, Teatro Tapia (the oldest theater in the Caribbean) on the south, and lined by an array of restaurants, pubs, and souvenir stores making it both prime real estate and a hub of steep competition for a locale that is literally a hole in the wall.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMRq_G2rWzJooPosX9pEF8P5WXWdifZQ-lGlHLNLp6No2c29zD8pOH1UCT9ydUZufBIePqGO7UXHdSC9dlJI_KPUoHE7Rw-Kj9llZgBlf8NyUDV2nML_HfhXSa4x-FOlW2QfAlQ8DU5WL/s1600/Photo0942.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMRq_G2rWzJooPosX9pEF8P5WXWdifZQ-lGlHLNLp6No2c29zD8pOH1UCT9ydUZufBIePqGO7UXHdSC9dlJI_KPUoHE7Rw-Kj9llZgBlf8NyUDV2nML_HfhXSa4x-FOlW2QfAlQ8DU5WL/s320/Photo0942.jpg" /></a></div>The store, owned and operated by José Cruz, an artist, teacher (he was my art teacher in both elementary and high school and to this day I still refer to him as Mr. Cruz), and former hippie with salt and pepper hair and beard, glasses, and a loud, raspy laugh. The store specialized in Vejigante masks, giving Los 3 Cuernos—literally The Three Horns—its name. Vejigantes, a kind of colorful demon, are iconic characters of Puerto Rican folklore. The traditional mask is carved from a coconut (while the Ponce Vejigante is made with paper machê) and has slit-like eyes, a stub nose, and a grinning mouth with two square teeth and a tiny, rectangular tongue sticking out. The mask is topped off with long sharp horns, usually three but really as many as the artist wants/can fit on the head of the demon. The masks are chaotically colorful. Aside from the masks, handmade ceramics and woodcarvings with the Vejigante theme were also on display, each handmade by Cruz. But with steep competition and a failing economy the tiny store was floundering. <br />
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It was Cruz’s son, Francisco Alejandro, who masterminded the transformation of Los 3 Cuernos. <br />
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When I asked him how his father felt about turning the store into a bar he was very frank. “He doesn’t like it,” adding, “Pero es lo que deja chavos.” Its what makes money.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKBLklPhB6bMJwkEk2ge3b7TfsyEz0o2N6HwUBOjGIrzHZ8s8rerH7eBQsf7UXYZcmmsxR4dadgtveWvJ4QOlk-0VkhzbMMM8aw9tz9w0T7a8fl5WntmsrTdO-cmwQi31P0SBCG6Lm8G5/s1600/Photo0944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKBLklPhB6bMJwkEk2ge3b7TfsyEz0o2N6HwUBOjGIrzHZ8s8rerH7eBQsf7UXYZcmmsxR4dadgtveWvJ4QOlk-0VkhzbMMM8aw9tz9w0T7a8fl5WntmsrTdO-cmwQi31P0SBCG6Lm8G5/s320/Photo0944.jpg" /></a></div>As a musician and college student, alcohol plus young people seemed like an obvious formula but its also common knowledge that opening a bar is generally a risky endeavor, specially in an area as saturated with well-known restaurants and bars as Old San Juan. So Francisco Alejandro, now an entrepreneurship student at the UPR, found a spin on a classic and created a niche for Los 3 Cuernos that draws young people to the bar in droves: flavored chichaito. <br />
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The original flavor tastes like licorice with a sharp sweetness from the rum. Spiked with fresh juice and fruit, the chichaito become beautifully colorful, belying a time bomb of sugar and alcohol that hits you like a truck once you finally get up. That first night that I went, I watched Nykaulys Sr. pull out several plastic gallons full of the stuff from giant refrigerators under the bar: cloudy white coconut, bright orange guava, murky brown tamarindo, and the clear original. She filled empty glass flasks of Palo Viejo rum, each with a different flavor. Occasionally she would serve out a shot if it was requested, handing the money to Nykaulys Jr. Soon Francisco Alejandro joined them, stopping first to change the music on the stereo.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCVNOf-rqYnzstaBI4BdIQyPAa4pq1-MO-Qxqe4ukk4km0pxhDeKvGxMcyTD4UR5ApgXu3uYb0QjjmeW6Zmca9BQ0qIYSDLwoKgLH65nI92bYn1K2TX9Gvc0hNqK_y916__iHDM0UIZbr/s1600/Photo0939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCVNOf-rqYnzstaBI4BdIQyPAa4pq1-MO-Qxqe4ukk4km0pxhDeKvGxMcyTD4UR5ApgXu3uYb0QjjmeW6Zmca9BQ0qIYSDLwoKgLH65nI92bYn1K2TX9Gvc0hNqK_y916__iHDM0UIZbr/s320/Photo0939.jpg" /></a>Even now the green and blue walls of the bar—some with murals of Vejigantes dancing— are covered with ceramic plaques, masks, and other crafts. Handwritten menus on the walls and columns advertise their drink special—there’s El Combo #7, a shot of chichaito and a Medalla for $2 but for a group El Cuernazo is a particularly good value, a flask of chichaito and a six-pack of Medalla $10. They also serve different types of coffee and recently added tacos to the menu. Even the next few times I went the place was packed and the crowd consistently young, attractive, and talkative, often speaking in a mix of English and Spanish. It’s the kind of place where it’s easy to sit at the bar with a flask of chichaito, a couple of plastic shot glasses, and make friends. And maybe buy some high quality crafts while you’re at it. <br />
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Located at:<br />
<div class="street-address"><a href="http://bing.com/maps/default.aspx?v=2&mid=8100&rtp=%7Eadr.Calle+San+Francisco+%23403%2C+Viejo+San+Juan%28+frente+a+la+plaza+Colon%2C+parada+%2317+del+trolley%29%2C+%3Cspan+class%3D%22locality%22%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E%2C+%3Cspan+class%3D%22country-name%22%3E%3C%2Fspan%3E" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Calle San Francisco #403, Viejo San Juan( frente a la plaza Colon, parada #17 del trolley)</a><br />
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<b>Related Posts:</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/06/lunchtime-in-puerto-rico-sounds-like.html">Soup and Sandwich</a></b><br />
<i>Mondongo, Caldo Gallego, and sancocho are Puerto Rico’s answer to broccoli cheddar, chicken noodle, and clam chowder. Except there’s nothing light about having a soup and sandwich for lunch in Puerto Rico.</i><br />
<br />
<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/08/drinking-and-travel.html">Drinking and Traveling</a></b><br />
<i>Most nights started with a box of wine. They cost the equivalent of 50 cents down at the </i><i>potraviny—the Czech version of a New York deli—and were the perfect pregame agents.</i></div>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-8062496120683388102010-09-09T10:42:00.002-04:002010-09-09T10:52:18.920-04:00Crema de Zanahorias y Calabasa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXqH9ZiwvQv6NXrR-S-saHA7uUBS_IgH8W7H-_pwmazYNQg2ViPZU-6IzeWhr2Fjydb_18VSG-y8MlyRkObdlfRreesbet3E6SAc8u9lHKYX2bkrQjQuRzLRiJoOiZLrGMuCeYnYWn_Vi/s1600/JCkitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXqH9ZiwvQv6NXrR-S-saHA7uUBS_IgH8W7H-_pwmazYNQg2ViPZU-6IzeWhr2Fjydb_18VSG-y8MlyRkObdlfRreesbet3E6SAc8u9lHKYX2bkrQjQuRzLRiJoOiZLrGMuCeYnYWn_Vi/s320/JCkitchen.jpg" /></a></div>Whenever Julia Child dropped something on camera or flipped a potato pancake too early or generally fumbled about the kitchen in a manner that made the BBC believe that she was drunk, she would look at the camera, her trademark smile fading for a moment.<br />
<br />
"Never apologize," she said, looking the housewife taking copious notes of her deceptively easy recipes straight in the eyes. "Just smile and serve your food as if nothing was wrong."<br />
<br />
Most of the time, no one except you thinks anything is wrong anyway.<br />
<br />
Me, I cook with <a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/04/easy-pizza-at-home.html">disclaimers</a>. "Its too spicy, its a little messy, I know what I did wrong..." But heaven help you if you don't eat the damn thing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDg0uV6otSYKQEB6_gTUi3nR4FCeVkykiqs1mM8UyQ8nTY-um5P2inUdMhlEv-6aJV3X0LDr3w2O_xe26etaYbGY90o5r2oGBKt-W9sdbj_IB9FFhxXgO7DOlDeS64At1oMxG9iU4lbI1H/s1600/underwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDg0uV6otSYKQEB6_gTUi3nR4FCeVkykiqs1mM8UyQ8nTY-um5P2inUdMhlEv-6aJV3X0LDr3w2O_xe26etaYbGY90o5r2oGBKt-W9sdbj_IB9FFhxXgO7DOlDeS64At1oMxG9iU4lbI1H/s320/underwood.jpg" /></a>Today, though, right now in fact, five minutes away from dashing out the door to work, I've just eaten something that I invented that I have to say is absolutely f-ing good. Maybe its because I'm starving or have no... Shut up! Its good, OK?<br />
<br />
Its been a long haul to get to this particular moment, not just cooking this wonderful thing but actually writing about it (and a recipe no less!). See, for the past months I've been struggling with two things: <a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/04/my-grandmothers-cooking.html">ingredients I don't know how to use</a> and an article I owe to a certain website that is run by a certain food writer who started this whole blog and article ball rolling. (Hi, David).<br />
<br />
So on the one hand, I haven't really cooked anything worth telling anyone about except maybe my cat Ziggy whose undivided attention on my plate is indiscriminate of whether its a piece of filet mignon or nonfat yogurt so she doesn't count. And on the other hand, I've barely been writing because it feels like writing blog posts when I owe an article is like missing your daughter's game but making it to your son's recital. Someone's feelings are going to get hurt.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIzSSTk8NM5U8EgrALM1vPt_EQeabhrybhZ88JeHOF4synRySjjDllQfEPIVtBkO_o5xthPPwDwKTHOL9RbjVzze9mEXH9Cq0yrnR_m1lHlmlNRxdJ1XMF6lAKvg_VOVtcpTEskaxgU_a/s1600/trio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIzSSTk8NM5U8EgrALM1vPt_EQeabhrybhZ88JeHOF4synRySjjDllQfEPIVtBkO_o5xthPPwDwKTHOL9RbjVzze9mEXH9Cq0yrnR_m1lHlmlNRxdJ1XMF6lAKvg_VOVtcpTEskaxgU_a/s320/trio.jpg" /></a></div>But this week, I've been making breakthroughs. Handed in a new column, got myself a deadline for the infamous article, and made a delicious delicious soup using Puerto Rican ingredients (which can easily be acquired in the States/ are in season right now). No disclaimers, no excuses, its just simple and good.<br />
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So for your enjoyment-- did I mention that the recipe is quick, easy, and cheap? Well there you are-- the first thing I've cooked in a long time that wasn't scrambled eggs.<br />
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<b>Crema de Zanahorias y Calabasa </b><br />
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<b>Ingredients:</b><br />
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- 1 lb. (bunch) carrots, peeled and cut into 1 in. rings<br />
- 1.5 lbs (about half a medium sized) calabasa squash or pumpkin, peeled and roughly cut into cubes<br />
- 1/2 onion, chopped<br />
- 1 small green pepper, chopped<br />
- 2 garlic cloves, minced<br />
- 1 heaping teaspoon sofrito (if you don't have just puree together cilantro, recao or saweed if you can find it, garlic, onion, green pepper, oregano or basil, ajíes dulces which are mild cascable-shaped peppers that's related to the habanero, water- DO NOT USE THE SHELF STABLE STUFF, it will ruin the flavor of everything you make)<br />
- 2 teaspoons brown sugar<br />
- 1 can (about two cups) chicken broth<br />
- Salt and pepper<br />
- Olive oil<br />
- Pique or another mild tasting hot sauce (optional)<br />
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In a deep pot, heat some olive oil and sweat the onions and green peppers until soft. Add garlic and sofrito, allow to cook for a few more minutes. Toss in the carrots and mix in with the flavor base, allowing them to cook for about five minutes until they start to soften. Add the calabasa or pumpking, mix everything together. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyuW15S2bSK5DXzAkn-i7HFzkp8rm2i2aQo4qbojhl-PQaVvPt8Wgr31lOsJLFLkHvzM2jcebN1_QjNDG2scdxgKHUmawxgc6TKfqm2D0idG22TFO19spJMKYrL_BMYcmZlJhXMWqiTDZ/s1600/catincoffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyuW15S2bSK5DXzAkn-i7HFzkp8rm2i2aQo4qbojhl-PQaVvPt8Wgr31lOsJLFLkHvzM2jcebN1_QjNDG2scdxgKHUmawxgc6TKfqm2D0idG22TFO19spJMKYrL_BMYcmZlJhXMWqiTDZ/s320/catincoffee.jpg" /></a><br />
Sprinkle the sugar, salt and pepper over everything then add the chicken broth. If the liquid doesn't quite cover the carrots and calabasa add a little water, but its all right if they aren't completely submerged. Bring to a boil, then partially cover and reduce to a simmer. When the carrots and calabasa are soft enough to easily be pierced by a fork, about 10 to 15 minutes, then take the pot off heat and allow to cool down.<br />
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When its sufficiently cooled, puree into a cream in either a food processor or a blender. Taste for seasoning and add either more salt and pepper or sugar if necessary. Reheat and serve spiked with hot sauce if you're into that sort of thing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><i>** I'm out of the habit of taking pictures of food but I assume you know what orange puree looks like.</i><br />
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<b>Related Posts:</b><br />
<b><i> </i></b><br />
<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/04/my-grandmothers-cooking.html">My Grandmother's Cooking</a></b><br />
<i>My grandmother might be one of the best cooks around but I wouldn't know it. </i><b> </b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/05/sleeping-and-eating.html">Sleeping and Eating</a></b><br />
<i>While I don't usually wake up in the middle of the night and cook myself a lovely meal, I do often wake up in the middle of the night. This 3 am in particular, though, I was inspired.</i><b> </b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/04/food-nazi.html">Food Nazi</a></b><br />
<i>Stepping off the plane in my knee-high boots and black coat, venturing into my Burger King obsessed homeland with unusually straight posture, the food nazi in me decide it was game on.</i>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-62655475293359100412010-08-27T12:40:00.002-04:002010-08-27T12:41:54.211-04:00Homesick?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvb3HqqMbhyphenhyphengsM7q7DhtCDRrX5A8ACkUvAYTxyEl3Brqs9NUuC9SHHZkQ7L30MqSmeyA-Y-UolmCVhOuWJdrhstbeBP5C8LDPjkud2OE-2aDT5PZE6uXArb7N-EWFS_3bSh8ElX07sXtA/s1600/3107_771146843389_814031_45318066_4288589_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvb3HqqMbhyphenhyphengsM7q7DhtCDRrX5A8ACkUvAYTxyEl3Brqs9NUuC9SHHZkQ7L30MqSmeyA-Y-UolmCVhOuWJdrhstbeBP5C8LDPjkud2OE-2aDT5PZE6uXArb7N-EWFS_3bSh8ElX07sXtA/s320/3107_771146843389_814031_45318066_4288589_n.jpg" /></a>Feels like all I talk about lately is New York.<br />
<br />
Its like that scene in <i>Mean Girls</i> when pre-cocaine Lindsay Lohan is talking to her friend about how much she hates Rachel McAdams and that's ALL she talks about. I guess its not entirely inaccurate to say New York is that hot girl in school that's also a bully and who is absolutely fascinating for some reason.<br />
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Below are the links for the respective articles. Two out of three are about food (surprise, surprise). And, not gonna lie, pretty excited to go visit the city in October on the heels of my London trip.<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_516548338"></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aKcZQRkTXzot8zaS4NDoTcaoyyyvNiLTAkL-SmM3ZJ6nUfr5eLB57sswnVa6pzCLXvSzvsLYNNeFo6VuwtqEB7jy4fTmdKazSHXySV1jCdElMUcWM_yyyHaYt8T6sRNEWv7HtZg2S9Xp/s1600/IMG_4030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aKcZQRkTXzot8zaS4NDoTcaoyyyvNiLTAkL-SmM3ZJ6nUfr5eLB57sswnVa6pzCLXvSzvsLYNNeFo6VuwtqEB7jy4fTmdKazSHXySV1jCdElMUcWM_yyyHaYt8T6sRNEWv7HtZg2S9Xp/s320/IMG_4030.JPG" /></a></div><b><a href="http://cheapoair.typepad.com/my_weblog/2010/08/free-and-cheap-in-new-york-city.html">Free and Cheap in New York City</a>:</b> Guest post for the CheapOAir <a href="http://cheapoair.typepad.com/my_weblog/">blog</a>. Late fall is the best time to visit New York: the weather is cooling down but the outdoor events are still going on. Last chance to visit Governor's Island, enjoy some food truck waffles in the middle of Times Square, and stroll through the Cloisters while the leaves start changing colors.<br />
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</b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/dondecomerenmanhattan-763273.html">Dónde comer en Manhattan</a>: </b>My latest Escapadas article about (relatively) cheap but always interesting and good restaurants below 14th street in Manhattan. On the list, among several others: Katz's Deli, Momofuku Milk, and Corner Bistro.<br />
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I'm also including some deleted scenes from my column that were cut because of space. It includes a few other places worth checking out when wondering how to best stuff you face in the city that never sleeps:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1buA2SMANrxOM4-5-_rrIDolLoQz_li8cDultXPCTE8_RxACR5sKVJicYAnq59YEmuYqQtetVDa4GZ6lI4Sd-btyikQBmCzgDTUubnGmCnoBogKuWR7ci5_aOiDdvziuaEFn2oiztU29K/s1600/800px-Manhattan_Bridge_arch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1buA2SMANrxOM4-5-_rrIDolLoQz_li8cDultXPCTE8_RxACR5sKVJicYAnq59YEmuYqQtetVDa4GZ6lI4Sd-btyikQBmCzgDTUubnGmCnoBogKuWR7ci5_aOiDdvziuaEFn2oiztU29K/s320/800px-Manhattan_Bridge_arch.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="ES-TRAD">Calles para explorar<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="ES-TRAD">Bleecker Street</span></b><span lang="ES-TRAD">: Recorriendo el West Village, en esta calle encuentras tiendas boutique de productos artesanales. Entre los sitios para visitar (que quedan uno al lado del otro) están <a href="http://www.amysbread.com/">Amy’s Bread</a>, <a href="http://www.murrayscheese.com/">Murray’s Cheeses</a>, <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/faiccos-italian-specialties-new-york">Faccio’s Italian Specialties</a> y <a href="http://www.portorico.com/store/">Porto Rico Coffee Importing</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="ES-TRAD">MacDougall Street</span></b><span lang="ES-TRAD">: Con una mezcla particular de comivetes israelís, restaurantes Italianos y clubs de comedia, MacDougall tiene algo para todos. <a href="http://www.mamouns.com/">Mamouns Falafel</a> es uno de los chichorros más reconocidos en el Village donde un falafel te sale a $2.50. También puedes tomar un café en la acera y mirar la gente pasar en <a href="http://www.cafereggio.com/">Caffe Reggio</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="ES-TRAD">St. Mark’s Place</span></b><span lang="ES-TRAD">: Comienza en Astor Place y termina en Tompkin Square Park, St. Mark's Place es una de las calles con más color y actividad en el Village. Restaurantes asiáticos comparten la cuadra con barras de cerveza y "headshops". Para una experiencia fuera de lo común prueba <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/kenka-new-york">Kenka</a>, un restaurante de tapas japonesas con un ambiente… particular. Llega hasta <a href="http://www.crifdogs.com/">Crif Dog</a>, para hot dogs extremos y una barra estilo “speakeasy” escondida detrás de un teléfono público dentro del local.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-TRAD"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-TRAD"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-TRAD"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p>Related Posts:</o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p><b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/07/5-food-places-i-wish-id-taken-advantage.html">Five Food Places I wish I'd Taken Advantage of When I Lived in New York </a></b></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/07/fuera-del-centro.html"><b>Fuera del Centro en Madrid </b></a></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p><b><a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/comoperderseensaintjohn-739511.html">Cómo perderse en Saint John</a></b></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-12932072127896796112010-08-17T12:02:00.001-04:002010-08-17T12:07:14.369-04:00How to Fall in Love with a Place<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYtnnB3TTY_3nC683Jy3Xv1pPyasppVFK2TtfdfqAXJUUbqaRm-2-g80L8eLxaDP-w4wzXiQen5he9rpQuPKz68u-ax2stkKtMLVMTNtLhh8SOSRnYEdjd3mgbNSXCE2QUT5jYrb1pV4H/s1600/n811113_45301037_6829553.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYtnnB3TTY_3nC683Jy3Xv1pPyasppVFK2TtfdfqAXJUUbqaRm-2-g80L8eLxaDP-w4wzXiQen5he9rpQuPKz68u-ax2stkKtMLVMTNtLhh8SOSRnYEdjd3mgbNSXCE2QUT5jYrb1pV4H/s320/n811113_45301037_6829553.jpg" /></a></div>The river split the city in two while ornate bridges worked like stitches connecting one half to the other. The spired Parliament building led the façade that eventually spread out into the tapestry of short, grey buildings that were Pest. Behind us on the Buda side, the red clay roofed houses suggested a fairy tale town that was more show than substance. I was sitting with Tünde, my Hungarian friend, at the top of Buda Castle, getting a run down on why Pest is infinitely cooler than Buda. <br />
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I tried to carefully observe all the miniscule structures that created the labyrinth that is Pest, the mix of architectures, the flowing river that reminded me of the Spree, the Seine, the Río Grande de Loiza— all while sitting on a Castle-Cathedral that was a distant cousin of the one I’d visited a few days earlier in Prague. That day my friend Nick had noted with frustration how impossible it is to see every beautiful thing, every detail, take in every element that together creates the whole that is immediately, but vaguely, beautiful.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwY1uHt-NysB9NB_E7CU2mM8JDcUGP7OORFBoO0Jy_Y7RWhCHdvBYMI2U8uu4c5p-qPz8MGAWzoj5JBgmc4QTW_H1xUriPjrD35WZZKRUgveaPTaFxWblHY4njbHSW8Dis7oifSVDjFwCj/s1600/35175_959410955599_811113_52827999_1764372_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwY1uHt-NysB9NB_E7CU2mM8JDcUGP7OORFBoO0Jy_Y7RWhCHdvBYMI2U8uu4c5p-qPz8MGAWzoj5JBgmc4QTW_H1xUriPjrD35WZZKRUgveaPTaFxWblHY4njbHSW8Dis7oifSVDjFwCj/s320/35175_959410955599_811113_52827999_1764372_n.jpg" /></a>I’d been told that I would love Budapest. Most people love Budapest—Tünde certainly did and with good reason. But even with this moment and the subsequent ones—the bars and cafés, Tünde’s eccentric and charming friends, the meals, the hot springs, the walks by myself trying to get to know the city—even with that heightened awareness that comes with the threat of departure, I wasn’t in love. <br />
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There are definitely places I’ve fallen in love with, cities in particular that I feel a strong a connection to for reasons I couldn’t explain. But it was Budapest that got me thinking about cities in this way. Nothing makes you think about what something is than experiencing what it is not. <br />
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So how do you fall in love with a place? <br />
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<b>The Wow Moment </b><br />
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Stepping off the U-Bahn into this giant metal structure illuminated blue and white—the curving, gargantuan shell that is Potsdamer Platz— was my first introduction to Berlin. Driving down the snaking roads of the mountains of Rincón through a tunnel of flamboyanes, bright blue Caution Tsunami signs breaking up the wall of green at either side of the car while Jim Morrison crooned from the radio, “This is the end, my only friend, the End.” Those are the moments when you know, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzIUD48YP9KHugLxoym3AAjzr760Xmt3iAwWvEADoHo6Q7enpnfWqT2HcCTZhmY3zLbXfXhgo5mYVTItOXRO6wxanSqh_be3NVWI2l4yTjjVvb6KOyg2ueoWn120a88CGluwR9obuLsiJ/s1600/n811341_30934596_130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzIUD48YP9KHugLxoym3AAjzr760Xmt3iAwWvEADoHo6Q7enpnfWqT2HcCTZhmY3zLbXfXhgo5mYVTItOXRO6wxanSqh_be3NVWI2l4yTjjVvb6KOyg2ueoWn120a88CGluwR9obuLsiJ/s320/n811341_30934596_130.jpg" /></a></div><b>The Narrative </b><br />
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Not just anecdotes, but the story structure of the visit. The most satisfying narratives are the ones where the main character changes during the course of the story—sometimes by being hurt, sometimes by earning what he strived for, or getting what they need. As a traveler, the best locations are the ones that make a dent in your structure. While you won’t love every place that affects you, you can’t love a place unless it affects you. Its like watching a movie. Some movies you love—Chicago—, some you recognize as great but can’t really get into—Bali—, others are life-changing masterpieces that you’re glad you saw but would rather not see again—New York —and some are guilty pleasures—Texas. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHrcZKSga8IRdytmknuIBCVlnZbZ7LCwcOYHMdUEV1ysmbFFuAd3tPCROrg4LXQlnT4Lh9oy3RcVAT1ElRh3h5vk7zTnxP6HGlMJC1Yc7fLEInBQGPFaRtAVNYk-4HfBw044d_-LZKga-/s1600/n811007_33513320_9794.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHrcZKSga8IRdytmknuIBCVlnZbZ7LCwcOYHMdUEV1ysmbFFuAd3tPCROrg4LXQlnT4Lh9oy3RcVAT1ElRh3h5vk7zTnxP6HGlMJC1Yc7fLEInBQGPFaRtAVNYk-4HfBw044d_-LZKga-/s320/n811007_33513320_9794.jpg" /></a><b>Prolonged Exposure </b><br />
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Prague wasn’t love at first sight but I realized I’d fallen in love when my friends reminisced about everything they missed about the States and I realized, for the first time in my life, there was nowhere else I would rather be than exactly where I was. As someone with a chronic case of wanderlust that’s a big thing to experience. But it took finding my routine, my spots within that city, learning to read the effects of it history and how closely they resembled those of where I came from, that changed my relationship to Prague. <br />
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<b>Love </b><br />
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Sometimes the relationship to a place becomes intrinsically linked to a relationship to a person. It’s the Casablanca effect, “We’ll always have Paris.” And its never the broad strokes, the larger picture that lingers, but details—a pan de piquitos (EPI baguette) still warm from the oven shared over hot chocolate one morning in Córdoba, getting lost in El Morro while slightly drunk, sharing Pakistani food in a park at the edge of the East River watching the sun set over New York (disclaimer: I do love Brooklyn). Because once you leave a place what’s left is memories.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OCNCuT4zPLIQMgYhCAfw2yG_3b3EWvcsttqSmyocHuUJdMaw4CGGvpfZlOpwWFfUiASzDuLorrDX4rQQH3RqDMhDSuuYpgguyIBaxgTvRGSTefyBsezH-r2d-Tpxy3KPRc9GRpY3YcBi/s1600/n405770_30929028_4068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OCNCuT4zPLIQMgYhCAfw2yG_3b3EWvcsttqSmyocHuUJdMaw4CGGvpfZlOpwWFfUiASzDuLorrDX4rQQH3RqDMhDSuuYpgguyIBaxgTvRGSTefyBsezH-r2d-Tpxy3KPRc9GRpY3YcBi/s320/n405770_30929028_4068.jpg" /></a></div><b>Not Being In Love </b><br />
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Creating a relationship with a place is just as absurd and irrational as the connections people form with each other. All the elements were in place for me to fall head over heels for Budapest: the dual almost contradictory nature of the two parts, the long, winding history that started at the maze under Buda Castle, went up through the Soviet-era buildings and into the tea shops and bookstores exploding on the screen when I saw Taxidermia, a Hungarian film that somehow married beautiful and gruesome. But the city and I would only have this fling together. <br />
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The places you aren’t in love with are the ones that act as a foil to the ones you do fall head over heels for. Even a short relationship, is an important one. Its part of those little details that come together to create a whole that is immediately, but vaguely, beautiful.Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-51457958179326870832010-08-13T08:45:00.001-04:002010-08-13T08:48:38.095-04:00Impressions of Amsterdam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXE2hahyYNCPQRnBPmSfXKIkmcD3bMZ15aIIDlD9iLX2vBV7KV5JBmAtYUsc1yn65fSa_MmrI8pFJt92JBYiusBEXfKKXHA5snZViPq41j-dqq6OuM5adqrilrdaZrpK_ru7IkiTwvra4l/s1600/n814346_35195986_103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXE2hahyYNCPQRnBPmSfXKIkmcD3bMZ15aIIDlD9iLX2vBV7KV5JBmAtYUsc1yn65fSa_MmrI8pFJt92JBYiusBEXfKKXHA5snZViPq41j-dqq6OuM5adqrilrdaZrpK_ru7IkiTwvra4l/s320/n814346_35195986_103.jpg" /></a></div>“I watched the universe fall apart. Twice. When I went to Amsterdam,” was one of the first thing my now ex-boyfriend told me when we met. A concise, albeit dramatic, summary of what Amsterdam means to the uninitiated. Mushrooms are no longer legal in Holland, by the way. <br />
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Amsterdam is an idea, a threat really. When someone says, “I’m going to Amsterdam,” the first thing that pops into your head isn’t the Van Gogh Museum (for some it might be, some people have class), its brownies. Special brownies. <br />
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But if smoking weed is all Amsterdam is to you then the words of Wells Tower’s customer in a recent GQ article become unavoidably true: “For a visitor, there are two very happy days in Amsterdam—the day you get here and the day you leave.” Granted, I don’t like weed. But even I couldn’t avoid the fact that coming to Amsterdam meant making a certain type of commitment: the universe better f-ing collapse. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmh4D0kLd6854ovWm6f1pYLJibCuWA47pE8K97PIUZ3LKkb3RSChtmm8qhCz9w8myTbFtoBMQjLHguYmPAFRdvvxZ9smum-tICNNPlDKfcYW5Tf5ENIPTUL8kqlL3HPenC3sxjW6cRK-zO/s1600/n814346_35195973_6884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmh4D0kLd6854ovWm6f1pYLJibCuWA47pE8K97PIUZ3LKkb3RSChtmm8qhCz9w8myTbFtoBMQjLHguYmPAFRdvvxZ9smum-tICNNPlDKfcYW5Tf5ENIPTUL8kqlL3HPenC3sxjW6cRK-zO/s320/n814346_35195973_6884.jpg" /></a></div>The spring break I visited the city with my friends, we were at our first coffeeshop within a couple of hours of arriving. Hunger got the best of us, so after we had a giant lunch of Chinese food—an appropriate enough option considering the circumstances— and dropped off our bags at our hostel/Irish pub, we set out to explore. I don’t think we took the time to admire the beautiful harbor or savor the spring weather or look up what spots other than the Red Light District we should explore because as young tourists visiting Amsterdam for the first time, we were on <i>the mission</i>. After <i>the mission</i> was completed, then we’d take the boat tour of the canals. <br />
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As four of us split a brownie, terrified that we would leave the shop hallucinating, screaming, and tearing our clothes off (turns out splitting a brownie between that many people got exactly none of us got high and the brownie was OK), except Jessica. She wasn’t messing around with carbs when what she was looking for was weed. An ardent lover of ganja, Jessica smoked daily so for her visiting Amsterdam was a type of pilgrimage. She ordered a giant joint that came in a plastic capsule. With a thick blunt between the index and middle finger, her face lit up and taking her first drag it was like she’d finally found home. About a quarter of the way through, though, her cheeks flushed, she put out the blunt, and announced she had to go back to the hostel to lie down. She stayed there for the rest of the afternoon. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcWnM6gPnsmezmaKTHmfiqJ-Pb3T15i8eBsuXliNNhdkR1ecuI57vhiqzDbKJcdG4JGA2xpgRqZNx00ivpsh5RofDmExVgOXfqBGghIBBi5JoGvqpf2DQU4JOsweDjYq9nziNQiSwhAhM/s1600/n814346_35195977_7869.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcWnM6gPnsmezmaKTHmfiqJ-Pb3T15i8eBsuXliNNhdkR1ecuI57vhiqzDbKJcdG4JGA2xpgRqZNx00ivpsh5RofDmExVgOXfqBGghIBBi5JoGvqpf2DQU4JOsweDjYq9nziNQiSwhAhM/s320/n814346_35195977_7869.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Meandering around that afternoon we also found the prostitutes. And their union. The Sex Workers Union. We took pictures of the building but not of them. In the middle of the afternoon these scantily-clad, bored-looking women sit on display in narrow storefronts, smoking cigarettes, leafing through magazines, looking about as threatening and horny as cubicle workers. <br />
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About halfway through day one of the mission, weed, sex workers, and the Red Light District start to get old. And everything else starts to come into focus. <br />
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I began to notice the city itself. Amsterdam is the walking city to end all walking cities. Bridges connect streets over meandering canals but without that whole sinking thing Venice has going on. The pace of life feels slower, bicycles are favored over cars, people are friendly and speak seven languages. Narrow colorful houses arranged side by side along the water have a harmonious flow to them.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpYkstdkfUTF4emtTL4sqPz2U67x91bSuxWbYs8-jlH_T-RMQOXZMh458wzFfINinItrhrgpfuS8bJ_MtSiJyH63j3OaU72MqdAGzixWrsIX3r_6JvZJDyzmyzt8YEM9eB5dhXP14rbju/s1600/n814346_35195982_9107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpYkstdkfUTF4emtTL4sqPz2U67x91bSuxWbYs8-jlH_T-RMQOXZMh458wzFfINinItrhrgpfuS8bJ_MtSiJyH63j3OaU72MqdAGzixWrsIX3r_6JvZJDyzmyzt8YEM9eB5dhXP14rbju/s320/n814346_35195982_9107.jpg" /></a></div>Whereas some people genuinely fall in love with the coffeeshops, for me it was the endless amount of cheese and wine shops that made a strong case for missing the plane and just staying on as a newly minted local. No one ever talks about the food in Amsterdam. Colorful munchies stands are everywhere, serving hot dogs, waffles, and pizza at any time. Big open-faced crepes called pancakes covered in both savory and sweet complements are also featured prominently. The best way to start the day Having an ice cold Heineken at a sidewalk café by one of the canals. <br />
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Eventually we even found our way to the Van Gogh Museum, located by a large park with a lawn that invites you to sit and enjoy the day. Instead of visiting the museum, though, we decided to pose mock-provocatively in front of the DAM portion of the giant Amsterdam sign at the end of the lawn (sort of a requirement if you’re a tourist). During that afternoon, while lying on the grass, ten of us finished off Jessica’s blunt and the day actually did look that much more beautiful.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0xFgSOGAVoKZr75EArf9aH98p4b7V9W5E0dI7PMsWfNWx7-nurVaaEp3MzZYInfwLOjq5FjCfAoLvsyDkWukwgEibftIF_4Aa0DKAOEu7eIptsLfxIjI3gnO4QcmsSAEXI8ym8yP3D_P/s1600/n814346_35196024_1609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0xFgSOGAVoKZr75EArf9aH98p4b7V9W5E0dI7PMsWfNWx7-nurVaaEp3MzZYInfwLOjq5FjCfAoLvsyDkWukwgEibftIF_4Aa0DKAOEu7eIptsLfxIjI3gnO4QcmsSAEXI8ym8yP3D_P/s320/n814346_35196024_1609.jpg" /></a></div>Naturally, we spent our last night in the city trying the rest of the bevy of sweet creations laced with weed available at the coffeeshops: cookies, milkshakes, tea… The universe did not fall apart, in fact aside from getting my debit card stolen it was a fairly uneventful trip. Sure we also visited Anne Frank’s House, the main square, bought some clogs… <br />
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My friends felt three days was enough time to visit Amsterdam because, “There’s really not that much to do here,” but I left feeling I’d only skimmed the surface. My impression is it can either be a quick jolt of legalized substance abuse, Heineken, walking around, tourist attractions, and done! Or… you can take your time with it. Unlike with Paris or Rome, falling in love with Amsterdam takes time. You have to be willing to slow down. And come down from the high.<br />
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<i>** Pictures by Olga Bichko. </i><br />
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<b>Related Posts:</b><br />
<b><i> </i></b><br />
<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/08/drinking-and-travel.html">Drinking and Travel</a></b><br />
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</b><br />
<b>Northern Bohemia: <a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/07/northern-bohemia-par-one.html">Part 1</a> and <a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/07/nothern-bohemia-part-two.html">Part 2</a></b>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-55078362179236099432010-08-10T07:08:00.000-04:002010-08-10T07:08:25.697-04:00Drinking and Travel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8aA2LIqgbiS_mcYW8T4jr6mKX-fn0MrgYge4nhlJnQYEtQKnQSMZm0MMhIIVxbn8pBaA-ICC_sS5PPI__kygPRJRIqUu4TvfqULeyJlWxWsu9eTtPuQbscVl2r-BF1lMp5i_1WyxWj6O/s1600/Photo0965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8aA2LIqgbiS_mcYW8T4jr6mKX-fn0MrgYge4nhlJnQYEtQKnQSMZm0MMhIIVxbn8pBaA-ICC_sS5PPI__kygPRJRIqUu4TvfqULeyJlWxWsu9eTtPuQbscVl2r-BF1lMp5i_1WyxWj6O/s320/Photo0965.jpg" /></a></div>Most nights started with a box of wine. They cost the equivalent of 50 cents down at the <i>potraviny</i>—the Czech version of a New York deli—and were the perfect pregame agents. My flatmates would cut a corner off the top and insert a straw, drinking it like a box of juice while they applied make up, swapped shoes, and tried on new dresses and shirts. When they eventually got to the club they would have a shot or six of <i>becherovka</i> or vodka, followed by several large pints of excellent beer. And this was their routine every night for four months. <br />
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I shared a floor in Nuslé, a far-flung neighborhood all the way out in Praha 7, with 7 other girls. On the floor bellow us was a room with 8 boys and above us the common area that housed three more girls. As a film student, I would observe my flatmates’ preparations for their nights out from my storyboards and script drafts. All the film students did because while we had daily 8 am classes, the rest of NYU in Prague was really there to party. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYlU4hP0IFTm3Rtq0amGsp4VrraKYw9m57ZT-6eRuLg3goeQFgxJsDYEtpOy1lAuJqsMXuRzVajgL4N-6W409nKyXb8gW1WR8xONHumxn1fP38GihVcpNxFNA82ztOQH6ZguRgS0mmfb1/s1600/30500_939734252869_811113_52040898_5596792_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYlU4hP0IFTm3Rtq0amGsp4VrraKYw9m57ZT-6eRuLg3goeQFgxJsDYEtpOy1lAuJqsMXuRzVajgL4N-6W409nKyXb8gW1WR8xONHumxn1fP38GihVcpNxFNA82ztOQH6ZguRgS0mmfb1/s320/30500_939734252869_811113_52040898_5596792_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But despite the fact that my nights of going out to clubs and bars were limited to Tuesday nights—when they played 80’s music at this one club in Praha 1—, weekends, and the occasional trip to another country, beer was always present. A beer with lunch, a beer with dinner, a beer in the evening while brainstorming movie ideas—the culture demanded it. I fell in love with beer in the Czech Republic. <br />
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In Madrid, my drinking routine became more regular. My friends could always drink me under the table because partying to them just came more naturally. At least two of them were Russian. But every Tuesday and Thursday after play rehearsal we went for drinks with the theater professor, a skinny, Anthony Bourdain type, to a bar that already knew to have our table ready with the complementary tapas and seven beers. On the weekend, nights often ended at 5 am. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MGLxXZ5UoEBhywwQnGPqpk9XYaYRPw5BG9QTbWDPpdp1Xh-VCIfVBAcQxofRvTWjlj1TMu39bRittUov8muLxUsk-Z7pd0PE3PYq206lWBnbvR472qxhSIeFj9V6kxMW4Yhtx56g0ww-/s1600/28760_921773486389_811113_51408729_818327_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MGLxXZ5UoEBhywwQnGPqpk9XYaYRPw5BG9QTbWDPpdp1Xh-VCIfVBAcQxofRvTWjlj1TMu39bRittUov8muLxUsk-Z7pd0PE3PYq206lWBnbvR472qxhSIeFj9V6kxMW4Yhtx56g0ww-/s320/28760_921773486389_811113_51408729_818327_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
From my experience studying abroad and from most anecdotes I hear from travelers my age, drinking while traveling seems as necessary to the experience as getting lost in public transportation. When my ex, Robin, lost his debit card in Budapest he strategized his last bit of cash as follows: he bought a bottle of liquor and went out to make friends. It worked and he was housed by some Hungarian guys for a week before he was able to get a replacement card. <br />
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This probably wouldn’t be your experience in most Arab countries or certain parts of Asia. My friend Nick spent six months doing martial arts training in China where alcohol would’ve been a welcomed respite but also a distraction. When my classmate Nicole worked at an NGO in Cambodia her stories were about traditional dance rehearsal rather than nights out getting crossed eyed on liquor. The most extreme case was my friend Eissa, who visited his family in Libya where alcohol is illegal. But so many Western countries excel at alcohol and the Western stock of traveler—particularly Americans and Brits—seem at their least inhibited when not in their home-countries. Marc, a French man of the world, lived off bagels and peanut butter in New York but powered through several beers when we invited him out with us. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqe6QHgZD9kN6YsKXtyppw91va5wpP27CpyjHwTFOpa7xTJwsrHP0FK6APEDXx8m3njU0K9cAbxTsioARpozJ2COnAxruWsfwTvLVZXHQFLn7kMpzxkF1NrNW52CcrpJg3hz4-MAdyoMX/s1600/35373_963110811059_811113_52962862_2885206_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqe6QHgZD9kN6YsKXtyppw91va5wpP27CpyjHwTFOpa7xTJwsrHP0FK6APEDXx8m3njU0K9cAbxTsioARpozJ2COnAxruWsfwTvLVZXHQFLn7kMpzxkF1NrNW52CcrpJg3hz4-MAdyoMX/s320/35373_963110811059_811113_52962862_2885206_n.jpg" /></a><br />
To what degree is drinking part of traveling for you? Would you miss it if you couldn’t drink while traveling? Are all my friends just alcoholics?<br />
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<b>Related Posts:</b><br />
<br />
<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/06/lunchtime-in-puerto-rico-sounds-like.html">Soup & Sandwich</a></b><br />
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<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/06/block-island-ri.html">Block Island, RI</a></b>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-86265757876358647582010-07-29T12:39:00.005-04:002010-07-30T12:06:36.059-04:005 Food Places I Wish I’d Taken Advantage of When I Lived in New York<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYQojblOX0psBr1jv226y4uafQ_7u-ZUghxEFZkhIwwqZGan9oJdUcLYIcAQpxPF_2oa_XZ1lx-UynaPe0kG61cilzDVbo8cn0qGfhahujaYmjy_VtVKEQ5C5JCwqoLS3Y2H-6gExzD8g/s1600/15441_855921334629_811113_49073883_1586915_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYQojblOX0psBr1jv226y4uafQ_7u-ZUghxEFZkhIwwqZGan9oJdUcLYIcAQpxPF_2oa_XZ1lx-UynaPe0kG61cilzDVbo8cn0qGfhahujaYmjy_VtVKEQ5C5JCwqoLS3Y2H-6gExzD8g/s320/15441_855921334629_811113_49073883_1586915_n.jpg" /></a></div>I don’t miss living in New York. It’s a difficult, cold city if you’re not head over heels in love with it. But I also think back on all the missed opportunities—the places I now wish were only a $2.50 subway ride away from me, the flavors and atmospheres I missed and the ones I should’ve been devoted to instead of wasting my time on… other places I don’t currently miss or even remember. <br />
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While I won’t get that era of my life back, I know where to go when I visit. And I visit a lot. <br />
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<b>Sahadi’s </b><br />
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When I lived in Beorum Hill, Brooklyn, my housemates would often come home loaded up with fresh ground spices, exotic chocolates bought in bulk, spinakopia and baklava the size of your hand and would rave about how good and cheap everything was in this store on Atlantic Avenue called <b><a href="http://sahadis.com/">Sahadi’s</a>.</b> It was like heaven in bulk apparently. But I never actually went there until I left Beorum Hill for Sunset Park—which is several subway lines away. My tipping point for getting off my lazy, convenience-centric ass was Ajay— a gourmand who has yet to lead me astray— and who on an expedition for some very good Middle Eastern food on Atlantic Avenue, finally took me to Sahadi’s. The storefront is very plain and therefore easy to miss, specially since it is flanked by nice-looking delis displaying fresh produce and flowers. Once inside, though, the busy crowdedness acknowledges the fact that this place is indeed awesome. Boxes of falafel and couscous line the shelves, while sauces with labels in Arabic and Hebrew compete for attention with bins of soft flatbreads breads and cookies. Further into the store is a counter where you can buy stuffed grape leaves and other oil-soaked delicacies like seafood salads, or stuffed pastries containing everything from meat to mushrooms. In an adjacent room, bags of spices, nuts, dried fruit, whole grain coffee, and different varieties of candy surround a square counter where men bag and weigh your selections. The smells of the place are thick and mixed up, transitioning from the dry mustiness of the canned section to the slick oily, fishy smell of the deli counter and the earthiness of the dried goods that fly from bin to scoop to bag every few seconds. Why I didn’t just live in this place is beyond me. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjims-dix-GXDVOOB-9IV3lgbEoRjR1imuU-VLR8kaxPQuBi5J1ZWsG_ft1meKuiPHQyCC-Hz3l6sQz9wsg_c4lzOyl0vn1zKlGNFCa2R8OEgX3zRDi8tl7v-v-Wm0Uvi9YzDQheNKWBZ5b/s1600/30807_925451056509_811113_51512631_6005374_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjims-dix-GXDVOOB-9IV3lgbEoRjR1imuU-VLR8kaxPQuBi5J1ZWsG_ft1meKuiPHQyCC-Hz3l6sQz9wsg_c4lzOyl0vn1zKlGNFCa2R8OEgX3zRDi8tl7v-v-Wm0Uvi9YzDQheNKWBZ5b/s320/30807_925451056509_811113_51512631_6005374_n.jpg" /></a><b> </b><br />
<b>The Chinese Supermarket </b><br />
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From Beorum Hill I landed in Elmhurst, Queens, and once again I had no idea the culinary opportunity I completely wasted. I lived next to the <b><a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/great-wall-supermarket-elmhurst-2">Great Wall Supermarket</a></b> and I had no idea what that even meant. Whenever I walked around my street I saw people carrying groceries in red plastic bags. I once asked a couple of guys about this and they told me that they were shopping in the supermarket across Queens Boulevard. “They have everything.” I went searching for it but the outside resembled a gritty wholesale facility rather than the sterile, clearly labeled supermarkets I knew and loved. Going in through the narrow glass doors of the main entrance was like stepping through the rabbit hole. To say this place was overwhelming is similar to saying Chinatown tends to get crowded. This place was insane. The first shock to the system comes from the glass aquariums full of living, scary looking seafood like eels and crawfish stationed right near the entrance and manned by angry, shouting Chinese butchers. The produce was unrecognizable—many Chinese greens I’d kill for right now, fruits with strange names and textures I’d love to try but back then I just wanted apples. Although the entire space was about the size of a warehouse, the aisles were packed so tightly together they created a giant labyrinth of—yes—mostly Asian products. In the bakery aisle I found cookies with scallions in them and had a glimpse of future me when I experienced a thrill at seeing this out of place ingredient and almost bought them. Almost. All the noodles had big Chinese and Japanese characters across them but I couldn’t tell buckwheat from soba. I had no idea what Chinese Five Spice Powder was or that tamarind sauce was a key ingredient in Pad Thai. I was at the right place for someone like me but at completely the wrong time. It was before Bittman, before the food blogs, before I realized not eating meat was stupid (for me, at least)… I left the supermarket empty-handed, making a mental note to return and never did. <br />
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<b>East Village Cheese </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wPS6BcDCh9C2BC3769XdeeBc8bEpZE9BipUVk7oijoJoJl89n70uk8t7Ma6idLqtd90SkH3QJbAKuiO5WCAxkLYGZz2O86KSptDB4WdG8NtBzgyhc0BrH6Md4WmfSr-fxHBIrXH6GX9B/s1600/15441_855921264769_811113_49073869_1964674_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wPS6BcDCh9C2BC3769XdeeBc8bEpZE9BipUVk7oijoJoJl89n70uk8t7Ma6idLqtd90SkH3QJbAKuiO5WCAxkLYGZz2O86KSptDB4WdG8NtBzgyhc0BrH6Md4WmfSr-fxHBIrXH6GX9B/s320/15441_855921264769_811113_49073869_1964674_n.jpg" /></a></div>Murray’s Cheeses is the cheese shop I frequented when my company moved offices from Tribeca to the West Village. While very pretty and very well-stocked, Murray’s is also very expensive. And I can’t justify why I wasn’t just taking the extra ten-minute walk to its cheaper, grittier fraternal twin in the East Village. I first heard about <b><a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/east-village-cheese-new-york">East Village Cheeses</a></b> sophomore year and the words “so cheap” were used in the same sentence. I’d walked by the store a million times, reading their ever-changing menu of cheeses plastered in handwritten signs across the glass storefront but it wasn’t shiny and expensive-looking enough to pull me in. One evening Robin and I happened to be in the neighborhood, we needed cheese, so we jumped at the chance to try it out. We were like kids in a candy store. Aside from cheeses, this plainly decorated, fluorescent-lit wonderland also had oil-soaked wonderful things like Sahadi’s. Murray’s didn’t have that. We ordered a half-pound each of a soft, not too pungent blue cheese, a tangy Bulgarian feta, sharp cheddar for mac and cheese, a small block of parmesan, marinated mushroom, stuffed grape leaves, and sardines. The total came to $40. At Murray’s we would’ve paid $40 for the cheeses alone. An extra ten minute walk was all it would’ve taken me. Laziness is expensive. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdWyUFYt-hPFtc5PwSFo5agD4MbSewoMlZhZK2hCbNYxFvpl1YpPnTTLL75X_ncQU9UVa31jx23q7KjuwoIndc_WoCYp_hlRSzzQgCuLAJMjotKAw8veUIHdKrgIvLxpNav7HapIqnos8/s1600/newyork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdWyUFYt-hPFtc5PwSFo5agD4MbSewoMlZhZK2hCbNYxFvpl1YpPnTTLL75X_ncQU9UVa31jx23q7KjuwoIndc_WoCYp_hlRSzzQgCuLAJMjotKAw8veUIHdKrgIvLxpNav7HapIqnos8/s320/newyork.jpg" /></a></div><b>McSorley’s Ale House </b><br />
In the 1970’s a group of brave women went to court to overturn a biased, backwards rule that did not allowed to them to go drink at <b><a href="http://www.mcsorleysnewyork.com/home.html">McSorley’s Ale House</a></b>. I have put those women’s efforts to waste. I can count on one hand how many times I visited McSorley’s in the six years I lived in New York City. I’m not saying it was going to become my watering hole—there are other bars that should’ve been that for me and weren’t like Lillie’s or the Austrian pub in the Lower East Side—but so many days my friends and I would wonder, where should we go and I don’t understand why once in a while one of us didn’t think, Why not McSorley’s? What the place lacks in beer varieties—they only serve McSorley’s Ale Dark or Light, served in half-pint glasses and you have to order two at a time—they make up for in atmosphere and history. The lighting is dim and seedy like an old pub should be, often crowded though rarely impossible to find at least part of a table if you’re willing to make friends. The head waiter is a white-haired old Irishman you’ll find smoking in front of the entrance as often as you’ll find in the bar serving up chips and pints. The floor is covered in sawdust and the walls are thickly decorated with dust-caked portraits of stern old Irish men, taxidermied animals including a jackelope, Houdini’s handcuffs, and most famously a wax-covered chandelier. I heard the legend behind it from Angel Aragones, a Spanish artist and surrealism professor. Apparently a group of friends about to be shipped off to World War Two each hung a wishbone from the chandelier. Those who came back from the war, claimed their wishbones. The ones left belong to those who never returned. Be Good or Be Gone.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiclB13yIVzHbukl_jciqXtKnxrb5eusoALuM3q84dQYRk151BSwLk_Ncc3PDltDaPxDCt2QWSTRNrVADDcsAxdxLhkOfKIeeYexcSfftv7K1cSpbj18XD2kmdwqpFpxBaOTElt0MFhhsx4/s1600/30807_925451261099_811113_51512649_184375_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiclB13yIVzHbukl_jciqXtKnxrb5eusoALuM3q84dQYRk151BSwLk_Ncc3PDltDaPxDCt2QWSTRNrVADDcsAxdxLhkOfKIeeYexcSfftv7K1cSpbj18XD2kmdwqpFpxBaOTElt0MFhhsx4/s320/30807_925451261099_811113_51512649_184375_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b>Essex Street Market </b><br />
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I never even went to this place. Its an indoor market in the style of the Chelsea Markets but infinitely cooler. The <b><a href="http://www.essexstreetmarket.com/index.html">Essex Street Market</a></b> was created in 1940 by mayor Fiorello LaGuardia. The idea was to get street merchants off the streets so that police cars and fire trucks could wail their siren’s song from avenue to avenue unimpeded by food carts. Aside from the usual collection of beautiful produce and breads available at most markets in New York, they also have stands that sell artisanal chocolate and candy made with bacon, hard to find Puerto Rican products like ajíes dulces, salted cod, and recao, fresh fish and meat, and you can even buy art or get a haircut while doing your shopping. This is top of my list on my next visit. <br />
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For more ideas on places to check out visit <a href="http://www.forgotten-ny.com/">Forgotten New York</a> or the Time Out New York <a href="http://newyork.timeout.com/">website</a> where I found some of my best date idea often for cheap or free.<br />
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<i>** I know the pictures don't match. </i><br />
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<b>Related Posts:</b><br />
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<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/06/lunchtime-in-puerto-rico-sounds-like.html">Soup and Sandwich</a>:</b> Lunchtime in Puerto Rico sounds like this...Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-79325506180227955192010-07-25T14:03:00.001-04:002010-07-26T10:09:39.457-04:00Fuera del Centro<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSZsXBHN-rViMdSj5546b0D7iGN0dzP-352tq11T6OG7V_04yhNKeGo4TR9EJVOoCg5UR145r0kS22PX223r2gJTULK3S23NRTZPDfQIdjBlUtHHqQYkY9xvrs5Nb2vaXbPtqsh50xopV7/s1600/n811113_34233777_5427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSZsXBHN-rViMdSj5546b0D7iGN0dzP-352tq11T6OG7V_04yhNKeGo4TR9EJVOoCg5UR145r0kS22PX223r2gJTULK3S23NRTZPDfQIdjBlUtHHqQYkY9xvrs5Nb2vaXbPtqsh50xopV7/s320/n811113_34233777_5427.jpg" /></a></div>So a second one means this is actually happening, right?<br />
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Sweet.<br />
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Here's my latest article for my column Escapadas (in Spanish), published in beautiful ink and paper on the pages of the De Viaje section of El Nuevo Día.<br />
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Basically its about what to do in Madrid once you're done being a tourist-- specially if you're looking to not sleep.<br />
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Oh, and I don't pick the titles.<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2070362475"><br />
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<a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/unanochedejuergaenmadrid-746962.html">De juerga en Madrid.</a><br />
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** I feel this picture pretty aptly describes what most nights in Madrid turn into.Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-78526504573631194292010-07-23T13:29:00.002-04:002010-07-23T13:34:29.328-04:00Nothern Bohemia: Part Two<b><span style="font-size: large;">Kladno</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8q0UC_ZMdgMlCbmZvkOIqGyu2jhMtsRHmpT9qiE-pUe2gj-t8HtQ1wvo7kG-Ol_jSRtblz503DOgwJ-Gk1CHksYmnmL0rw7RUX50EWnbL46_SyNmCLdl6rNZsMIuQKSpNPNgZgkQmZOcC/s1600/DSC01083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8q0UC_ZMdgMlCbmZvkOIqGyu2jhMtsRHmpT9qiE-pUe2gj-t8HtQ1wvo7kG-Ol_jSRtblz503DOgwJ-Gk1CHksYmnmL0rw7RUX50EWnbL46_SyNmCLdl6rNZsMIuQKSpNPNgZgkQmZOcC/s320/DSC01083.JPG" /></a></div><br />
After searching Google using phrases like “coats shoes hanging from the ceiling” “mining town performance art czech republic” my efforts at finding exactly what it was Otto took us to in the Central Bohemian town of Kladno proved fruitless. I searched Kladno in the New York Times online which turned up stories from 1939 with headlines like “German policeman slain near Prague; Nazis punish area” and lots of news about the Kladno soccer team. I visited Kladno’s official website but they’re not exactly flouting the abandoned mining facility just outside town that gets taken over by experimental Eastern European performance artists once a year. <br />
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So for now I really only have a story and some cool pictures for you, which is really all I ever have for you. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxyFf15wTCGLK1gEV3FsGTHuZwjMLgP-nXh4imFWSXv8UbAsIRlH4TLfKHEGFHTNHU34hYow8q44ahzLa87lclLXnRntSI83RTUdreevU6vR7NXVYz4sapKHg32wmk3WTureaq09juAvfN/s1600/DSC01044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxyFf15wTCGLK1gEV3FsGTHuZwjMLgP-nXh4imFWSXv8UbAsIRlH4TLfKHEGFHTNHU34hYow8q44ahzLa87lclLXnRntSI83RTUdreevU6vR7NXVYz4sapKHg32wmk3WTureaq09juAvfN/s320/DSC01044.JPG" /></a></div>We rolled into Kladno after visiting the bone chapel. (That post unfortunately will have to wait.) None of us had ever really seen a place like this. Back in the day before the Reds and the Nazis, Kladno was the main employer of the region, having both a coalmine and a steel factory in full production. Two World Wars, a Soviet occupation, and a transition into an independent republic later, people started getting laid off in droves. Which was fine, because those same people were moving to Prague and opening businesses in town, until slowly but surely the mine and the factory seized to work.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hIInHrOMcR6iXEY9o9GDbOFKCXw-9QkKsvLHqNQBvLeEbfczDObD1G-ht-KrCDTWjj_2wQh58R8AR7nw-L8ZWVLRI_Iwa5SZTBtMV6LMz-6OB1W94YbRZ_tViM5lOax3seow4-yHzO2k/s1600/DSC01045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hIInHrOMcR6iXEY9o9GDbOFKCXw-9QkKsvLHqNQBvLeEbfczDObD1G-ht-KrCDTWjj_2wQh58R8AR7nw-L8ZWVLRI_Iwa5SZTBtMV6LMz-6OB1W94YbRZ_tViM5lOax3seow4-yHzO2k/s320/DSC01045.JPG" /></a></div>The day we visited was overcast adding to the atmosphere of gloomy industrial wasteland but the buildings themselves were strangely beautiful. The structures of black and grey metal above felt perfectly fossilized and around us they were framed by a tamed and manicured nature. It almost felt like workers would be coming back from lunch any second now. In typical Czech fashion, even this dreary landscape was dotted with out of place color, like a bright orange and yellow train that was awkwardly small for the burly mine workers I presume it once took around. Or my friend Nick for that matter.<br />
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After Otto let us wander around like children exploring a new playground, he called us inside the main warehouse.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3npYGchxqT2eUhqBfLG7OdwBhx07WYtcb4wh_QkgIgd3Opsq4mBbt0N_j1PlIuPEH4Q-mMA8n_SiMax0r6jnGsWfWBN1wkBfVclo1XrwzS__pE8svMJlB4rY6aV5x-yd17aiTLINdBlfV/s1600/DSC01054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3npYGchxqT2eUhqBfLG7OdwBhx07WYtcb4wh_QkgIgd3Opsq4mBbt0N_j1PlIuPEH4Q-mMA8n_SiMax0r6jnGsWfWBN1wkBfVclo1XrwzS__pE8svMJlB4rY6aV5x-yd17aiTLINdBlfV/s400/DSC01054.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
We stepped into an art installation. Coats and shoes hung by chains from the ceiling as white light crept in from the high glass windows. The large space was divided into two halves, one of which had a giant print out of a balding man with a moustache laminated to the floor. We later learned it was a picture of Josip Broz Tito, the last dictator of Yugoslavia.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6UlDlWsa_g4gKh6NHNy0nWAvFTJLsNYg1oBN_VNzUE2tMe72QmiYHo4e3qzfA-gx89MtjtWb5aixI1nIPDnxwHMsK7nZFVwSsLPjwct0AUobwCjhVgdYMS81sIPKee-SlX_sAe6vOKkNx/s1600/DSC01126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6UlDlWsa_g4gKh6NHNy0nWAvFTJLsNYg1oBN_VNzUE2tMe72QmiYHo4e3qzfA-gx89MtjtWb5aixI1nIPDnxwHMsK7nZFVwSsLPjwct0AUobwCjhVgdYMS81sIPKee-SlX_sAe6vOKkNx/s200/DSC01126.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTynV4rHshTJiMyxgA7aixTKIw_w_RTzB3d0nD0j-dfflaGmRYSxcVZ0clWFZiN4OC6ohBngfihhNDVD3umTg3ARGP_l0l2kSt3Sjx0UbZ-cdTHJ7eJNPVU0dQDoV4waUdFrkad1oEWt4/s1600/DSC01124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTynV4rHshTJiMyxgA7aixTKIw_w_RTzB3d0nD0j-dfflaGmRYSxcVZ0clWFZiN4OC6ohBngfihhNDVD3umTg3ARGP_l0l2kSt3Sjx0UbZ-cdTHJ7eJNPVU0dQDoV4waUdFrkad1oEWt4/s320/DSC01124.JPG" /></a></div><br />
We moved on to the next room. So much of the decoration had to do with squares and symmetry and pushing the relics of the past to an extreme where they lost their sense of reality and became a reflection of themselves. In a way by modernizing the space, the artist had managed to emphasize its own condition as a ghost, a memory, a link to a recent past that was also completely alien.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZFxxyy2K3C9wNeVuB6v-pfAjFIu_E3cl2dRx_EaxVCBJKJZWiZeOZ1XsDos0OdgY_3JF94FJXqZRxMmqy2a_n8ivDwWCNRNOnCTAzxYMpG7An8Isgj9Y8SMvC_-RyRelyHhmeqS0u3Er/s1600/DSC01053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZFxxyy2K3C9wNeVuB6v-pfAjFIu_E3cl2dRx_EaxVCBJKJZWiZeOZ1XsDos0OdgY_3JF94FJXqZRxMmqy2a_n8ivDwWCNRNOnCTAzxYMpG7An8Isgj9Y8SMvC_-RyRelyHhmeqS0u3Er/s320/DSC01053.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Then we found a naked female torso inside a locker with the picture of a froglike man’s face attached to it. The tone was set for what would follow.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2S4yoT8W3cMVWVcFpLdEduafglf58-SabG8oVtbEwZje2NC0ayQoUdQhVmk9JC6mqOHwlvOMLZ9QD1Ua5WXZD4ewC8CR2IgNh0joBJEfUSFbJPBj2qIA-qymEyzam9p76Sd2gTI80DaR/s1600/DSC01058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2S4yoT8W3cMVWVcFpLdEduafglf58-SabG8oVtbEwZje2NC0ayQoUdQhVmk9JC6mqOHwlvOMLZ9QD1Ua5WXZD4ewC8CR2IgNh0joBJEfUSFbJPBj2qIA-qymEyzam9p76Sd2gTI80DaR/s320/DSC01058.JPG" /></a></div>After taking some dramatically lit pictures of the walls and each other, we made our way back into the warehouse with the hanging coats and the picture of Tito. A large crowd of people now filled the space and we sat on a long narrow bench and watched. <br />
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A man wearing a beret and a white artist smock was testing acrylics on the floor, while on the other half of the room a man with a beard spread a sheet next to Tito and placed a stool over it. The “performance” may have started but nothing was really happening so we walked around and chatted with Otto. He told us about a previous performance in this space where a Serbian artist took a giant flag of the European Union, cut out each of the stars with a razor blade then slit his wrists, pouring his blood over the flag as a protest of Serbia’s exclusion from the EU. Cool?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HCIFVFgL8alpPwkn1NQGEA0AcB7vQ9Qql8E8EQMHvH-Z_TgF4vM_FvOb-STUNB5P3H8-b4IvvvScLDztm11CUc_2ygq2qesbYwI3RGnvGMTEyQHxwDxWu_8Izu5oh4l9_b1Dh2iW6fzL/s1600/DSC01070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HCIFVFgL8alpPwkn1NQGEA0AcB7vQ9Qql8E8EQMHvH-Z_TgF4vM_FvOb-STUNB5P3H8-b4IvvvScLDztm11CUc_2ygq2qesbYwI3RGnvGMTEyQHxwDxWu_8Izu5oh4l9_b1Dh2iW6fzL/s200/DSC01070.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhcBlzTL3IS6FGhOfhm64rJ6gU6hMaxgEfNKksxggO7eBi5FjRGcGicLWPIAigWkJs5-DBmdsqe3uwhyphenhyphen76l86O4LafS2hVMQryuQ4DFe37uLLWqvzPHqJcz9HHmRCTSo7-fTrFGehcSZ6x/s1600/DSC01080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhcBlzTL3IS6FGhOfhm64rJ6gU6hMaxgEfNKksxggO7eBi5FjRGcGicLWPIAigWkJs5-DBmdsqe3uwhyphenhyphen76l86O4LafS2hVMQryuQ4DFe37uLLWqvzPHqJcz9HHmRCTSo7-fTrFGehcSZ6x/s320/DSC01080.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Finally the man with the artist frock stood up and started walking around the room. He would stop in front of certain people and scrutinize their faces. He picked a couple, then made his way to where we sat. He singled out Sofía, the other Puerto Rican in my class in Prague, who looked at him almost flirtatiously, coaxing him to pick her. Eventually he took her hand and pulled her into the center of his half of the room along with the couple. He arranged them into a circle facing each other then had each of them spread their legs. He placed a small canvas a few inches below each of their crotches then went over to one of the pulleys on the wall and lowered a large cloth tent over them. Their legs were the only part of them still visible. The artist slid under the canvas tent and got to work painting between his subjects’ legs.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaygUC7oeE6nIKUTmElLoA9kyvixjhid_obY4PG6xjKduZwr53j_k6JnzoWr8iyXzEZzVyksg3isZZeOs6KhX_4Js01GI6AziSEzpPYwlYIJPlQ-9bxM9ZZWw4Vw7wFl1i2Z1Z7JR6Wfov/s1600/undertent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaygUC7oeE6nIKUTmElLoA9kyvixjhid_obY4PG6xjKduZwr53j_k6JnzoWr8iyXzEZzVyksg3isZZeOs6KhX_4Js01GI6AziSEzpPYwlYIJPlQ-9bxM9ZZWw4Vw7wFl1i2Z1Z7JR6Wfov/s200/undertent.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLY_J9IfcMn8rLSZ7enUNBf8UCODlcsD8Py4iNPvrSjtadfj71QLO06oQgxWGHSrgfIVRcML-8VoOxhPSvfRQ8diPT0Bb2ae6KO-1dabTMKPMPSOUQgG-vtZZwYuOS9vhZrtO_uuT5Wppp/s1600/DSC01106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLY_J9IfcMn8rLSZ7enUNBf8UCODlcsD8Py4iNPvrSjtadfj71QLO06oQgxWGHSrgfIVRcML-8VoOxhPSvfRQ8diPT0Bb2ae6KO-1dabTMKPMPSOUQgG-vtZZwYuOS9vhZrtO_uuT5Wppp/s320/DSC01106.JPG" /></a></div><br />
And that was it for a while on that end of the warehouse. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0eutG12bYhcMfhJPxoNwWuakY0zi-nRBUpou222zm6bB4T9pCKPE1lwFpcMZKhdya10pojbFP5OdZ4Ke038bc-Jow8Z1fOqP2FhXxI0dnopxIfahl7msPObhqDIC8YVrHkR2iqeXvM0q/s1600/DSC01137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0eutG12bYhcMfhJPxoNwWuakY0zi-nRBUpou222zm6bB4T9pCKPE1lwFpcMZKhdya10pojbFP5OdZ4Ke038bc-Jow8Z1fOqP2FhXxI0dnopxIfahl7msPObhqDIC8YVrHkR2iqeXvM0q/s200/DSC01137.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvngcjaXOqzj18Pf7CUBra64FPZ3-45VIrU6a0VK5C79E62GSfbCXkwRVEEWoGmExA4aYWoXtIWz5gTFSVZwyCcW6byWLcEqehIUL-7DNrzWqE89c36-igSQL7iw1_VSB8dYbCdmT5oa6/s1600/DSC01145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvngcjaXOqzj18Pf7CUBra64FPZ3-45VIrU6a0VK5C79E62GSfbCXkwRVEEWoGmExA4aYWoXtIWz5gTFSVZwyCcW6byWLcEqehIUL-7DNrzWqE89c36-igSQL7iw1_VSB8dYbCdmT5oa6/s320/DSC01145.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We made our way to the other side where the bearded man now sat on a chair, a white cloth tied around his neck. A woman with an electric razor started shaving him. As his beard came off and only a moustache remained he began to imitate the head tilt and angle of Tito’s portrait. The similarity between the two was uncanny.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqnn_5Q9NiFXR8ZprvQPfzpU0SzF19m2nss2upd52ME9uVGSOJj-rEJzb09_Kt7GjjwlDdgPpK84yFX0PT9n3Ai2aCn8ug5FZm4gg0QZr5WglM7Cenk7XRcGNk33nq5b7dDCBig0Ig5iR/s1600/DSC01150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqnn_5Q9NiFXR8ZprvQPfzpU0SzF19m2nss2upd52ME9uVGSOJj-rEJzb09_Kt7GjjwlDdgPpK84yFX0PT9n3Ai2aCn8ug5FZm4gg0QZr5WglM7Cenk7XRcGNk33nq5b7dDCBig0Ig5iR/s320/DSC01150.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Once the beard, cloth, and stool had been removed, the Tito look-alike went over to one of the pulleys and brought down a leather jumpsuit with ice skates attached at the legs.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtDlqKWO90DZhYeO4QQdjbgdRcF1n_j8FtLNJ2yxRidOVdhhMGkTAZ3QBvE43wyGfIAF-hKml0neAlaMvTs5bOUIsnunb5jOmvnfk8iblZWre12k_nnc6V5q3MTVo0k43Y43fP6VnsNDc/s1600/DSC01157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtDlqKWO90DZhYeO4QQdjbgdRcF1n_j8FtLNJ2yxRidOVdhhMGkTAZ3QBvE43wyGfIAF-hKml0neAlaMvTs5bOUIsnunb5jOmvnfk8iblZWre12k_nnc6V5q3MTVo0k43Y43fP6VnsNDc/s320/DSC01157.JPG" /></a></div>He also lowered some chains over the portrait of Tito. Taking off his shirt and pants, he put on the leather jumpsuit and precariously got to his feet. Pigeon-toed, he waddled over to the chains, grabbed on and started swinging over the portrait of Tito, slashing it with the ice skates, the sound of sharp metal against concrete a repetitive dry hiss, the crowd hushed observing him. He stopped and was handed a large bottle of water. He took a big gulp and spit it all over the picture in a loud spurt. He did this several times then just started pouring the water on the ground with something like rage. Again he grabbed the chains, swung around slipping and sliding over the face of the Yugoslav dictator, shredding his face—that looked like his own face—with the ice skates. When he was sufficiently rid of his anger, he stopped and everyone applauded.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXTG3S0ICZbMMet3rAlRLE-Vanp2apnwdoJ5Y-b-rSQKkoD31e000hEuve3JrsiehgJM59Z5OUwZ7nohlUe2eOgVE8WCBpF-ORDOyPbsmgycciTi_nGE5rojPyLqjctppSHX8ygF8PRfG/s1600/DSC01162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXTG3S0ICZbMMet3rAlRLE-Vanp2apnwdoJ5Y-b-rSQKkoD31e000hEuve3JrsiehgJM59Z5OUwZ7nohlUe2eOgVE8WCBpF-ORDOyPbsmgycciTi_nGE5rojPyLqjctppSHX8ygF8PRfG/s320/DSC01162.JPG" /></a></div><br />
This wasn’t weird at all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKy1GT5Lzn7joQ07h-UN0j_71EN2IElvNW2v5cKtI605HZWWWLNi31YiHPbaIjxedLiOkzJ_kU-ISPzjuplv_2tbjuYBjaglZ-yPz3NtkREF0R_SP208NrE3UP73dbYpjzTpZYsX0oBas/s1600/DSC01164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKy1GT5Lzn7joQ07h-UN0j_71EN2IElvNW2v5cKtI605HZWWWLNi31YiHPbaIjxedLiOkzJ_kU-ISPzjuplv_2tbjuYBjaglZ-yPz3NtkREF0R_SP208NrE3UP73dbYpjzTpZYsX0oBas/s320/DSC01164.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUMilgRUdmn5CP2yUYYzNXKikcAqYyHPMLoZlJ6eXGwnXfcrU1VhyEu8yk6wbDcpuabk2SsEM7oBhh25MLD5O5TJpXen1npgud7WCIflXt5m0jGXIeEDZ-iU7Y2H1iUwB4b_T_SsrU7UR/s1600/DSC01168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUMilgRUdmn5CP2yUYYzNXKikcAqYyHPMLoZlJ6eXGwnXfcrU1VhyEu8yk6wbDcpuabk2SsEM7oBhh25MLD5O5TJpXen1npgud7WCIflXt5m0jGXIeEDZ-iU7Y2H1iUwB4b_T_SsrU7UR/s320/DSC01168.JPG" /></a>The crowd ambled over back to where we’d left our human canvases and after a little while the artist finished. He slid out from under the canvas tent and took off his beret, uncovering long, curly hair. He then took off his smock and his pants under which he was wearing nothing.<br />
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Otto whispered to us that he was actually a very well-known French exhibitionist. We all nodded in an oh-of-course sort of way. The naked Frenchman then pulled the canvas tent up and his three subjects sighed in relief.<br />
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He shook hands with each of them and they couldn’t hold back their surprise to find the man who had been laboring between their legs for the past 40 minutes was completely naked. He removed the canvases carefully and set them up for display in the other room. The resulting paintings were portraits of their genitals. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYh7gIIoNx0hVs4txbHTwyC5gCDl84yFlgXjl3zuq3fLD5ocE6Inye1ILXGX0jCEvzMg03L5fJCCNtHFVW_96KheNT7Z7WPE4ADNnvH5YXCim7scA7ZtfcDgDNc35JMlL1-46loO0IXWza/s1600/DSC01167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYh7gIIoNx0hVs4txbHTwyC5gCDl84yFlgXjl3zuq3fLD5ocE6Inye1ILXGX0jCEvzMg03L5fJCCNtHFVW_96KheNT7Z7WPE4ADNnvH5YXCim7scA7ZtfcDgDNc35JMlL1-46loO0IXWza/s200/DSC01167.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1hV9Wiveh1a2lSXExCYDePY0e9wecE3UGHQ9lX4tjKcZYU_w_kO1_DIGWL0NsUrOGl-nFNmWl-Nl4IiMQPla_k4yaaVpIM2M_T3PYZEM723gaQzDoURxAieiJ7DzqdnkdSF50U0I5OOh/s1600/DSC01114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1hV9Wiveh1a2lSXExCYDePY0e9wecE3UGHQ9lX4tjKcZYU_w_kO1_DIGWL0NsUrOGl-nFNmWl-Nl4IiMQPla_k4yaaVpIM2M_T3PYZEM723gaQzDoURxAieiJ7DzqdnkdSF50U0I5OOh/s320/DSC01114.JPG" /></a></div>The buzz of conversation started again and people began wandering back out to the lobby. Otto was sufficiently blasé about the whole performance piece and looked very much in his element amidst the artsy European crowd. We all felt slightly confused, a little ripped off, and that this was possibly one of the cooler things we’d seen. It summed up what we already suspected about Europe, its obsessed with two things: the past and sex. Otto would later confirm this at his own exhibition in Prague on late 19th century and early 20th century Czech erotic art. But again, that post will have to wait.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganw7-_RyE4nGcf2mUkGxpwYfN_nvCdAeEtRCoTEh2GXGYG8tCWc-C4MJntfV30STCgYshCO0BTx-08FEDmojYvr8jxdGZ3Z5MRC-REIwY1CHhGRlMOT4WUxsYZKiGG56yDpdHsU_U3d-l/s1600/DSC01172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganw7-_RyE4nGcf2mUkGxpwYfN_nvCdAeEtRCoTEh2GXGYG8tCWc-C4MJntfV30STCgYshCO0BTx-08FEDmojYvr8jxdGZ3Z5MRC-REIwY1CHhGRlMOT4WUxsYZKiGG56yDpdHsU_U3d-l/s320/DSC01172.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/07/northern-bohemia-par-one.html"><b>Northern Bohemia: Part One- Mosquito Mountain</b></a>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-54971251818309985292010-07-20T11:05:00.000-04:002010-07-20T11:05:22.193-04:00Why I impulsively bought a ticket to London<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EjYpTZ03XhqeLbEZpC9m_q_xGxzOMxD8TwEv9PcC4nT5nSEnpQDx8pUQubwz7_pMLa0lbmCILUqfmCd-cBhhJgo99ctIPE2nxd_aWarQl97ywmA7pjguWvvP4EsOOHz3qml7CW4NpY4A/s1600/n814346_35196549_1552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EjYpTZ03XhqeLbEZpC9m_q_xGxzOMxD8TwEv9PcC4nT5nSEnpQDx8pUQubwz7_pMLa0lbmCILUqfmCd-cBhhJgo99ctIPE2nxd_aWarQl97ywmA7pjguWvvP4EsOOHz3qml7CW4NpY4A/s320/n814346_35196549_1552.jpg" /></a></div>Almost everyone I know who has traveled even a little bit has a I-was-in-a-party-in-London story. This is something that I want very badly.<br />
<br />
OK, you're right, that doesn't quite answer for my 2am purchase of a ticket on Icelandic Air for a week in October doing God knows what in the capital of England .<br />
<br />
Would the fact that its my birthday week help?<br />
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You're right, its my birthday every year and unless I happen to be in a foreign country-- like when I studied in Prague-- still not a good enough reason for why I would decided this year I want to celebrate it in London where I hope my ex's friends will invite me to a party to fulfill my desire for a good story.<br />
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I guess my desire for a good story is kind of the bottomline. That and because right now I can honestly say, Why not?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4w44pRYSfKvEfDIMla4O2gE0Rbj7PX8IC-9lmhfKBHotdzJHnRcAQFdl_LiBd4h4dmgGrb5N37XjDzXBwApFBMwHKeA5BJNNSixlcnpfMziZ_f-5Dbz8qRyc6_Er84lGIgi9t4thPacTk/s1600/n811113_43700728_5557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4w44pRYSfKvEfDIMla4O2gE0Rbj7PX8IC-9lmhfKBHotdzJHnRcAQFdl_LiBd4h4dmgGrb5N37XjDzXBwApFBMwHKeA5BJNNSixlcnpfMziZ_f-5Dbz8qRyc6_Er84lGIgi9t4thPacTk/s320/n811113_43700728_5557.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Now that I'm writing about travel, it seems prudent that I should travel. Every day I read dozens of blogs by equally young, equally broke travelers who scrape and save or swindle their way into traveling abroad. They don't have those excuses of time, money, relationships, 9 to 5s, that so many people who say "I wish I'd gone there" or "I wish I'd done that" do. Now granted, it isn't that black and white. Currently I'm an ideal position to impulsively plan a trip to London-- did I mention via Iceland? Yeah, I get to spend a day in Iceland. I have no one to support, I live at home, a bed is not a requirement when I seek out lodgings in a foreign country (thought free or cheap is), and I've done this before. Basically, if not now, when?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFBclWwbtsQOIrc9YgzeewUPHGFs-OMAhyphenhyphenM-egOSl_OCu4phL7ALT6kZRQZsKCEVhCU3Ucn7QgGRnylYfz4HCmVtTkQsinAlCR08-OgKP9ChfpWXxiqNv8tNslb4zXS-jZrD-fK2Yf7Jg/s1600/chess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFBclWwbtsQOIrc9YgzeewUPHGFs-OMAhyphenhyphenM-egOSl_OCu4phL7ALT6kZRQZsKCEVhCU3Ucn7QgGRnylYfz4HCmVtTkQsinAlCR08-OgKP9ChfpWXxiqNv8tNslb4zXS-jZrD-fK2Yf7Jg/s320/chess.jpg" /></a></div>I had an interesting phone call the other day with Time Warner (I know, this can go nowhere good). I'd been fighting with my ex over an unsettled bill which he insisted he'd already paid. So I called them myself and turns out it was just a miscommunication but the customer service rep at one point pauses and asks, "Do you live in Puerto Rico?" I was still wearing my tone of indignation that I've refined for talking to customer service reps of major phone and internet providers and I answer righteously, "Yes."<br />
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"What's that like, if you don't mind my asking?"<br />
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Struggling to get the indignation out of my voice and confused, "Its great, some of the time."<br />
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This was a sincere answer and the guy on the other end, somewhere in Texas, laughed. I then tried to smooth that out a little because every Puerto Rican knows that you have to sell the island well, even if later you're going to make fun of the same tourists you demand love your island. So I told him it was nice.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAWXXQDsWtEWi_1K7rGiHoBEHmJKNY9TgoDqYeuhQao4sVzR5CrXwtP6Tf-88Ae4m-Vm-7oAdgqmDs4_8ypsQ-FyhX2nvxPv9WF9ojgAf6uDnBJ44BavaX5drhtkx1LLvmjoLvOTceGiY/s1600/n814346_35196461_151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAWXXQDsWtEWi_1K7rGiHoBEHmJKNY9TgoDqYeuhQao4sVzR5CrXwtP6Tf-88Ae4m-Vm-7oAdgqmDs4_8ypsQ-FyhX2nvxPv9WF9ojgAf6uDnBJ44BavaX5drhtkx1LLvmjoLvOTceGiY/s320/n814346_35196461_151.jpg" /></a></div><br />
"That's great. I'm planning on going there with my wife in February."<br />
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We then have a ten minute exchange where I recommend he rent a car and he says he just wants to lie on a beach, until finally this semi-awkward discussion takes a tight left turn to, "Would you like to make that payment with a credit card?"<br />
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I settle my bill and before hanging up the guy tells me, "I think this is a sign that I need to just do it and go to Puerto Rico. Thank you for inspiring me. And thank you for choosing Time Warner, you have a great day."<br />
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I was so taken aback and delighted by this exchanged I called back my ex to tell him he should mail me a check and for the first time in months spoke to him in neither a stern nor slightly angry voice. I was nearly giggly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhytworl74jmiBehXzem8HjX-wppexPwiQeK0PxjVT3Z_DF0eZteHmhp2bmpVUDZF0OjVp3jhhW2Qif9jVdzYX6s0_n4JTHZPgcP10PgupXHZWgTO-fhqC_8et_CcItiwlbLIXIpk64Pox-/s1600/37640_963110801079_811113_52962860_1507963_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhytworl74jmiBehXzem8HjX-wppexPwiQeK0PxjVT3Z_DF0eZteHmhp2bmpVUDZF0OjVp3jhhW2Qif9jVdzYX6s0_n4JTHZPgcP10PgupXHZWgTO-fhqC_8et_CcItiwlbLIXIpk64Pox-/s320/37640_963110801079_811113_52962860_1507963_n.jpg" /></a></div>Traveling is an investment, as I once tried to convince a friend of mine who was debating whether to chase the then man of her dreams who resided in Austria. The many annoyingly happy and Twitter-obsessed bloggers I follow will atest to this. So for me this trip to London is a step in their direction. Maybe next time it'll be Libya where my friend's family lives or Moscow or Seoul both of which hold a strange fascination for me, or a road trip around Spain... Other people are going so far as the Middle East and Australia, London is about as far from Puerto Rico as LA.<br />
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I don't know how long this will be sustainable or how prudent my impulsiveness is as a long-term planning mechanism, but for now I feel inspired and I have no reason not to go. And if I do have a reason not to go, hopefully my travel insurance will cover. Should be OK.<br />
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Did I mention I'm spending a day in Iceland??Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-86653733181515272052010-07-14T08:39:00.003-04:002010-07-22T10:04:55.518-04:00Northern Bohemia: Part One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxdLXFz7kBwfjvoqBkQMh0y_Tdw9Cfhap2LjmHlH7Yfq370p0dAic4cenc9K9eRYtd73JHeS0ieRYIXDKpzIw0fDI0hRGPUu_xfclKJY7UJcsooWx77utiCV0UI9VxxTgsaQNNoR39txP/s1600/n811007_33543287_4343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxdLXFz7kBwfjvoqBkQMh0y_Tdw9Cfhap2LjmHlH7Yfq370p0dAic4cenc9K9eRYtd73JHeS0ieRYIXDKpzIw0fDI0hRGPUu_xfclKJY7UJcsooWx77utiCV0UI9VxxTgsaQNNoR39txP/s320/n811007_33543287_4343.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Mosquito Mountain</b></span><br />
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Northern Bohemia is a region north of Prague where fourteen NYU film students spent 48 hours they would have otherwise spent in clubs and bars. But when our professor Otto Urban—a Czech art historian and curator who is as cool as his name—told us he was taking us to Northern Bohemia, it didn’t set up much in terms of expectations. When we pressed him for details he said things like mosquito mountain, bone chapel, mining town performance art piece… In other words, we really just had to trust his judgment on this.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLR_OvpVuWL_wBmuyIgPFyBbrA4lsgo9KSl1_FG-4NecGLd0eKY12iCH5ywXE5eHDz0Sv2yq-QCAqzIWiL3JjpoigGCzvShOyupioKmCb0oicZFeyUzBSKnr_LsOJJPfUMZ_3GKoZnHARe/s1600/n811007_33543292_5778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLR_OvpVuWL_wBmuyIgPFyBbrA4lsgo9KSl1_FG-4NecGLd0eKY12iCH5ywXE5eHDz0Sv2yq-QCAqzIWiL3JjpoigGCzvShOyupioKmCb0oicZFeyUzBSKnr_LsOJJPfUMZ_3GKoZnHARe/s320/n811007_33543292_5778.jpg" /></a></div>So early one Saturday morning we loaded onto a bus. On our way, we stopped by a picturesque little house on the slopes of a town just outside the city where Otto stood, dressed in his uniform of khaki pants, blue shirt, and black vest, his long grey hair pulled into a ponytail, smoking a Camel Blue cigarette. He climbed in and as we drove away as his beautiful wife (our Czech language teacher) and their two perfect children waved goodbye to us. <br />
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The first mountain Otto took us to had what he promised us— in his casual, I-know-many-things-which-makes-me-very-sexy sort of way—Darwin had called the most beautiful place he’d ever seen. As able-bodied young people, a hike up a mountain with a forty-year-old chain smoker sounded like a walk in the park. Twenty-five minutes later, as we dragged ourselves higher and higher at a slower and slower pace, Otto waited patiently, smoking, while we caught our breath then continued upward at a good clip. A group old people also passed us on the way up. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKipz1r6DCnqSBDp8sbb-gDlP-NqcBxiE0YE0191aP9V9rQgGBngh1gabSi6ewgOVqzYCIQNlNI-4cVTkAPwP0i5WwdMlqFcKtEOqSh0VtbIO9s7YcqCLqpEEHWaz6KLxVGB8F6z-smhv/s1600/n811007_33543291_5485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKipz1r6DCnqSBDp8sbb-gDlP-NqcBxiE0YE0191aP9V9rQgGBngh1gabSi6ewgOVqzYCIQNlNI-4cVTkAPwP0i5WwdMlqFcKtEOqSh0VtbIO9s7YcqCLqpEEHWaz6KLxVGB8F6z-smhv/s320/n811007_33543291_5485.jpg" /></a></div>We were rewarded at the top with a wooden table to sit at, a friendly black and white cat, and a breathtaking view. Green mountains asserted themselves gently through a hazy fog, the light of the morning still casting a golden glow on everything. We ate some sandwiches and played with the cat then headed back down. <br />
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A little past noon we pulled into Casanova’s chalet, a mansion in a sleepy little town where the great lover had spent his final years. The chalet featured some of the largest medieval weapons I’ve yet seen (think those balls with spikes on a chain attached to a stick and an executioner’s ax—why Casanova collected these things is disturbing to me). The chalet was also full of lavishly decorated bedrooms, of course, and secret rooms behind bookshelves where wax figures of the master lovemaker showed him in the middle of… writing at a desk (apparently he did other things aside from lots of women). The James Bond of his time even left behind a pink chair with a rose on it that when touched by a man gives him the abilities of a great lover. Girls aren’t allowed to touch it. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEkKolrz2eMjXZfPpaw3Ff1Bycp0THFpVWph2bF7jd1jVvT2GgHz73e7qONp1JDZ_-IAHRFwVrseFqNg3CnhsK5-l7R5QYufO_9L21_6YOfNciBMy0nFXzhhmW7mv4h4mXLfl9tZzPThI/s1600/DSC00971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEkKolrz2eMjXZfPpaw3Ff1Bycp0THFpVWph2bF7jd1jVvT2GgHz73e7qONp1JDZ_-IAHRFwVrseFqNg3CnhsK5-l7R5QYufO_9L21_6YOfNciBMy0nFXzhhmW7mv4h4mXLfl9tZzPThI/s320/DSC00971.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZychIMdupt3zV79xuZB6OAciqbTcvKWmzZfQnnNwgBefQmS6SZ829ReJW4z8weyzZI_kf-lebXLAH6pQvIRucxulq1NTV9meT50oZhsQvTDu2UCgdEBYOOUT7MvIVpQOS7O02rMHHT1DF/s1600/n811007_33543295_6653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZychIMdupt3zV79xuZB6OAciqbTcvKWmzZfQnnNwgBefQmS6SZ829ReJW4z8weyzZI_kf-lebXLAH6pQvIRucxulq1NTV9meT50oZhsQvTDu2UCgdEBYOOUT7MvIVpQOS7O02rMHHT1DF/s320/n811007_33543295_6653.jpg" /></a></div>We wandered around the surrounding town a bit then headed to the next mountain on schedule: Mosquito Mountain. We were deposited in a little station at the based of the mountain. Among its charms, Mosquito Mountain has the longest ski lift in the Czech Republic. So splitting up into pairs, we sat on the old wooden chairs that creaked when they swung and took off. The view opened up behind us the higher we went. The trees, sometimes close enough to touch, sometimes twenty feet below us, were already starting to turn fall colors and when we weren’t riding over forest, wide green fields spread out under our feet. At the top, Otto, who rode the lift with us, pointed out the German border not too far away. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSG3_CDmAZlZkVUREH_ScgIlE9AIQk2-MqBBgbny0C-0GdKa-_yxC8stH5KleCrgk347VOYqcKoksrDPXqd6XbJLUBUImZwJ7OUkGySuhdgkx6Pvuylrcc5v-xkm9LL790zBf6Kw2Of4m/s1600/DSC00989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSG3_CDmAZlZkVUREH_ScgIlE9AIQk2-MqBBgbny0C-0GdKa-_yxC8stH5KleCrgk347VOYqcKoksrDPXqd6XbJLUBUImZwJ7OUkGySuhdgkx6Pvuylrcc5v-xkm9LL790zBf6Kw2Of4m/s320/DSC00989.JPG" /></a>The only thing at the top of Mosquito Mountain was a hunting lodge where we would spend the night. Pelts, taxidermied birds and rodents, and the heads of deer and wild boars decorated the raw wooden walls and floors. A giant dog slept on a bear pelt it could easily have hunted. We were the only guests. The bus driver joined us for dinner in the inn’s restaurant and Otto headed the table announcing that NYU would be picking up the tab for the food (drinks were on us). Suddenly this became an all-you-can-eat buffet. The menu listed entrees like venison stew and wild boar rings, as well as a long array of starchy sides like bread dumplings, potato pancakes, and that lovely sweet and sour cabbage that accompanied every meal I had at a restaurant in the Czech Republic. The portions were huge but that didn’t stop some of the boys from ordering an additional pork shoulder because the meat was just falling off the bones. We chased this down with large pints of Pilsner Urquell, Staropraamen, and Kozel and topped it off with a dessert each. Sixteen people ate that night, 1.5 entrees each plus sides and dessert; the total bill was $300… <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIh6VYDLZKEAK7_moPrcISOB8QS6Ky0CQbTwYpose1wnJW90KhBCy1va_zHalZBnAqaWD_j1-bUyah3N4HOMRvE1IogGOmxM24AmNozR3v1YynyoxUQ3jTQwYVXi82S5khbfoh3Zqew5ka/s1600/n811007_33543308_593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIh6VYDLZKEAK7_moPrcISOB8QS6Ky0CQbTwYpose1wnJW90KhBCy1va_zHalZBnAqaWD_j1-bUyah3N4HOMRvE1IogGOmxM24AmNozR3v1YynyoxUQ3jTQwYVXi82S5khbfoh3Zqew5ka/s320/n811007_33543308_593.jpg" /></a><br />
Like I said, with nothing else on that mountain except an inn and some woods, we eventually wandered outside where Jivko, a tall and very sweet Bulgarian, tried to spar with Nick, a very sweet martial artist who had trained in China for six months. Watching Nick kick at Jivko was impressive but didn’t do to entertain us for very long. At which point the group turned its attention towards the trees. <br />
<br />
Lee, Brian, and I decided not to go into the pitch-black forest not so much because of fear, but because we didn’t think it was that great of an idea. Everyone else did. Merrily did they venture forth into the darkness while the three of us sat around a picnic table finishing some beers and talking. <br />
<br />
As was recounted to us later, the group walked blindly through the trees using lighters and cell phones to light the way. They stopped sometimes to get their bearings and during a stop one of the girls took a step backwards and fell 8 feet into a hole. She screamed and her friend tried to pull her out and fell into the hole as well. There were several minutes of what’s happening, are you OK, what do we do. <br />
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Cut back to us sitting around mundanely star gazing at a picnic table. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAa-1bAhAtIaKEYpnEnYmfFlnsERHnKtax7-Tv1HIe5mepa-ChlPA3kakLp5q5PVonpdbv-9D15XjrQiadoFbkEAItwR-81Kz_PtiIWTOFQ_6z4Nwzw7Mp7zYPL1kbNq_iQAeXi6GtjfjF/s1600/n811007_33543304_9250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAa-1bAhAtIaKEYpnEnYmfFlnsERHnKtax7-Tv1HIe5mepa-ChlPA3kakLp5q5PVonpdbv-9D15XjrQiadoFbkEAItwR-81Kz_PtiIWTOFQ_6z4Nwzw7Mp7zYPL1kbNq_iQAeXi6GtjfjF/s320/n811007_33543304_9250.jpg" /></a></div>The boys above ground finally organized. Jivko grabbed onto a tree and they formed a human chain locking arms, with Nick and Matt, the two strongest, leaning into the edge of the hole. All of this in pitch darkness. <br />
<br />
Back at the picnic table, we’d been waiting for the intrepid group of explorers for almost half an hour before Brian finally blurted out: <br />
<br />
“Where are these guys?” <br />
<br />
A while later they crawled out of the woods covered in dirt, the two girls hugging each other, shaken by the whole ordeal. Nardeep, the voice of the group, laughingly recounted their foray into the unknown and danger. Still not sorry I didn’t go into those woods. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkSueQ5Yrp9wT-u-fRptUJmEty_HGt5yOnlGbrMk0gC4lQSEvv5JgYTnQpyCtgRR2OuXVNU7ERqKQPSJZpJSmObk0Y8y4SLTtOoPwBGriso2n_NuagCHxsahjICyvrMAH6s3Kygj0itaxX/s1600/DSC01000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkSueQ5Yrp9wT-u-fRptUJmEty_HGt5yOnlGbrMk0gC4lQSEvv5JgYTnQpyCtgRR2OuXVNU7ERqKQPSJZpJSmObk0Y8y4SLTtOoPwBGriso2n_NuagCHxsahjICyvrMAH6s3Kygj0itaxX/s320/DSC01000.JPG" /></a></div>The next morning they told Otto about it and he was greatly amused. After breakfast they were actually able to find the hole the girls fell into and realized the entire forest was actually full of similar holes. <br />
<br />
Otto looked down at the bog where two of the American students that had been put in his care were trapped in the middle of the night and laughed.<br />
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In the next chapter: Kladno... <br />
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<i>** Pictures courtesy of Sofía Gallisá Muriente, an excellent photographer and filmmaker. rojosofia@gmail.com</i>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-19524362568985030442010-07-11T09:24:00.000-04:002010-07-11T09:24:24.520-04:00I has a column<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2SGJxuDFzIoizSEIx3d0Sc9XxsYa6R6ZDD9LooGYoxQNftGZ8L6-1OqlQyNX5EfY_uwdxQ8t0kU5YNz1Vfsdvm5sCmZRfRRhCm8zDPXOWGc1A11C5R6WfZNExa2YHAhmM9c-_MSNTcaGb/s1600/st._john-t-c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2SGJxuDFzIoizSEIx3d0Sc9XxsYa6R6ZDD9LooGYoxQNftGZ8L6-1OqlQyNX5EfY_uwdxQ8t0kU5YNz1Vfsdvm5sCmZRfRRhCm8zDPXOWGc1A11C5R6WfZNExa2YHAhmM9c-_MSNTcaGb/s320/st._john-t-c.jpg" /></a>Not that I don't love my blog but I have to plug the first issue of my new column Escapadas now in El Nuevo Día, the largest newspaper in Puerto Rico. The theme this week was The Caribbean so I wrote about one of the best vacations I ever had there: St. John in the US Virgin Islands. Its an awesome little island for camping, hiking, beach-going, and has a few decent pubs, as well as their own brewery.<br />
<br />
I'm a little nervous about it obviously since its my first piece fully in Spanish and its my first piece so think of it as an early Simpsons episode: the animation is still a little weird, the characters aren't quite there yet, but hopefully it'll have a long run.<br />
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If you get the print edition of the newspaper check out the spread in the De Viaje section. Let me know how you like it and any improvements you'd like to see.<br />
<br />
Cheers!<br />
<br />
<b>http://www.elnuevodia.com/comoperderseensaintjohn-739511.html</b>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-46384769626520121462010-07-09T08:30:00.002-04:002010-07-09T09:07:52.176-04:00Middle of Nowhere Little Towns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqxyFSDscvJavPxuHf7svDoC5dmRtZS8oe277U_bap-jiN6zbTeJ62S-GhWOJlG3-D7CqSoxYfIcHNRn28d0jt2HnplJFRqJGfKuKVzFNfn0swnS59vNYFk1ufGI8wReD3PPL1M7WAc-w/s1600/map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqxyFSDscvJavPxuHf7svDoC5dmRtZS8oe277U_bap-jiN6zbTeJ62S-GhWOJlG3-D7CqSoxYfIcHNRn28d0jt2HnplJFRqJGfKuKVzFNfn0swnS59vNYFk1ufGI8wReD3PPL1M7WAc-w/s320/map.jpg" /></a><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/andreamoya/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> Sprawling metropolis are always fun, as are days out in total wilderness, although small islands with perfect beaches probably head the list of desirable destinations. But few are the accounts of those little in-between towns, the one-road, semi-suburban dots that connect on the road to the big city or the big mountain. For road trippers and bored twenty-something year olds with a car, those middle of nowhere little towns are pure traveler anecdote gold. Here are some of my small town stops, what are some of yours?<br />
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<b>A Little Town Called West, Texas </b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF50xF1YrFPZ8vsULDdDyLiJDeSTLBwdfV7TG7EJqkrEwS8ifjrq3WpVzaYcjW9ItfEa1KBEc1JQ4YR_xmRobntYNO-uLI2kCG_TU9BRb0FLnILDJVkTDsHVFTkE9XtcswaGQLg80640hS/s1600/image06t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF50xF1YrFPZ8vsULDdDyLiJDeSTLBwdfV7TG7EJqkrEwS8ifjrq3WpVzaYcjW9ItfEa1KBEc1JQ4YR_xmRobntYNO-uLI2kCG_TU9BRb0FLnILDJVkTDsHVFTkE9XtcswaGQLg80640hS/s320/image06t.jpg" /></a></div>Somewhere between Austin to Dallas on the I-35, an old railroad runs parallel to the highway and leads right into what looks like a movie set for a western that was abandoned in the middle of the Texas desert. A large wooden billboard proudly welcomes you to West, Texas: the Czech Point of Central Texas. Pop. 2,694. Apparently that movie set was then found by some homesick Czechs who then added the word Czech to everything… There is a Czech Inn (get it?), an Ole Czech Bakery, a Czech Stop Gas Station, a Czech Collectibles Store... Obviously, this was where I needed to have lunch while on my way to Dallas. <br />
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I was traveling with my ex-boyfriend, who was already my ex at the time but we were still friends —long story if you’re new to this blog— and he was accompanying me to visit my brother up in Dallas before I took my one-way flight back to Puerto Rico. We stopped by the Czech Inn to ask for a restaurant recommendation then ambled down to the main street. The buildings resembled low, flat barns painted blue, red or brown, a slight dusty haze over everything. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDn5PEv0bCJQu29JT4QQvRCM1L9aqhBiTReIiKXIsSTpYDiQLW3oEgV_16OXd5hNwBqL_g_m5-ssa1i_Bw-aE_VRrEzOzRNieQ7DUM8uIHSmTRTn5FxbyV2X8_QMtHXOA8HZBC1sD_Zs4/s1600/tomwest.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDn5PEv0bCJQu29JT4QQvRCM1L9aqhBiTReIiKXIsSTpYDiQLW3oEgV_16OXd5hNwBqL_g_m5-ssa1i_Bw-aE_VRrEzOzRNieQ7DUM8uIHSmTRTn5FxbyV2X8_QMtHXOA8HZBC1sD_Zs4/s320/tomwest.gif" /></a></div>It was around 3 in the afternoon so when we walked into the Czech American, recommended as some of the best Czech food in town, the place was empty. The afternoon light outside was so bright it made the dimly lit dining room, seem underexposed. The interior was all wood with high ceiling and tables covered in plastic tablecloths, The family that ran the place was having lunch then and looked at us with expressions of stale annoyance. We sat down at a table by the back wall under a chalkboard advertising a surprising variety of pies and cakes. A sullen teenage girl in a T-shirt brought us our menus. The cover read Czech – American Restaurant “Specializing in Everything You Love to Eat!” Feeling reassured by this promise we ordered some Pilsner Urquells while we browsed the menu. Along with stuffed cabbage and sausage with kraut, apparently we also loved to eat chicken-fried steak and chips and salsa. <br />
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I was on one of my vegetarian phases at the time but the only non-meat option seemed to be that sad-looking salad bar with about four options: sour kraut, cole slaw, corn, and peas. When I asked our sullen teenage girl if they could make the stuffed cabbage vegetarian she looked at me as if I’d just asked her to serve me a small dog grilled. I ordered the meat-filled Czech stuffed cabbage that include ONE trip to the salad bar. As our teenager and another cook got to work in the kitchen, we took our small white plates and filled up on the salad bar fixings which were actually surprisingly delicious and fresh despite their lackluster presentation. <br />
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When the main event arrived… well, I mean, it was good. It wasn’t the amazing Czech food I got at the pub down the street in Nuslé back when I lived in Prague but it was serviceable. Overall our meal was like a bottled, imported Pilsner Urquell—its more about the idea of what it is. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNV3umKFLnOcNqz_YXjEQvbPn6z6XXtFdaxm1Fe6wbJIAYLaUkD9oXE_u6oCPf_berZ8La_rquEMQT1a-iWt1J2sBu5TdcJVu60ulUL9PkHBaqfahbSwH_dCRsVMan6spkeNKp8KCpTa_F/s1600/westlogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNV3umKFLnOcNqz_YXjEQvbPn6z6XXtFdaxm1Fe6wbJIAYLaUkD9oXE_u6oCPf_berZ8La_rquEMQT1a-iWt1J2sBu5TdcJVu60ulUL9PkHBaqfahbSwH_dCRsVMan6spkeNKp8KCpTa_F/s320/westlogo.jpg" /></a></div>We walked back out into the blasting sun like cowboys stepping out of a saloon, er, a Czech saloon, and went into the Collectibles Store where another teenager with a T-shirt manned the counter. It ended up being room after room full of antiques. Each had a theme: one was all mirrors, another all clocks, one all blue. Inside a room turned into a child’s bedroom I picked out an impossibly soft blanket for my niece and in the library room next to it found a Czechslovak Cookbook and, obviously, a Second Avenue Deli Cookbook for $2. <br />
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While we paid we asked this teenager, who was a lot less sullen than the one working the restaurant, why there was such a Czech theme to the town. Apparently the railroad had brought a lot of Czech immigrants to town and they had stayed. This was good enough for me. I took one of the flyers on the glass counter advertising Westfest, their yearly Czech heritage festival, and headed out. <br />
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Before continuing on our journey north, we stopped by the Ole Czech Bakery where a couple spoke with the half-blind owner about being Czech and the Czech Republic (not making this up). Apparently some of the older folks still speak the language. The bakery reminded me of a doctor’s waiting except instead of seats they had glass counters full of strudels, butchas, and kolaches. We picked up some day-old pistachio kolaches, much to the owner’s disappointed since they were so cheap, and made our way back to the car. <br />
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To this day I can only pronounce West, Texas with a Texas drawl. Wehhh-st Tehhhxis. <br />
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<b>Stranded in Dover, New Jersey</b> <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7E0s0Pz6gZFYzCxO26qXDIN1roUP-X3mGahu6LpGEIkdtggrCfG3PuTwazkjdd9plqt9_O5m43mAhRb4ziuha4MiVNzPCFLjh-918ON1XmZD9nCgBBQESkZe4Yz7UZH0dOSr256IxABz/s1600/NJT4418DOVERNJ-JAN1997-394845-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7E0s0Pz6gZFYzCxO26qXDIN1roUP-X3mGahu6LpGEIkdtggrCfG3PuTwazkjdd9plqt9_O5m43mAhRb4ziuha4MiVNzPCFLjh-918ON1XmZD9nCgBBQESkZe4Yz7UZH0dOSr256IxABz/s320/NJT4418DOVERNJ-JAN1997-394845-14.jpg" /></a></div>Back when said ex and I were still together he somehow won a three day cruise for two in one of those raffles they have where you fill out your name and put down your phone number and that’s it. It was an all-expenses paid three-day trip to the Bahamas, the only things we had to do was visit one of their agencies for an orientation on the services that they offered. No obligations, no strings, just come down, listen to their spiel, and get our three day cruise. Their New York office, though, was in Dover, New Jersey. So we scheduled an appointment for 8 pm on a Tuesday. <br />
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It was February and that evening we met at Penn Station where we got on a New Jersey Transit train. Our journey would last an hour, as would the presentation, and we’d be just in time to catch our train back to the city. We watched House and shared sandwiches I’d picked up from Murray’s Cheeses. When we arrived at our stop most of the train was empty. <br />
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Dover is one of those non-descript little towns with a church, a few houses, some businesses scattered around, and a bar next to the train station. Aside from the passengers getting off (which weren't many) and the taxi drivers waiting around, the town seemed deserted at 8 pm on a frigid Tuesday night. It was like the opposite of a cruise but a cruise was what we were here for. <br />
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We arrived at an office building and were led into a conference room where a number of other couples of varying ages sat waiting. A woman stood at the front of the conference room with a slide projector and tried to sell us on wholesale vacations. After forty minutes of showing us slides of resorts made affordable because we bought reservations in bulk, she opened the doors of the conference room and about a dozen salespersons swoopedin calling out last names. Each couple was assigned a seller except for us and the other really young-looking couple. We were told to wait. Since we still hadn’t gotten our information about the cruise we hunted down the woman who gave the presentation who half-heartedly tried to sway us with their discount package while we made excuses about having to catch the train. We were given our reward for schlepping it out there and scurried out back into the cold. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ud_uS5We3aGgmALCI1Q_XoroJ7AKqoizglhjL4IA5xZu9To4m0KTJ6ZVGpuGqQC4HB_d2UTttndHs3VprpA2Iepa4M8Jdd-gbteo_uP6bvzAqSWHxflesXLbwISaXPwAXHJY5ViHKsz2/s1600/baptista_mailpouch_dover_nj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ud_uS5We3aGgmALCI1Q_XoroJ7AKqoizglhjL4IA5xZu9To4m0KTJ6ZVGpuGqQC4HB_d2UTttndHs3VprpA2Iepa4M8Jdd-gbteo_uP6bvzAqSWHxflesXLbwISaXPwAXHJY5ViHKsz2/s320/baptista_mailpouch_dover_nj.jpg" /></a>When we arrived a train was already sitting by the station with the doors closed. We stood huddled against the wind talking about how awesome a three day cruise in the Bahamas was going to be. At the other end of the station were a rowdy bunch of Hispanic kids talking very loudly. A very long time went by and we kept our eyes on the doors, waiting for them to open but before they ever did, the train started moving. Suddenly I noticed the silence coming from the other end of the platform. “Did we just miss our train?” Only one door had opened at the front of the train and now we stood alone on the train platform watching the lit up words New York Penn disappear into the distance. The next train wasn’t for another 40 minutes. My insatiable ex was hungry so we decided to explore the town. <br />
<br />
Our first stop was the loud bar next to the train station. A bunch of clearly under-aged and severely underdressed girls walked in before us and when we reached the bouncer, because I was over 21, I got an orange plastic bracelet. My ex didn’t just me. This wasn’t sketchy at all. Inside the music was very loud. I got a table but we didn’t stay for very long because apparently this bar didn’t serve food. So back into the cold we went, passing the under-aged girls with no bracelets smoking with older dudes outside the bar. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRt2mVNfFG40JoFaP5CVSVYs4918s48GcYg8e_J6BaoMKXUBmJyo0rOoIt_5PrMTwAMHP0D39v_trEbQP-n4PP5sSVZtoD7dbSECpej94I-sUfjLL-q7UP6Jq8TRliFpqZGtrbcr1UAqp/s1600/Dover+NJ+Post+Card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRt2mVNfFG40JoFaP5CVSVYs4918s48GcYg8e_J6BaoMKXUBmJyo0rOoIt_5PrMTwAMHP0D39v_trEbQP-n4PP5sSVZtoD7dbSECpej94I-sUfjLL-q7UP6Jq8TRliFpqZGtrbcr1UAqp/s320/Dover+NJ+Post+Card.jpg" /></a></div>There was really only one street to choose from. We passed a church, turned a corner, and suddenly we were in Mexico. For blocks the only businesses were Mexican bakeries and restaurants, almost all of them closed or closing. We went about three blocks until we found one called Azteca. In the front the tables had chairs stacked on them but people were sitting at the bar and in booths near the back so we went in. Our waiter was a charismatic Mexican man who spoke good Jersey English in a thick Mexican accent. A few other men sat at the bar watching the telenovela. My ex was probably the only non-Spanish speaker in the whole place. <br />
<br />
Our waiter placed a container of spicy tomato salsa and tomatillo salsa and what I can't help but think were homemade chips. The salsas were good, they had the rush of spicy sauce without the lingering burn afterwards. Our laminated menus listed everything as costing $8. I wasn't particularly hungry but when would I ever be in Dover, NJ again at 10 pm at night again? That's right. Never. <br />
<br />
My ex ordered Enchiladas con Mole and I ordered something called Sopes. Our waiter joked and chatted with the other customers, every so often he'd come by our table to attempt to teach my ex some Spanish. His most memorable line all night was what he told a couple in the booth behind ours, "If you love a woman then forget about understanding her. Just love her." <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3eRFQSXEA4MZN4TPIxrsjywn4_RQ12BMU_VJgSheEGc1TLRsUtLNg8hyphenhyphenWmm9kgeiC2GcRZt7wN_mbFDYVYfhfgV7I3z9puFmC5MjDJVZBK6T1Ljs1Q6O1BAFKPpmH1GG5WnbGocTTG8m/s1600/sape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3eRFQSXEA4MZN4TPIxrsjywn4_RQ12BMU_VJgSheEGc1TLRsUtLNg8hyphenhyphenWmm9kgeiC2GcRZt7wN_mbFDYVYfhfgV7I3z9puFmC5MjDJVZBK6T1Ljs1Q6O1BAFKPpmH1GG5WnbGocTTG8m/s320/sape.jpg" /></a></div>My Sopes arrived first, just in time for the fúbol match between Mexico and who cares. Sopes are homemade corn tortillas, curled up around the edges with a layer of refried beans, shredded chicken, and lettuce lightly doused with mayo. They were incredible. The flavors meshed together harmoniously rather than fought for attention like some American Mexican food. The slightly spicy and sweet chicken was given center stage by the understated savory beans and crisp shredded lettuce. They were addicting and not heavy at all. <br />
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The enchiladas came out shortly after, four rolled torillas encasing chicken and drowning in dark-brown mole sauce. The flavor was flat, almost chalky, like unsweetened baker's chocolate but underneath that there's a richness to it that makes it incredibly difficult to describe but really interesting to eat. My ex ate almost the entire plate and fought his stomach's request to cease and desist, taking in half of the last enchilada. It was one of those meals that makes you feel all warm inside. <br />
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When I asked for the check our waiter looked disappointed, "Leaving so soon?" We explained that we had a train to catch and he said that if we missed it we could come back, he didn't want us to be stuck in the cold. We thanked him, left him a good tip, and ran back to the train station where we board the train back home. It was the best Mexican food I'd ever had. <br />
<br />
<b>Daytrip to Cataño, Puerto Rico </b><br />
<br />
I’m the kind of person that one night while I was still in college in New York, unwilling to work on a term paper, I went for a walk to Union Square and somehow ended up at the top of the Empire State Building. So one summer when I was in still in high school and going stir crazy from the boredom, I loaded my friend Jenniffer into my Jeep Cherokee and went for a drive. At first we were going to San Juan via the Martínez Nadal expressway and as I was about to pass the exit to Cataño, as I always did, I took the exit instead. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinabMYSp9MBHScwvcNhGa9igTmFHMzmlkJ0-8cZfkve-fdnVT8996q4xMnlJqf_d19XBG6E84mSha3jQxhmhGLw0M1uM22xMVlGz0CdsF2TVncOcyBikboMZkR26wt9XlOioyqRuEGluhx/s1600/98aa079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinabMYSp9MBHScwvcNhGa9igTmFHMzmlkJ0-8cZfkve-fdnVT8996q4xMnlJqf_d19XBG6E84mSha3jQxhmhGLw0M1uM22xMVlGz0CdsF2TVncOcyBikboMZkR26wt9XlOioyqRuEGluhx/s320/98aa079.jpg" /></a>“You ever been to Cataño?” I asked Jenniffer. <br />
<br />
“Nope.” <br />
<br />
“I guess that’s where we’re going then.” <br />
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Soon we were by the Capeco oil refinery. If you’ve ever wondered what an oil refinery exploding at 10 pm at night sounds like ask anyone present in the Metropolitan Area around the end of October 2009. It was a few weeks after the governor had announced almost 30,000 layoffs of government employees, a week after a general strike where thousands of people took to the streets in protest, and shortly before they created a position called Secretary of Government and gave it to the financial manager of the richest families in Puerto Rico. If someone had told me the explosion was a government tactic to distract people from their bad PR, I would’ve believed it. Apparently it was a gas leak, though. No one died and the fire was contained after a few days. But on that particular summer afternoon when I’m driving by with Jenniffer, the oil refinery was still intact. <br />
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Cataño is across the bay from Old San Juan and provides a, uh, interesting view of a sparkly industrial wasteland from the walls surrounding the Old City. What hadn’t occurred to me was that from the wasteland side of the bay you get a beautiful view of El Morro and the walls that wrap around the islet of San Juan. Around this point I realized I was running out of gas but I would get some later. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0t7E4wL0lI4HBMqUehlP1jX5IPOkdWoko1Fw-qqE_escRNZ5pzTygV9WRooZD0Mn9BWiIqVrv2kFK-aDjBUElsUpKDpxUTEJcW5plbM2FVz1pcV7xRiIr6-45cs1ExN7_S3Yn9RaXjt-M/s1600/fuego_catano_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0t7E4wL0lI4HBMqUehlP1jX5IPOkdWoko1Fw-qqE_escRNZ5pzTygV9WRooZD0Mn9BWiIqVrv2kFK-aDjBUElsUpKDpxUTEJcW5plbM2FVz1pcV7xRiIr6-45cs1ExN7_S3Yn9RaXjt-M/s320/fuego_catano_3.jpg" /></a></div>We then passed the Bacardi Factory, a large, out of place white mansion with a green lawn. I had no idea that was in Cataño! A few years later I would take my friend Mike there when he came down to visit me in PR. We’d take the free tour, get a history lesson on rum production in the Caribbean, and film ourselves in front of a green screen doing a “Bacardi commercial” we could then email to our friends and family. The tour concluded with some free rum drinks, a piña coloda, a mojito slushie and I guess the bartender liked us because he also gave us samples of aged rum we couldn’t finish. Afterwards we went home and drank beer. But at the time when I was discovering the existence of the Bacardi factory, I’d only ever been drunk once and I had no idea beer came in variations such as ale, lager, stout, pilsner. At the time I thought beer came as Medalla, Coors Light, Budweiser, or Heineken and they all tasted about the same to me. <br />
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Once past the Bacardi factory I was cruising down a long road with nothing around, a worrisome fact considering I was dangerously low on fuel by this point. We passed a gas station but it was on the other side of the road and I had to drive for a while before I could turn around and go back for the road to get gas. <br />
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That was the end of our little trip. It broke up the tedium of the day and foreshadowed a few interesting returns. <br />
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Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-66709216071163256892010-07-05T18:09:00.009-04:002010-07-05T18:24:53.140-04:00Guánica, PR<meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/andreamoya/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEPyALR_yR3ouEglk05cA1w2mWrA7K1E8fwfUSA3yVA93KuPxeHBTaQQ2WYhcPqttXAFKWwTxanzakc8UUdNBBrr2qCCR15rGLlFXg2gHO88GD3s6Gibc2i62LGKJcHhB5-TEMTKUo7KQ/s1600/Sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEPyALR_yR3ouEglk05cA1w2mWrA7K1E8fwfUSA3yVA93KuPxeHBTaQQ2WYhcPqttXAFKWwTxanzakc8UUdNBBrr2qCCR15rGLlFXg2gHO88GD3s6Gibc2i62LGKJcHhB5-TEMTKUo7KQ/s320/Sunset.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">The best beaches are the ones the pirates used to dock in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Cruising down the southern highway of Puerto Rico you speed down a road flanked by empty green mountains and farmed valleys, as large vultures called Guaraguaos glide in slow circles overhead. Pass Yauco—a coffee town painted pink and orange against the mountain— and take exit 116 onto a narrow road that seems to go on forever. Walls of trees, cacti, and green brush create a tunnel around you until eventually you hit la Central de Guánica. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> The rusting skeleton of one of the most important sugar refineries in Puerto Rico. Its two chimneys stick out from amid the trees, surrounded by metal structures slowly being consumed by the green. A still lagoon spreads out behind it.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U1_d09RrWMIfO4pPSpn4tYhgGNRugiEtNHQxSwTfvU55-7x4Z9kiCY2lRfUEUr9SBXJy_hY1aul9G0ywryQoV4iiyZK7rY-JM_3TxW1RgyeoHEYeDwR5WA8prF0xTcnD6bys4IdQLtdm/s1600/LaCentral2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U1_d09RrWMIfO4pPSpn4tYhgGNRugiEtNHQxSwTfvU55-7x4Z9kiCY2lRfUEUr9SBXJy_hY1aul9G0ywryQoV4iiyZK7rY-JM_3TxW1RgyeoHEYeDwR5WA8prF0xTcnD6bys4IdQLtdm/s200/LaCentral2.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLWsAQEChbyCLb2-MAudHrneoB3Fj7ZqSqGDABHQW-TJIqpVA-GdIlb44t-qSOiX_k1FOYOGvO5_14ElEV3_IF78rJAx6k0YBfXl0jJrl3M-3-MPtesqFtEcGDmQtgWN4aKhH_zhC8SL99/s1600/LaCentral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLWsAQEChbyCLb2-MAudHrneoB3Fj7ZqSqGDABHQW-TJIqpVA-GdIlb44t-qSOiX_k1FOYOGvO5_14ElEV3_IF78rJAx6k0YBfXl0jJrl3M-3-MPtesqFtEcGDmQtgWN4aKhH_zhC8SL99/s200/LaCentral.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Coming to Guánica is like taking a half-step backwards in time, with one foot in the past and one in the present. Across the street from la Central, the cement plaza full of kiosks selling fried food and our version of kebabs—pinchos—is your first indication that you may in fact still be in Kansas. The town behind it seems at a crossroads in time. Fishermen and their wives wearing T-shirts and jeans hang out on balconies fanning themselves, while skinny dogs lay on the steps panting. Chickens and roosters hang out around the edge of the street. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7oCiFQ0HPFMNuRYrhYv5GWtD44oHanok20A0U-cMNDuagJyx2RjOI9KsUEsIGVGkSmWcOZC_01pc8vzdKVzzBCkHIUaxlJyxXEOCgfTUIFoi7ezkLOwBK0z8tOY5KN_xy_fxDjxdRmj9/s1600/ChrisDriving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7oCiFQ0HPFMNuRYrhYv5GWtD44oHanok20A0U-cMNDuagJyx2RjOI9KsUEsIGVGkSmWcOZC_01pc8vzdKVzzBCkHIUaxlJyxXEOCgfTUIFoi7ezkLOwBK0z8tOY5KN_xy_fxDjxdRmj9/s200/ChrisDriving.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fngNsvlXoaFV3MXSQoF4gs2adsSn4OC_AFNateQ6B2rB81EWU_fMbSpff92FPBOJz7jXmAlrgDsW5T3QabvGyl7-tVf0PVUxJaV6W7DOXtzBt19M0PEeNwiyspUw9SYP4I7eIDeLePb-/s1600/MagicHourBay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fngNsvlXoaFV3MXSQoF4gs2adsSn4OC_AFNateQ6B2rB81EWU_fMbSpff92FPBOJz7jXmAlrgDsW5T3QabvGyl7-tVf0PVUxJaV6W7DOXtzBt19M0PEeNwiyspUw9SYP4I7eIDeLePb-/s200/MagicHourBay.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Further down the tunnel-like road is Ensenada— a community containing one of the better-known and more populated beaches of Guánica, Playa Santa. My grandmother always points out an abandoned one storey wooden house with an overgrown yard next to the church. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6J2VsP31OdrcoBmoQQ3EiRBwr0t1MGMwWAlUXXQwMH8RPLdii3qCAEbDoXSVKoVJEhaj6YAgkZ05NZ3NygN6iXNXopfVx1K5FMuW5ZkjN7zRx91XhnfjygQmCcNytZgJwSYGST5a8Oud/s1600/Church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6J2VsP31OdrcoBmoQQ3EiRBwr0t1MGMwWAlUXXQwMH8RPLdii3qCAEbDoXSVKoVJEhaj6YAgkZ05NZ3NygN6iXNXopfVx1K5FMuW5ZkjN7zRx91XhnfjygQmCcNytZgJwSYGST5a8Oud/s320/Church.jpg" width="320" /></a> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">“That’s the house I was born in,” she always says as we drive into town and as we drive out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">The location of that house seems to have a gravitational pull on my family. Since I can remember my family has been visiting Playa Santa, even buying a small beach apartment to escape to when we can. For me, this is home base. Except for long weekends—when Puerto Ricans’ uncanny ability to find any piece of vacant beach and claim it kicks in— the beaches of Guánica are broad and bear of people. They have been since the pirate ships docked there hiding from the Spanish Armada amid the small curving coves lining the bottom of Puerto Rico. And that’s precisely its charm.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSF77GED1r9sOTeAzhORoU7U2M3XaVoOeWDOCWoVPO9gdCkkATRwLzHzHJRpzEsPBFZqv_HexSNz_7O8N4dtPiCcT-ipTrKBCDa-x0J62zUiV6vQDln-EcYgAq7CqMehdmFbfzFKCflceW/s1600/FearlessAdventurers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSF77GED1r9sOTeAzhORoU7U2M3XaVoOeWDOCWoVPO9gdCkkATRwLzHzHJRpzEsPBFZqv_HexSNz_7O8N4dtPiCcT-ipTrKBCDa-x0J62zUiV6vQDln-EcYgAq7CqMehdmFbfzFKCflceW/s320/FearlessAdventurers.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;">While there are some hotels around Playa Santa, none are worth it. If you’re going to stay in a hotel you might as well go to Parguera or Mayagüez since clearly you’re not committed to what this trip is about. You probably also want bars and a nightlife. But Guánica is the place to leave behind the commodities and excesses of present-day civilization. If you’re a real pirate, you plunder a house.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Its common to see For Rent signs around the houses and apartments in Playa Santa, and like the fresh, local seafood, they’re cheap and good. From Friday to Sunday, a two-bedroom house that fits 6 to 8 people, furnished and with air conditioning, a short walk from Playa Santa and Manglillo beach will run you $400 total. If you’re going for secluded beach, though, I wouldn’t recommend going to Playa Santa or Manglillo unless you go early in the morning or for the sunset. Any other time during the day the crowds will be a constant reminder that you may as well have stayed in San Juan where the pirates work for the government.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uk3By13kkcLCX9VP94S1lyN9Qd2iQD2nuZ2lsdELLU9aJINwkHVj2fv6Bun5SA9S9MlGE9CFcYGmJsSnz3ox86qJBRhgzFY-9ZHKtMPbiandNN-iYM5MTKZlUVR1Y-KsMIUTnpr1tiLE/s1600/Photo0848.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uk3By13kkcLCX9VP94S1lyN9Qd2iQD2nuZ2lsdELLU9aJINwkHVj2fv6Bun5SA9S9MlGE9CFcYGmJsSnz3ox86qJBRhgzFY-9ZHKtMPbiandNN-iYM5MTKZlUVR1Y-KsMIUTnpr1tiLE/s320/Photo0848.jpg" /></a> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Leave Ensenada and get back on the 116 highway towards Yauco. Pass the exit for the Dry Forest—a must-visit if you’re big on hiking and deserts—and take the exit that says Caña Gorda. Up mountain on dangerously curving roads that snake around tight turns you face a distractingly beautiful view to one side and far too little space for another car on the other. Pass Caña Gorda, the touristy beach where parking will run you $3, and keep going until you hit an unlabeled beach by the side of the road. Park where you can. From the road your access point is a steep little rock climb onto the sand and if you’ve come this far you make the 20 minute walk to the far edge of the bay where the water is shallower and more transparent, the current less pronounced. Nothing but green mountains and a thicket of tall palm trees beyond the edge of the sand, the only signs of civilization the handful of local families who stay near the narrow entrance. But you will lose sight of them where you’re going.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">When you turn the corner at the far tip of the bay you reach a beach that’s half-ocean and half-mangrove. Birds fly overhead and you may see a large green iguana swim into the trees. A fishing boat sets anchor a few miles from shore but aside from that the beach is yours. Set up camp, open a bottle of rum, and stay between eras for as long as you want here— despite the gaggle of teenagers that somehow followed you and are ruining your pirate hide-out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">When you’re done being a pirate—unless you fell asleep on the sand and woke up in the middle of the night, in which case getting back is going to be fun for you since they don’t really believe in lighting their roads around this area and the guaraguaos never sleep— you can go back to Playa Santa. You’ll be greeted by the blasting reguetón from the one bar. Have some mofongo relleno de jueyes at El Nuevo Badén, one of the few restaurants still open once the day visitors evacuate, and the next day you get to do this all over again. With over a dozen beaches to choose from, some accessible only by boat, down in Guánica you won’t run out of coves to hide in.</span>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-30487149409529263972010-07-01T01:26:00.000-04:002010-07-13T08:47:48.695-04:00Cheat Sheet: the Caribbean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsk3bOVfBLpvniInQNgXakEOc5NzF6VaABulqdGvt0F_tYHFxNwMVIjJpSTXt6jVEqxu4XOW8X_bOZeWjzJ-SHggBabK14_MFJZQiJfda17ZXvm0TsQjcLOkAqiYKtf-ryERpF3DD4o4HG/s1600/34466_953097407999_811113_52591211_6430691_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsk3bOVfBLpvniInQNgXakEOc5NzF6VaABulqdGvt0F_tYHFxNwMVIjJpSTXt6jVEqxu4XOW8X_bOZeWjzJ-SHggBabK14_MFJZQiJfda17ZXvm0TsQjcLOkAqiYKtf-ryERpF3DD4o4HG/s320/34466_953097407999_811113_52591211_6430691_n.jpg" /></a></div>In honor of my new column, <a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/comoperderseensaintjohn-739511.html">Escapadas</a>, and the theme of the week in the De Viaje section of <a href="http://www.elnuevodia.com/">El Nuevo Día</a> here's a cheat sheet on travel basics for the Caribbean. Simple enough to follow and they will make your travel experience that much more awesome.<br />
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<b>Mosquito Repellent:</b> You know what mosquitoes love? Tourists. When I moved back to Puerto Rico I was in denial and figured they'd get tired of me after a while but for a good two months I looked like I had chicken pox. They get worse during the summer and they will find you at the beach. Not to scare you but there is also a type of mosquito that carries a disease called dengue. Fever, nausea, being hospitalized aren't much of a vacation. In my 23 years of life here I've never had it but a quick pitstop by any of our many Walgreens-- do not buy souvenirs there, for God's sake, I don't care how colorful and plasticky they are-- to pick up a bottle of OFF will keep you dengue and itchiness free while you do whatever it is you do in the Caribbean.<br />
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<b>Sunblock</b>: I know, no shit. You want your money back. But if its your first time here you don't want to mess around with this sun, specially during the summer. This is particularly important if you're at the beach where our perfectly white sand will serve as a reflector. I've seen Puerto Ricans turn purple because of massive sunburn, to the point that they're peeling the skin off their ears. I know, I'm really doing a great job selling the Caribbean but again, while you're at Walgreens just grab a bottle of Coopertone waterproof. You'll still get a tan, I promise, our sun is that strong.<br />
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<b>Passport:</b> Even if you're going to a US territory, maybe you'll meet some really nice rich people that have a house on St. Croix or find a really cheap boat ride to the Dominican Republic. No passport? Oh well, guess you can't go. My brother worked as a gate agent for American Eagle in San Juan for years and there was always one guy who didn't have his passport and there goes island hopping to Jamaica.<br />
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<b>Rent a car:</b> Just because its an island doesn't mean its small. If you really want to immerse yourself in a place-- from our biggest Antilles Cuba to a spec of land like Culebra off the coast of Fajardo, PR-- give yourself mobility. Cabs are expensive and cabdrivers are lazy so they won't take you deep into the mountains or to the other side of the island. A GPS is an added bonus but basic map reading skills should get your around fine.<br />
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<b>Make friends</b><b>:</b> This is surprisingly easy to do around here where even at the doctor's office the lady next to you will start talking to you and tell you her life story. Moreso at a bar or gallery or restaurant or dive shops. Just smile, say hi, and ask questions, have a few stories ready, and make it a point to express how much you're enjoying being on the island. The best people to talk to are bartenders, dive masters, and inn-keepers in beachside towns like Rincón or Cruz Bay, many of which are displaced Americans who decided to hell with the US and came down to Caribbean to live. Those always have great stories.<br />
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<b>Vegetarians:</b> Good luck. Just so you know, the rice and beans has ham in it. Your best bet may be to get a vacation rental or campground with a grill and cook yourself. Its not impossible to find good vegetarian fare-- specially in Puerto Rico-- but in some of the smaller islands it can be a challenge.<br />
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<b>Related Posts:</b><br />
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<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/07/guanica-pr.html">Guánica, PR</a></b>: The best beaches are the ones the pirates used to dock in...<br />
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<b><a href="http://tiburonzralok.blogspot.com/2010/04/how-to-slow-roast-and-carve-whole-pig.html">How to Slow-Roast and Carve a Whole Pig</a>:</b> Family reunion in Lajas, PRAndrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-57101400600927162762010-06-27T03:06:00.004-04:002010-07-05T22:32:18.819-04:00Soup & Sandwich<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJKe3IQhMcgRcUpYy43OpkFHA1SHvjpwVQpIsGbsgPevB6W_1eUIBGzHwcOuUYdRlVOIyzKuS44eCeT1jXV43JF4CMJf1dKbW8lPId69noEkoQmHVYn6VNriEqGyDvioum0icIgN4_hyu/s1600/ceiba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJKe3IQhMcgRcUpYy43OpkFHA1SHvjpwVQpIsGbsgPevB6W_1eUIBGzHwcOuUYdRlVOIyzKuS44eCeT1jXV43JF4CMJf1dKbW8lPId69noEkoQmHVYn6VNriEqGyDvioum0icIgN4_hyu/s320/ceiba.jpg" /></a></div>Lunchtime in Puerto Rico sounds like this: <br />
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“Me das una medianoche.” (“I’ll have a midnight.”) <br />
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“Un Cubano, para llevar.” (“A Cuban to go.”) <br />
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“Nada, un bocadillo y un café.” (Eh, just a little bite and some coffe.”) <br />
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Like most things, when translated literally the above phrases become almost comical but if you’re a resident of Puerto Rico you’re probably really hungry after reading that list. <br />
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The rest of your order might sound like: <br />
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“También me das un Mondongo.” <br />
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“¿Tienen Caldo Gallego?” <br />
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“Y un sancochito.” <br />
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Mondongo, Caldo Gallego, and sancocho are Puerto Rico’s answer to broccoli cheddar, chicken noodle, and clam chowder. Except there’s nothing light about having a soup and sandwich for lunch in Puerto Rico.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9ECwVBhi0n_8tSFKsB6vyTFnWNQTPN2L8lcPL2bZW9yjT7pxLrRzi2LA8J5qV3JLFnNqkBn6p407HPIJu_KlwPeXouDFavllFtfBHbUa4Ybn30aRwl5uFrNdCrE09S6bxntf2KRDLrl0/s1600/ceiba+order.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9ECwVBhi0n_8tSFKsB6vyTFnWNQTPN2L8lcPL2bZW9yjT7pxLrRzi2LA8J5qV3JLFnNqkBn6p407HPIJu_KlwPeXouDFavllFtfBHbUa4Ybn30aRwl5uFrNdCrE09S6bxntf2KRDLrl0/s320/ceiba+order.jpg" /></a>There are some decent America-style places in San Juan—Camille’s, Saint-Germaine, Ponte Fresco, to name a few— where you can order fancy ingredients like sundried tomatoes and spinach on 7-grain bread. But the real action is in the dozens of little Spanish bakeries scattered around the Metropolitan area. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HYeFu5z6qVcd_iGv-otBI9hGin9hVdFJnsYsLx1hprz4I9t8CregB33WHnGNSGtI28UidsKICYkJiXza-g3ym8wyOmQl5lPOt9gU43EGP8SIHRpk04xAg3v_-lJK3UkJRW2cvHItd3Af/s1600/DSC03630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HYeFu5z6qVcd_iGv-otBI9hGin9hVdFJnsYsLx1hprz4I9t8CregB33WHnGNSGtI28UidsKICYkJiXza-g3ym8wyOmQl5lPOt9gU43EGP8SIHRpk04xAg3v_-lJK3UkJRW2cvHItd3Af/s320/DSC03630.JPG" /></a>Spanish bakeries are the gold standard for breakfast and lunch on the island. They all have the same aesthetic: run down classy. The floors are generally white linoleum covered in black skid marks from heavy foot traffic. Glass storefronts have a bar or tables along the windows so people eating can enjoy the view of the cars parked in front. The glass food counters have their displays subdivided into stations: pastries and cakes (where you can also order coffee), savory pastries, and cold cuts and cheeses by the pound. Each station is manned by a young man who— after he’s done talking with the guy who makes the sandwiches or the owner— will scribble down your order. That whole the customer comes first business is strictly an American misconception. On top of the counter are glass boxes displaying fried finger foods like croquetas, empanadillas, and pastelillos de carne (see the Cheat Sheet) and the soup pots, if they’re offering soup that day. Then there’s the sandwich station where one guy is simultaneously slicing ham, scrambling eggs on the large griddle, and toasting sandwiches with a surprising level of efficiency. The walls are usually decorated with shelves sporting a deli’s-worth of canned and boxed goods, Spanish wines, and some decorations that allude to the part of Spain the owner is from. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9KOEOsPwENeTIPKlVCL-VVkCOQHl-_qyFRJmV4MOyUoWfGO9RsjjYUks5fteTopKj5bxKerNVGI8lUfjiI3CVk8P1ZDimvIT6fW4LVN90URIWJ9SXQsKt69Y-0HmBHsXN066mjRKl1MDL/s1600/choripan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9KOEOsPwENeTIPKlVCL-VVkCOQHl-_qyFRJmV4MOyUoWfGO9RsjjYUks5fteTopKj5bxKerNVGI8lUfjiI3CVk8P1ZDimvIT6fW4LVN90URIWJ9SXQsKt69Y-0HmBHsXN066mjRKl1MDL/s320/choripan.jpg" /></a></div>Asking a Puerto Rican which is “the best” is like asking a New Yorker what’s the best pizza. They each specialize in something and everyone has a particular sandwich and soup that aligns with them at any particular bakery. Its like the Zodiac, you were born with a sign and each month your sign is in a different “house.” So if you tend to like a medianoche (you’re a Capricorn) but you’re in La Ceiba (the House of Venus) then you’re probably going to order the Caldo Gallego (OK, maybe I pushed the metaphor a little far). <br />
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For the uninitiated, Kasalta in Ocean Park is a good pick. The aesthetic is a little more polished but don’t let that deter you, the long line to order is evidence of its reputation. While they’re pricey, you’re getting your money’s worth. Order a classic breakfast sandwich called jamón-queso-y-huevo (ham, cheese, and egg) on a soft white bread called pan criollo, a simple and delicious crowd pleaser. But if you’re serious about your sandwich, order the choripan: bright red Spanish chorizo sliced thinly and layered high packs a sharp, greasy kick balanced by a few inches of sweet ham, this whole umami bomb topped off by a layer of swiss cheese—all between two pieces of bread. (No, that’s not excessive. Why do you ask? Would you also like an egg?) The best part: after you eat, the beach is a short walk away. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmTOIe6-2wMwtgxxChyhGuyGBu3N0JNE-WqNPY3sgfWNiqWYSNH-vkudtvpgf657PPBPcZpKBeT-c8mGgQ8RwUycT0tAlDOg4ES5HFWSH8EKXLCoSaOPgQtGowH8Q7yc0o0I1myPDAoWD/s1600/Photo0808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmTOIe6-2wMwtgxxChyhGuyGBu3N0JNE-WqNPY3sgfWNiqWYSNH-vkudtvpgf657PPBPcZpKBeT-c8mGgQ8RwUycT0tAlDOg4ES5HFWSH8EKXLCoSaOPgQtGowH8Q7yc0o0I1myPDAoWD/s320/Photo0808.jpg" /></a></div>On the other end of the aesthetic and location spectrum is Altamira Bakery in Garden Hills, a hole in the wall up on the mountains of Guaynabo (my town). Altamira has no decorations to speak of, the tables are overcrowded, and the guy who takes your order doesn’t like you, but it’s all worth it. The Cubano is the sandwich to get there—juicy sliced pork folded over sweet ham, topped with an inch of swiss cheese, pickles and mustard. Each flavor is both distinct and in harmony, the bread barely containing the juiciness of the meat. The croqueta sandwich also comes highly recommended if freebasing cholesterol is your thing. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagW9KbHryrfrOCJo1zSfFMK2knUrp_UxWksa9fl9Mf6trhyphenhyphendcWU4MUCQ1cZJB587_aZftF8GDWrSrwU2Yiyn81d5IxSMvwPIOXQmy84XHvxe9mwCNfpMjyIUpBcmkmK3Bj2ZHLVFDSDsp/s1600/Photo0796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagW9KbHryrfrOCJo1zSfFMK2knUrp_UxWksa9fl9Mf6trhyphenhyphendcWU4MUCQ1cZJB587_aZftF8GDWrSrwU2Yiyn81d5IxSMvwPIOXQmy84XHvxe9mwCNfpMjyIUpBcmkmK3Bj2ZHLVFDSDsp/s200/Photo0796.jpg" width="181" /></a></div>For a solid soup, visit one of the granddaddies of Spanish bakeries: El Antiguo Bilbao on Franklin Roosevelt Avenue. Their crowning glory is their Mondongo, a beautifully seasoned tripe soup that keep you on your toes. The pieces of tripe vary between melting in your mouth softness to tough chewiness and there’s a lot of them in the thick broth. Touch it up with some Tabasco sauce for a kick. <br />
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And the crowning jewel, in my short list, of Spanish Bakeries: La Ceiba. Just down the street from Antiguo Bilbao, the thing to get at this bakery is the Caldo Gallego. Each spoonful of this stew packs shredded cabbage, diced ham, and occasionally a little wheel of Spanish chorizo balanced with the smooth starchiness of white beans and potatoes. Served in a clay bowl with a roll of pan de agua, it’s a full meal and should be accompanied by either a glass of red wine or a beer. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_m97K4kilL3T00y0p6qCdsDDQcM7sTTqDEzr8qvnw6yK6nfhHzhoxq9Ov2sT5hxBXgbgFdeb88lUAIipk2wBcY0xJrsWnQLC4O7yFPiWuFCZC8WrmAL7HSPWV8W9uPB7siz_1Sjz3RWx/s1600/caldogallego.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_m97K4kilL3T00y0p6qCdsDDQcM7sTTqDEzr8qvnw6yK6nfhHzhoxq9Ov2sT5hxBXgbgFdeb88lUAIipk2wBcY0xJrsWnQLC4O7yFPiWuFCZC8WrmAL7HSPWV8W9uPB7siz_1Sjz3RWx/s320/caldogallego.jpg" /></a></div>While eating like this every day will probably kill you, these lunchtime gems are what are called “gustazos,” which roughly translates into real treats. And when you walk into one of these Spanish bakeries you have to do as you would in Spain: check your guilt at the door, you’re here to enjoy. Go to church and sweat it out later. <br />
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If you’ve been to any of these, what’s you sandwich and/or soup of choice? Where else would you recommend for this kind of fare?Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-31945030584799416382010-06-25T02:48:00.034-04:002010-06-25T03:42:37.850-04:00Block Island, RI<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfcjpv-kQzYevwIwdfApBMqtU5PsYj_WdXSTrnwsaMJ6qoxTuwio0VZoCFkqgQxnZHPDhWF_tDPtR-Q40VHYXLxtaZDBME3WANw2orOPNjujJj20tdoRyLwNydCPRZkSnO8ZyDYdupf_4/s1600/oldharbor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfcjpv-kQzYevwIwdfApBMqtU5PsYj_WdXSTrnwsaMJ6qoxTuwio0VZoCFkqgQxnZHPDhWF_tDPtR-Q40VHYXLxtaZDBME3WANw2orOPNjujJj20tdoRyLwNydCPRZkSnO8ZyDYdupf_4/s320/oldharbor.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;">“I love Block Island!” bellowed a half-drunken hillbilly wearing brightly colored shorts, a cowboy hat, and sunglasses. Crowds of people flowing onto the dock cheered back their consensus as the locals snickered and rolled their eyes. It was noon and the tourists were already drunk while everyone else was just relieved to finally be “on the island.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.blockislandinfo.com/">Block Island</a>, that is. On Memorial Day weekend I stepped off the New London ferry onto Rhode Island’s answer to my island’s Culebra. BI is where New Englanders go to drink and eat by the beach, but for many Rhode Islanders—the “locals”—this is their second home, where they come eat and drink by their houses and occasionally the beach. My friend Willis’ family had very graciously invited me up for the weekend and I’d jumped at the opportunity. Despite this being my first time here, Willis assured me, “Don’t worry, you’re a local.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">That’s lesson number one when visiting an island, any island (mine included): you always want to be a local.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlg1lsgRXwf6NlRkr-e3BKE6sm9VW0wdqRjaGnUSeRFnbvO5BRHZGu1IUfsNpPmbEgKcYYayyhjvuHDvmjpYENBAiPwYRi9LquEeVZPD23saVDDgprrnHOD5O8H76FABw70ykeeUmWjvBw/s1600/3812216939_40aa9d5967.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlg1lsgRXwf6NlRkr-e3BKE6sm9VW0wdqRjaGnUSeRFnbvO5BRHZGu1IUfsNpPmbEgKcYYayyhjvuHDvmjpYENBAiPwYRi9LquEeVZPD23saVDDgprrnHOD5O8H76FABw70ykeeUmWjvBw/s320/3812216939_40aa9d5967.jpg" /></a>“So what is there to do around here?” I asked, climbing into the family’s Jeep. The island is small but not that small, to get around you need a car or at the very least a bike.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Well,” replied Willis, sporting aviator sunglasses and a fishing hat— which to me defines Rhode Island cool—, “there’s pretty things to look at. And there’s <a href="http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/150/43988">Block Island Blondies</a>, which you will try.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">And that’s about right. Unless you’re a hillbilly in loud shorts, the reason to come to Block Island is to slow down, drink some Blondies, and chill out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2AS20x-BCsP2nNNYtZ5nOFaLMS_oteqxQ5Jtob1zmV5cVmq92hUAtgc-tKl5Ebyfm2i3LdFTvfJAPsOOtim2Z22H4sdrD6tX91vMp5qGYR5yFSMdJMM29ktGYPFzQMZUhJsnZUe8e5u2/s1600/willis+on+rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2AS20x-BCsP2nNNYtZ5nOFaLMS_oteqxQ5Jtob1zmV5cVmq92hUAtgc-tKl5Ebyfm2i3LdFTvfJAPsOOtim2Z22H4sdrD6tX91vMp5qGYR5yFSMdJMM29ktGYPFzQMZUhJsnZUe8e5u2/s320/willis+on+rock.jpg" /></a>Block Island has a small population of about 1000 that lives there year-round, while the summer packs in over 16,000 tourists and visitors from New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island—and Puerto Rico, apparently. Old Harbor where we arrived is part of the main town, New Shoreham, where the <a href="http://www.blockislandferry.com/">ferries</a> dock and the stretch of beach lining the east side of the island begins. Around there you’ll find most of the restaurants, hotels, and stores along short streets with white wooden buidlings sporting broad porches. “Locals”—which I later figured out just means the people who are willing to visit the island during the winter, when the summer marauders are hibernating their hangovers away—all sport a sort of uniform composed of shorts, T-shirts, and sweaters with any variation of Block Island, RI or BI-RI, or Block Island, Rhode Island etched across it. As an honorary local, I understood I should probably acquire one before this trip was over. ( I did and have been wearing it almost every day since at my over-air conditioned office.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">The grand tour of the island takes about two hours in a car, if you take your time about it. As we traveled inland, BI started to resemble a slice of the English countryside. Houses become more spaced out as the fields dotted with ponds and marshes spread wider, the dirt roads flanked by endless rows of short stonewalls. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLu5pb6fgZpEQIyMQya5499avLBCUk1kc12vzu7YZn91h6CXF6fGpSiurDNxbUT6ryLFnXFPecrGeVpPRWBkAB6h0L7cCfMYKaHZba4VmnAIsnEUVsZY6QTB1a9BJQ8QHeO4M52JYyeQQ/s1600/henry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLu5pb6fgZpEQIyMQya5499avLBCUk1kc12vzu7YZn91h6CXF6fGpSiurDNxbUT6ryLFnXFPecrGeVpPRWBkAB6h0L7cCfMYKaHZba4VmnAIsnEUVsZY6QTB1a9BJQ8QHeO4M52JYyeQQ/s320/henry.jpg" /></a> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">When looking for the first “beach,” the Mohegan Bluffs, what you actually need to look out for is the edge of a cliff. If you love stairs, well this is the place for you. To access the “beach” you walk down about three or four stories-worth of wooden stairs built into the cliff’s side, the final stretch of which are just large rocks that deposit you onto the rocky sand. Its impressive standing at the foot of the bluffs—a sheer rock wall on one side and the Atlantic Ocean spreading out on the other. Teenagers lounged on giant boulders taking in the afternoon sun while children climbed over the many rocks along the edge of the water. Willis tried and failed to teach me to skip rocks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">At the edge of the cliff is the Southeast Light, a clay-colored lighthouse with a large house attached to the side of it. Block Islanders are proud of their lighthouses and the one in question had been rescued by the community some years back. The face of the bluffs changes constantly, as the waves and weather eat away at the rock walls. The lighthouse was perched precariously at the edge of a ridge that wasn’t going to hold for much longer. So rather than lose their lighthouse to the elements, the people of Block Island moved it back 360 feet, saving it from its impending destruction. That’s love.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjZz9cC2kPfxF-sMshJlEbNYkH7Bz21wVWAOe1PsFxaBaZLd2UTHXE_c5_7iXkrQ-Xf1t1WcGnh443hSldrQZwQBYz09oG4dWOtgrQtf3zNjuRipARKjzuFkqSTVm7Q8ROR5WutcOgm2a/s1600/southern+light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjZz9cC2kPfxF-sMshJlEbNYkH7Bz21wVWAOe1PsFxaBaZLd2UTHXE_c5_7iXkrQ-Xf1t1WcGnh443hSldrQZwQBYz09oG4dWOtgrQtf3zNjuRipARKjzuFkqSTVm7Q8ROR5WutcOgm2a/s320/southern+light.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;"> Continuing on our tour, we headed up to the other side of the island, skirting around the Great Salt Pond—a hybrid body of water that is bay, pond, and lake all in one, speckled by white sail boats and yachts. Soon we reached the Northern Lighthouse, which stands on a stretch of land that juts out into the Atlantic and where currents crash against each other at its peak.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">As we were walking up the rocky-sandy stretch, Willis was telling me how his family’s ties to the island stretch back many generations—even pointing out his ancertor’s names on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Block_Island">Settler’s Rock</a>—to the extent that their family tree is on display at the <a href="http://www.blockislandtimes.com/listings/2867912/Block-Island-Historical-Society">Block Island Historical Society</a>. About five families on the island have that kind of lineage and everyone knows them. Then I looked over at the water and yelled, “Seals!” And dashed off. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2X6U0ja9NeYAd8ZftCfzrSSDGkkyOr8dCU52kIU2nEiJ6H6BS4029dPlXgj35sLdrmjfTIHyBVWljzAMRc2iedkWYd5tIyJIGsFtZdfdy4YYrD5iR9CXoZrPxmhvRTyIutWGUKMRO79w/s1600/seals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2X6U0ja9NeYAd8ZftCfzrSSDGkkyOr8dCU52kIU2nEiJ6H6BS4029dPlXgj35sLdrmjfTIHyBVWljzAMRc2iedkWYd5tIyJIGsFtZdfdy4YYrD5iR9CXoZrPxmhvRTyIutWGUKMRO79w/s320/seals.jpg" /></a></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">At the edge of the beach were about a dozen seals. They stuck their heads out and looked at us, as if asking us to please go away so they could climb onto the sand. Black and grey ones were offset by white spotted one, each with faces so closely resembling a dog’s you expected them to bark at any moment. Those are the kind of moments you get on Block Island: the sun just starting to set, the Northern lighthouse’s beacon just starting to be felt, on a beach full of seals bobbing in and out of the surf. There were a handful of people around and as it started to get colder we headed back.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqNqbaEDiFAKm-8WngE5rAKA14N7Yzv8JrMbg_xQYVcGz2wbPrdIC0jblUS0p9oj18JW-K-XoRNw3if-hVeIQ5v512J2YrYbjXl3XIuPaTReteFRK9D3M5PJkWV9ZHgZX0xIvZewZSotM/s1600/DSC03542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqNqbaEDiFAKm-8WngE5rAKA14N7Yzv8JrMbg_xQYVcGz2wbPrdIC0jblUS0p9oj18JW-K-XoRNw3if-hVeIQ5v512J2YrYbjXl3XIuPaTReteFRK9D3M5PJkWV9ZHgZX0xIvZewZSotM/s320/DSC03542.JPG" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFgBGN9Sonxvp3-9ZZbok51RdZMHWpaW9jVNd_vivQ1iKZ715cn9pWs_St-KeRObutmuFOrmD0OFjKOyEGeZvfc8AORyMgvQZvddvb1S6EeHHQJKrQYkSlKMJr1icKEK8PAxbIP9r37vZY/s1600/the-beachead-sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFgBGN9Sonxvp3-9ZZbok51RdZMHWpaW9jVNd_vivQ1iKZ715cn9pWs_St-KeRObutmuFOrmD0OFjKOyEGeZvfc8AORyMgvQZvddvb1S6EeHHQJKrQYkSlKMJr1icKEK8PAxbIP9r37vZY/s200/the-beachead-sign.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">Around the evening in Block Island there’s a number of things to do and you have the added benefit that the day tourists are jumping ship back to wherever they came from. After grabbing drinks at the National Hotel’s porch—the porch that puts all the other porches in Old Harbor to shame—the locals seek out a handful of places, most of which are only open during the summer. Among them <a href="http://www.thebeachead.com/">The Beachead</a>, one of the few restaurant I’ve ever seen my 6’ 2”, 140 lb friend ever get excited about, is a classic choice. Walking in you’re in a fisherman’s dive, a small dining room stretches out towards the back and to your right some steps lead up to the bar. The dark wood walls are covered with painted oars and lobster traps. The food is described as “New England Fare” and of course features a wide range of seafood, including lobster, but sadly no “Stuffies”—a stuffed clam dish I fell in love with the first time I visited Rhode Island. Willis recommended I try Don Warner’s Chilli, a surprisingly spicy, very savory meaty soup topped with cheese and onion. They didn’t have Blondies so we chased down our food with the other local beer, <a href="http://www.narragansettbeer.com/home">Narragansett Lagers</a>. It’s a lager with a nice undertone of bitterness which you’re obliged to drink when you visit Rhode Island.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33-xsryGrNFN3WstDcFnUicLyPj3P6_BDbXFjOjmWLMF2dTgpXy2OwctYDMhnHXNvMYXgdyjZSG4IXA67NT6Ke0ei0l1TLBvfVCfTrExoeqTuiuw8oErfp5RspAzcIkz_OLmSvh0U2iSs/s1600/willis1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33-xsryGrNFN3WstDcFnUicLyPj3P6_BDbXFjOjmWLMF2dTgpXy2OwctYDMhnHXNvMYXgdyjZSG4IXA67NT6Ke0ei0l1TLBvfVCfTrExoeqTuiuw8oErfp5RspAzcIkz_OLmSvh0U2iSs/s320/willis1.jpg" /></a>After dinner, we stopped by <a href="http://www.frommers.com/destinations/blockisland/3172010030.html">Club Soda</a> (“it’s a pun” points out Willis), the local bar that has nightly activities. We came in on Kareoke Night, where a rotation of five people—locals of course, since whatever tourists left were either tucked away in their inns or passed out on a beach— sang with varying degrees of skill—our own Willis among them. It was at Club Soda that I finally got to try the Block Island Blondes. They are delicious with a malty sweetness that almost reminds you of a pale ale but with the body of a light lager. Like any small town, though, everything’s over by midnight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">The next morning I instructed my humble tour guide: “Take me to the best beach here.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So we drove to Mansion Beach. While technically it’s all the same beach stretching from the Northern End down to the Old Harbor, there are imaginary subdivisions, the “best” of which is Mansion Beach. It was a perfect beach day, the sun high, the temperature a moderate high 70’s-low 80’s. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkxLG-UqQFQhKrL9-qiAOadejYN2IEQm27cFpemefqfjXzzGr9Bep90ZGXoc6aHcgECZbY52g7k95rcMti-nRNPpeHaSodBb3zomEf-I-bA5dY-z2k2IMLwoD_8OnutTE3gNxoy7spbrd/s1600/DSC03525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkxLG-UqQFQhKrL9-qiAOadejYN2IEQm27cFpemefqfjXzzGr9Bep90ZGXoc6aHcgECZbY52g7k95rcMti-nRNPpeHaSodBb3zomEf-I-bA5dY-z2k2IMLwoD_8OnutTE3gNxoy7spbrd/s320/DSC03525.JPG" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;">Looking at the brilliantly blue water my Caribbean brain thought, Man that looks awesome, Willis’s New England brain looked at the same water and thought, That is freezing. He was indeed correct, as we got our feet wet, subsequently lost all feeling in them within seconds. I’d never experienced the ocean as local anesthetic. I would later find myself waist-deep in it and get to experience that strange denumbing/ warming sensation of freezing skin hitting warm air while muscles desperately try to regain body temperature—all while still working up a decent tan. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">The rest of the weekend was exactly what a weekend on Block Island should be: drinking with family while sitting on Adirondack chairs out in the yard. We ate at another BI establishment called Dead Eye Dicks. While you’d think The Beachead would be the white cloth place and DDD’s the dive, of course it was the reverse. The paradoxes of this island are endless. The restaurant sits by the port so you can watch the sunset and the boats while enjoying some really decent fish and chips (good by my standards, all right by Willis’ mother’s standards—so decent). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSiS8UvZ8uZVNA6nb0NEtH8uqTCKZRUVWm-3b7jBlukLEYnL0kxlpmOQU3YIv18508TbyzBso9G9JojoetdYQzRlpiD4w_v-Z_bvMyt7B0PtZzuNugUEIUxZz8rrZWzQxky7SldrklRBe/s1600/DSC03557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSiS8UvZ8uZVNA6nb0NEtH8uqTCKZRUVWm-3b7jBlukLEYnL0kxlpmOQU3YIv18508TbyzBso9G9JojoetdYQzRlpiD4w_v-Z_bvMyt7B0PtZzuNugUEIUxZz8rrZWzQxky7SldrklRBe/s320/DSC03557.JPG" /></a></span><span style="font-size: small;">The next morning we caught a flight back to the mainland on <a href="http://www.block-island.com/nea/">New England Airlines</a>—a line of car-like airplanes where you have to report your weight and the weight of your belongings. Our pilot Lynn, landed a few minutes before we were scheduled to depart, arranged our luggage in the nose of the plane and arranged us so we could “all have more legroom.” She sped through some safety mumbojumbo none of us caught, which was fine by her, and we took off. The flight took about 15 minutes and it felt almost like we were suspended in mid-air while the world turned slowly bellow us. From the air you could make out the famous shape of BI and the morning sun cast a bright sheen on the water. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">It officially felt like summer.</span>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-3576066061361262962010-06-23T02:37:00.005-04:002010-07-05T22:31:31.986-04:00Things Change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sxr7ZX-nY-u13S3M4XtdGpR7VIqUNo4-zv5gcB3HxpjKTmLpSqfAqZa1c5EU3MHlGTUpJj7zVIFT5Ijtx5K0w86JZB2KnnWZxONo9cwn-rsFv-vULTSv9uXdKKw67BqJ8n7dAjL4tStz/s1600/31300_935422892869_811113_51847471_4707056_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sxr7ZX-nY-u13S3M4XtdGpR7VIqUNo4-zv5gcB3HxpjKTmLpSqfAqZa1c5EU3MHlGTUpJj7zVIFT5Ijtx5K0w86JZB2KnnWZxONo9cwn-rsFv-vULTSv9uXdKKw67BqJ8n7dAjL4tStz/s320/31300_935422892869_811113_51847471_4707056_n.jpg" /></a></div><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <style>
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</style>Things change, and one thing that seems to change consistently is the name of this blog. And I’m not going to apologize for that. Currently its taking on its third and probably most drastic transformation, which only makes sense since 2010 has so far, for its author, been a year of drastic transformations.<br />
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When I started this blog in April 2009, my intentions were to write about food. I stumbled around the kitchen and the blogosphere and eventually figured out how to make it entertaining for you. I learned which postings people liked (recipes + humor= win) and erased most of the early ones. By the time I hit Austin, I had enough people reading my rants to feel like I actually had a proper food blog. A small one, I was perhaps the Monaco of food blogs, but I knew what I was and what I was doing. And who doesn’t like Monaco? <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NMoHUkqM5Yh8Z73sIO1LhjTc84bQvepV_dh5MBpzjRpRqcg_vow4lIpaQk9EuYEVWEC-wHPmQdTNtYVoEzNKKzzXWxedP5p7hpHiT5VjM-xfgIrnFM3muXmnnSYH0gPb8EoBD-tbjquz/s1600/31300_935422907839_811113_51847472_4939563_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NMoHUkqM5Yh8Z73sIO1LhjTc84bQvepV_dh5MBpzjRpRqcg_vow4lIpaQk9EuYEVWEC-wHPmQdTNtYVoEzNKKzzXWxedP5p7hpHiT5VjM-xfgIrnFM3muXmnnSYH0gPb8EoBD-tbjquz/s320/31300_935422907839_811113_51847472_4939563_n.jpg" width="294" /></a><br />
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Smash cut to a year after I started this blog, to me repacking my belongings into boxes and suitcases, a plane ticket in my name that read AUS to SJU, and calling my parents to tell them the good news—I was going home next week—and the bad news—I wasn’t leaving. <br />
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Yeah, things change. <br />
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But one of the biggest changes that came with being back in Puerto Rico—aside from having to learn how to write picture captions in Spanish, getting used to the intense heat, and not having Tito and Spider around—was giving up control of the kitchen. I fought the good fight as my earlier posts indicate but at the end of the day, why make food when someone else has already made some and its better than yours? <a href="http://tiburonsharkzralok.blogspot.com/2010/04/my-grandmothers-cooking.html">So I let Carmen win.</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVUEU3uD42jjWhqbCFR8HUwA-dNhCvcFaqbzBh1F1hBrxoGJ4iB6q8bdXUaGCBbZ-nerGEtuSMFGOkcsO0fjq6vzoznLBWWmrY-cXvou6E5bviqxHVaNV8riuqR6VPw3DJWMvOkShIfbP/s1600/31300_935422867919_811113_51847467_2336626_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVUEU3uD42jjWhqbCFR8HUwA-dNhCvcFaqbzBh1F1hBrxoGJ4iB6q8bdXUaGCBbZ-nerGEtuSMFGOkcsO0fjq6vzoznLBWWmrY-cXvou6E5bviqxHVaNV8riuqR6VPw3DJWMvOkShIfbP/s320/31300_935422867919_811113_51847467_2336626_n.jpg" width="240" /></a>Rather than shut down this operation I decided to reconstruct it and expand it. Since I can’t cook as much anymore and I’m traveling a lot—I’m going to write about that. As my mom and my friends like to complain about me, since I arrived: “no paro la pata.” (I won’t stay still.) Hence the name change. I picked this title in particular in honor of the last film I ever made back in NYU. The three words mean shark, in Spanish, English, and Czech (if I figure out a way to rip the video I will post it).<br />
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No worries, recipes will occasionally pop up and while I'll try to keep as much of the style I've developed as I can, I'll also include a cheat sheet about the place in case you’d like to go, too. <br />
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But just so you know to what degree things have changed: here’s a picture of Ziggy, one of my PR cats. She doesn't have as many issues as Tito but the cute factor will compensate for that.<br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></div>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-52474308278242457912010-06-01T02:41:00.000-04:002010-07-13T08:46:07.398-04:00Cheat Sheet: Spanish Bakeries<meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/andreamoya/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRkGtFKHSalMS0Wp2JedCjSWqx-6fpc3c9ckTAuGftXK_q7kwa7GJ1aFSe-oj3-U4jQtJtvacgkiDvktdMMsW2m-O-qbZ8MAZgtHBfUfK6v7Bt-gQaV-oFkFy6AtQ3mkt8ZB4AEFx7MYM/s1600/quesito.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRkGtFKHSalMS0Wp2JedCjSWqx-6fpc3c9ckTAuGftXK_q7kwa7GJ1aFSe-oj3-U4jQtJtvacgkiDvktdMMsW2m-O-qbZ8MAZgtHBfUfK6v7Bt-gQaV-oFkFy6AtQ3mkt8ZB4AEFx7MYM/s320/quesito.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Medianoche</b>: pork, ham, swiss cheese with mustard and pickle on yellow egg bread. (Light)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Cubano</b>: pork, leg ham (some places serve it with sweet ham, Altamira included), swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, sometimes shredded lettuce and sliced tomato on pan criollo (soft, baguette-like bread).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Choripan</b>: Spanish chorizo, sweet ham, swiss cheese, on pan criollo.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Caldo Gallego</b>: a Spanish stew consisting of shredded cabbage, diced ham, chorizo sausage, white beans, potatoes, and greens. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Mondongo</b>: tripe soup.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Sancocho</b>: a Puerto Rican stew with lots of root vegetables, shredded chicken, and ham.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Croquetas</b>: Deep-fried, cylindrical pieces of heaven made with a seasoned flour batter and stuffed with either ham, chicken or fish.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Quesitos</b>: Sweet puff pastry full of sweet cream cheese and glazes with sugar. [see picture]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Pastelillos de carne</b>: Savory puff pastry stuffed with picadillo—seasoned ground beef.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Pan Sobao</b>: a very soft, sweet white bread.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Pan de Agua</b>: a soft, baguette-style bread</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Café</b>: generally means coffee with hot milk, if you want it black then ask for a Café Negro, if you want it with cold milk, then you’re in the wrong place.</div>Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-53095158256037538922010-05-18T04:26:00.001-04:002010-07-05T22:30:34.076-04:00Sleeping and Eating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_onLkwgUc-3qrtasEBb09ydaEwSe3luAw9OEiAIQVtgMaMyzu9YaQCAjpGSZkH5g2aFO1dXanGFJ_movdMnKquCQzw_nSjcxROKe5HDmeDgUpGvjr0tTHZRNKOKn-jWhKc9VRh5k4gxLV/s1600/3am.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_onLkwgUc-3qrtasEBb09ydaEwSe3luAw9OEiAIQVtgMaMyzu9YaQCAjpGSZkH5g2aFO1dXanGFJ_movdMnKquCQzw_nSjcxROKe5HDmeDgUpGvjr0tTHZRNKOKn-jWhKc9VRh5k4gxLV/s200/3am.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Hi. You may have noticed this posting says it was put up around 4 am, and you may be wondering why. Well, currently I'm sitting at my computer, having just finished off a delicious frittata and decided this is it for me in terms of what you mortals like to call "sleep." <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI0oKHjAQgdPrMg10NwmyLV1ef6OLQpuyK1tHGI3aKmpOPz9GiPQd0QZSd_1GADjJCdeZe9VrTPzNx280sMmfnw-jyjRCsjEsAH6t1L2JHgoX5JJvsXz7Nr6tS2FgP2RZc_S8Bi4HuEGlF/s1600/frying+pan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI0oKHjAQgdPrMg10NwmyLV1ef6OLQpuyK1tHGI3aKmpOPz9GiPQd0QZSd_1GADjJCdeZe9VrTPzNx280sMmfnw-jyjRCsjEsAH6t1L2JHgoX5JJvsXz7Nr6tS2FgP2RZc_S8Bi4HuEGlF/s200/frying+pan.jpg" width="200" /></a>While I don't usually wake up in the middle of the night and cook myself a lovely meal, I do often wake up in the middle of the night. This 3 am in particular, though, I was inspired. I haven't had those flashes of recipe that keep me up for long after I should've drifted off, thinking of variations I can make with ingredients I have since Brooklyn and the CSA. But more to the point, the past few weeks-- between the <a href="http://sansculinaryschool.blogspot.com/2010/04/how-to-slow-roast-and-carve-whole-pig.html">family reunion</a>, my trip to New York (to attend a Food Network event), my brother visiting, and Mother's Day-- I haven't had ingredients to daydream about, just endless days of pork, fried things, and cakes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8L0BVq9yVk6yKtqj0ceJnffdHZ-vCsltVQa1BehcM8u4Aa5rcBJ-gELT-FQUxFqoVTl0VzpPegC52cWsb3DpN0sHB743GYtKm5gb9eRRFZXWt3xP8og3pbJdWELg_lHysUFgwTl6BtM7/s1600/0_1(36).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX8L0BVq9yVk6yKtqj0ceJnffdHZ-vCsltVQa1BehcM8u4Aa5rcBJ-gELT-FQUxFqoVTl0VzpPegC52cWsb3DpN0sHB743GYtKm5gb9eRRFZXWt3xP8og3pbJdWELg_lHysUFgwTl6BtM7/s320/0_1(36).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>During the period of gastronomic excess I allowed myself over the month of May, my lowest point was eating deep fried bacalaito (flour+cod fish+garlic and seasoning, think really greasy savory funnel cake) off a see-through plate, along with a menagerie of other "frituras," literally "fried things." The plate was see-through because of the grease, mind you, like a really good Philly Cheesesteak but with far less substance-- just fried, messy goodness. Did I mention fried?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloOpRtyXoiKqjVpX1ju7WnZCv8Mi61NTgZGF7NcVymyCkshc1yYOmV4dqdMfQjdSvF9Cl-L4Jdv6AXBgUI12geHkhO5lx8s84PjZ_vSbFguWPwYKikciFtBETlK5LiEyvj1WbfQA0x6M3/s1600/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloOpRtyXoiKqjVpX1ju7WnZCv8Mi61NTgZGF7NcVymyCkshc1yYOmV4dqdMfQjdSvF9Cl-L4Jdv6AXBgUI12geHkhO5lx8s84PjZ_vSbFguWPwYKikciFtBETlK5LiEyvj1WbfQA0x6M3/s200/cake.jpg" width="200" /></a>There was also that cinnamon cake our neighbor gave us during Mother's Day. I ate at least a third of the box. Dry and cinnamony on the outside, coated with powdered sugar, with a moist, creamy sweet interior... But that was only after having proper brekafast: quesitos (a puff pastry stuffed with sweet cream cheese), croquetas (a deep-fried ham and potato fritter), and pan sobao-- a sweet, white bread that's soft and buttery all by itself. Let's not even talk about the pernil-- slow-braised pork leg-- my dad bought on the same day as this magnanimous breakfast...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3b2aKBrHFCxSoeA1JZv99rGu_2vWDM3dGubBAs87hig_k8w55v9ItWufWWUEOD9qv7xVqC7efMcD-B1D4JoK3-yJZpPDxVH_Zm94fJuIFGJoAbz7GQ9yNpHyrCz4Z9E-vKqDUPKrtSiJ/s1600/break.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3b2aKBrHFCxSoeA1JZv99rGu_2vWDM3dGubBAs87hig_k8w55v9ItWufWWUEOD9qv7xVqC7efMcD-B1D4JoK3-yJZpPDxVH_Zm94fJuIFGJoAbz7GQ9yNpHyrCz4Z9E-vKqDUPKrtSiJ/s200/break.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnibymkoxDi6CcRP0XSFO-qSQ_lHjylOqvH71Q_IcmIWcJN9OgfoAYCeYjVcxnLQoBG1QYrBNbBwIXEjF6-8_W-YuaD86oyQTygjRzV5qW3bmclFPuelQh9bT3UqumdcJIQgzVh5ok4hb/s1600/pan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnibymkoxDi6CcRP0XSFO-qSQ_lHjylOqvH71Q_IcmIWcJN9OgfoAYCeYjVcxnLQoBG1QYrBNbBwIXEjF6-8_W-YuaD86oyQTygjRzV5qW3bmclFPuelQh9bT3UqumdcJIQgzVh5ok4hb/s200/pan.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
In other words, its been a rough few weeks. And I'm not even going to tell you about how much I've been drinking... If you know me, then you probably already know. I missed an earthquake that's how much I've been drinking.<br />
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So this weekend when the lull finally came, I went and bought... vegetables. With recipes in mind. And herbs! And olive oil! I was as happy as a hipster at a rock show.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10mE5xVuxr4ksz68_XmwAKdwPGGduUAonbhRSrQTyTXnd_TPssZuEywDHTzTQXdR7b_25W8VvU5HuTV-qhucyPkk4F1DZQv9rJaYQJ6ou0akquACDbIqlvdF1ZbAErlt3WUfRo429umdH/s1600/rata.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10mE5xVuxr4ksz68_XmwAKdwPGGduUAonbhRSrQTyTXnd_TPssZuEywDHTzTQXdR7b_25W8VvU5HuTV-qhucyPkk4F1DZQv9rJaYQJ6ou0akquACDbIqlvdF1ZbAErlt3WUfRo429umdH/s320/rata.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The first thing I made was a ratatouille: vegetables cooked in the oven with thyme in a tomato sauce. Yesterday I made a potato leek soup to which I may have added too much butter but I take Julia on her word: "You can never have too much butt-er!" And now, having woken up for the day at 3 am, I took the scraps leftover from the ratatouille and made a vegetable frittata that was quite satisfying.<br />
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Slowly I'm getting a handle on my eating habits once again. Someday, I aspire to sleep through the night every night for a whole week. Its gonna be awesome.<br />
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For now, here's some recipes.<br />
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<b>Ratatouille Frittata</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>** You can find the recipe I used for the original ratatouille <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2007/07/rat-a-too-ee-for-you-ee/">here</a>. <br />
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<b>Ingredients:</b><br />
About a cup of the following vegetables chopped: onion, garlic, zucchini, yellow squash, mushrooms...<br />
1 sprig thyme (plus any other herbs you may have lying around, I also added parsley)<br />
Olive oil<br />
Salt and Pepper<br />
3-4 Eggs <br />
Grated parmesan cheese<br />
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Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.<br />
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Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium high heat. Add all vegetables, salt and pepper, and thyme and any other herbs you may be using. Allow to cook for about 10 minutes until vegetables start releasing juices and they're soft. Beat salt and pepper into eggs, make sure white and yolk are incorporated. Lower the heat on the skillet and pour eggs over vegetables. Allow the eggs to form a crust underneath but still be liquid in the middle, top with cheese, cover, and place in the oven for about 10-15 minutes. Serve hot or at room temperature.<br />
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<b>Potato Leek Soup</b><br />
Julia Child's recipe<br />
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<b>Ingredients:</b><br />
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1lb potatoes (about 4-6)<br />
1 bunch of leeks (about 4 large ones, you can also use onions for a more intense soup)<br />
Pinch of dill<br />
1 tbsp butter (I used two but one would've been enough)<br />
Salt and pepper<br />
Water<br />
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Peel and chop potatoes. Chop leeks, using white and light green parts only. Toss leeks and potatoes into a deep pot, add generous amounts of salt and pepper, dill, and cover over water. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer until potatoes are falling apart, about 35-40 minutes. Allow the soup to cool down. Using a food processor or blender, puree into a cream, reheat, incorporating butter. Serve hot. You can also add cooked bacon to this either as a garnish or right before pureeing for a more intense flavor.Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-22140437873488006732010-04-27T09:40:00.001-04:002010-04-27T09:40:59.330-04:00How to Slow-Roast and Carve a Whole Pig<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxEy1gELhyphenhyphenCNWjuNJp_rx8i-T_vHCbh-CejAWIpAsUSQ077zPy2TdSHv9DkNa-tttao-oEc9WG1sSI04-4n6LVSrqaqLUFVRRMWJgPgggFontq0-UtxH5Mzf77h9NHpTJ5XW4qdvqoCjHC/s1600/DSC03315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxEy1gELhyphenhyphenCNWjuNJp_rx8i-T_vHCbh-CejAWIpAsUSQ077zPy2TdSHv9DkNa-tttao-oEc9WG1sSI04-4n6LVSrqaqLUFVRRMWJgPgggFontq0-UtxH5Mzf77h9NHpTJ5XW4qdvqoCjHC/s400/DSC03315.JPG" width="400" /></a>When roasting a whole pig on a spit, the first step is to organize a family party. Any party constituting less than 15 people with the same last name is not considered a family party, its considered Saturday or the night you all go watch the boxing match. A real family party happens no more often than once a year, ideally at someone's farm. If you do not have a farm, a large beach property near where your grandparents grew up will also do. Otherwise, you'll have to go to Florida and then you won't be able to roast the pig properly.<br />
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The second step is to acquire the pig. If you are at the farm, then this should be part of the package, if you are not, then there are farms that will sell you a whole pig. Make sure it is slaughtered, gutted, and cleaned when you pick it up. You will then use your family's particular adobo recipe-- this usually include garlic, ajíes, salt, pepper, onion-- and rub it all over the pig the night before the party so that the flavors penetrate the skin and muscles.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBaB675pwxnlYfxcyYEAMW75rpNSTPWA_Z8rnrBLYGWUZ7J4WGk8TGsEj1F5b6ulCzYQ5wtQP0a01BcNPAj6GLPr1XFPuj2inG4LzbL87yxL7SKK_hVuLCbFqomtMLqytDUr5Zx7y5EZ93/s1600/DSC03390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBaB675pwxnlYfxcyYEAMW75rpNSTPWA_Z8rnrBLYGWUZ7J4WGk8TGsEj1F5b6ulCzYQ5wtQP0a01BcNPAj6GLPr1XFPuj2inG4LzbL87yxL7SKK_hVuLCbFqomtMLqytDUr5Zx7y5EZ93/s200/DSC03390.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Early the next morning, while the coals are smoldering, whoever you hired to make the pig for you while you supervise and take samples of the skin as the crisps up will insert a large pole through the pig's mouth and out its backside. The legs will be trussed up against the side of its body with wire. If the body is split open, this technique is called "Caja China" or Chinese Box, which helps it cook faster, ideal for when you have fifty people and one afternoon.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qxBtgWhH0nGvK7jdUjSDo6jH_LtsLz3l4_WOWWhfreL9kxMkN3Uuo4ZrNMJl4Ze2MQMSkwXj9vyhkVVi421waFJc_UNCTvHpbI7uN35M-Ueh2KbfLkrxzLy3Re8339RmRFBiP30jWbgA/s1600/DSC03395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qxBtgWhH0nGvK7jdUjSDo6jH_LtsLz3l4_WOWWhfreL9kxMkN3Uuo4ZrNMJl4Ze2MQMSkwXj9vyhkVVi421waFJc_UNCTvHpbI7uN35M-Ueh2KbfLkrxzLy3Re8339RmRFBiP30jWbgA/s200/DSC03395.JPG" width="200" /></a>For the next six hours, the pig will be slow cooked and smoked over the coals inside a well of sorts, while being spun around and around. The kids will take samples of the skin and then when its closer to being cooked through, adults will come sample some of the meat. The meat will be slightly salty and peppery and very juicy, almost like pulled pork but with a sturdier texture. Expect fat to marble the meat in some places or to come attached to the skin for a nice mix of chewy and crispy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjENcjQKUnuXBiBVKwQ0eqmHbLuhLs-_2uBSVHhXx_HhpYcu59B7v2Yjdn6yZZGS01soDPLW8J-0F_agMQ6fqgxJa99cie0xi_eS2_yA5pMBDDdpRJV7zWB_qhHJpqhFGCLN3-eTaLtNzXi/s1600/DSC03394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjENcjQKUnuXBiBVKwQ0eqmHbLuhLs-_2uBSVHhXx_HhpYcu59B7v2Yjdn6yZZGS01soDPLW8J-0F_agMQ6fqgxJa99cie0xi_eS2_yA5pMBDDdpRJV7zWB_qhHJpqhFGCLN3-eTaLtNzXi/s200/DSC03394.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>When ready, the pig will be transported onto a large table and untrussed. The pole will be gently removed and set aside and the machete action begins. The idea is to cut up the pieces of pork in small enough bits that people can just pick them up with their fingers and eat them without needing a plate.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2cjIkTlfBlaRPnjwS-Uq-TdGfJIiBe7zXafXrMJYvyVtXPm32uB2hGMqWW1oiBAy6gelF5V3LmibKY7RAn4hUxsKH9m9D6KQkvhtGT-rNC9gMKT-FzdB2u-feTWlC7UoWrvnABi1LDrW/s1600/munchies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2cjIkTlfBlaRPnjwS-Uq-TdGfJIiBe7zXafXrMJYvyVtXPm32uB2hGMqWW1oiBAy6gelF5V3LmibKY7RAn4hUxsKH9m9D6KQkvhtGT-rNC9gMKT-FzdB2u-feTWlC7UoWrvnABi1LDrW/s200/munchies.jpg" width="156" /></a>By the time the pig has been served, you will also be serving whatever chicken dish you've prepared for those strange non-pork eaters, two types of rice, and the gandules (pigeon peas)-- because nothing says special occasion like gandules. Top it off with vegetables nobody will eat and some mostly tasteless bread rolls which usually get thrown out with one bite missing. Of course, by the time this meal is served everyone will already have had two meals' worth of fried empanadillas, sorullitos (corn fritters), seven layer dip, sandwichitos de mezcla, chips, cheese, and other fried things. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsZQrRJ6MkpmWC13ceWkvOfCkIuwv9SjAiLLeQfhGEtjbov0JNer2S02DRJW99Ukd7nJ7UnUf4C9N9CIjqi-A-E3LZrmuEcv99QhPUMYOpMpqX5WhbPaGQA9Z-lUyzcPj0b1hj4jcZlwB/s1600/DSC03344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsZQrRJ6MkpmWC13ceWkvOfCkIuwv9SjAiLLeQfhGEtjbov0JNer2S02DRJW99Ukd7nJ7UnUf4C9N9CIjqi-A-E3LZrmuEcv99QhPUMYOpMpqX5WhbPaGQA9Z-lUyzcPj0b1hj4jcZlwB/s200/DSC03344.JPG" width="200" /></a>But nothing opens up the stomach like all the different types of drinks people will bring. Several bottles of rum and vodka (for the diabetics) will be worked through, as well as the different pitorros (from what I can tell its just rum infused with juice and pieces of fruits, all I know its they're frigging delicious), wine and if its a fancy party, cheap champagne or Spanish Cava.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8F1cJhP7g40V2jp4ZtJFuO3sWm9JDWFNeRkTv54MK8E0n774nSwSHdUftV0pbqeXkkXmgzZAAEYgtZEepkNw_mLZthc-4-F4dfTJsUuPyehVXfAEKRSNuamKsBhuXXbKHp_n_fR1atmy/s1600/DSC03377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8F1cJhP7g40V2jp4ZtJFuO3sWm9JDWFNeRkTv54MK8E0n774nSwSHdUftV0pbqeXkkXmgzZAAEYgtZEepkNw_mLZthc-4-F4dfTJsUuPyehVXfAEKRSNuamKsBhuXXbKHp_n_fR1atmy/s200/DSC03377.JPG" width="200" /></a>And no party would be complete without some monstrous homemade dessert. Some people will dance, some will give speeches, many will take home leftover pig and rice and cake, everyone will take pictures, and we'll schedule another party in six months, which is island time translates into between one and two years. But until then, this one was awesome.Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-445248260200493552.post-62414448643274848042010-04-22T08:23:00.001-04:002010-07-05T22:30:05.498-04:00Easy Pizza at Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPKwBJzLnVWEhMQjjDPootb0BTSt_-CiZqq-Od2wYQgi84_9cCiGq_UtvUahAGa0LakIy4l25f_NjegEXWimA7NISl2a3qAmzd1Qjpa5Poh49y4voibzSq_7mJ4Cg62Oz8D1-pONlYY7u/s1600/Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPKwBJzLnVWEhMQjjDPootb0BTSt_-CiZqq-Od2wYQgi84_9cCiGq_UtvUahAGa0LakIy4l25f_NjegEXWimA7NISl2a3qAmzd1Qjpa5Poh49y4voibzSq_7mJ4Cg62Oz8D1-pONlYY7u/s320/Dad.jpg" /></a></div>My Dad is an honest man. He's I-want-to-hit-you-over-the-head honest. Yes-you-look-fat-in-that-dress honest. So I value his input on the things that I make because I know he's not going to sugar coat his opinion or take into consideration my, you know, feelings or obsessive desire to please. So here's a recap of my culinary exploits and my dad's subsecuent review of them:<br />
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- Libyan Spaghetti-- "I don't like it, it tastes weird."<br />
- Fried Rice-- "Its too spicy, why did you make it spicy?"<br />
- Salad-- "Doesn't taste like much." <br />
- Cassoulet-- "You added way too many beans." (He repeated this to me at least ten times over the next day or two.)<br />
- Moroccan Stew-- "I don't like that it has a sweet smell, I'm going to have a steak."<br />
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So you can imagine my relief and feeling of utter triumph when last night he finally, really, truly, without reservations or critiques liked something I made: Pizza.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizfkjL1VJ10fq3D6241j0hEEvKH59o4lAt4kZ5w197YcxChpiG5ZYUB5QF-k-4vVnHY82kzWQI4p8HsdNjWmIdku9cNw08Ca97upgNkvOlq4RCXIYd6Uggk1UNZ33fvS6hMjmYpjD7Mlai/s1600/10943_850106632339_811113_48868385_6706348_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizfkjL1VJ10fq3D6241j0hEEvKH59o4lAt4kZ5w197YcxChpiG5ZYUB5QF-k-4vVnHY82kzWQI4p8HsdNjWmIdku9cNw08Ca97upgNkvOlq4RCXIYd6Uggk1UNZ33fvS6hMjmYpjD7Mlai/s320/10943_850106632339_811113_48868385_6706348_n.jpg" /></a></div>I've been making pizza ever since I got over my fear of Dry Active Yeast. Its actually very simple, though time-consuming, but that never stopped me from making it for dinner on a weekday. One of those 10 pm dinners... But even when I would overheat my already overheated Brooklyn Kitchen with poor air circulation, the result never failed to please. I've made it about a dozen times with toppings from just plain mozzarella to blue cheese-butternut squash-arugula.<br />
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I found the recipes for the dough and some of the more interesting variations of toppings on the site <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/">smittenkitchen.com</a>, shortly after the homemade pizza-making craze of last summer (you didn't hear about that?) that made the food blogs useless for me because I didn't think I could make pizza. This is a common misconception, specially considering pizza's humble beginnings.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnJIRTEtummVqFVdB5Df4RGFBkZSM7iNMy9zZ8wZwnGxFFccqG6ud0MnynpFvn2ZBW97cTjrJui8wueHRzcOR9G0lquNnHbbD54BJJqCeMlzcsLMOEF53FrWiOWISiTt7prpz0O6uwTud/s1600/pizza+wide.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnJIRTEtummVqFVdB5Df4RGFBkZSM7iNMy9zZ8wZwnGxFFccqG6ud0MnynpFvn2ZBW97cTjrJui8wueHRzcOR9G0lquNnHbbD54BJJqCeMlzcsLMOEF53FrWiOWISiTt7prpz0O6uwTud/s320/pizza+wide.jpeg" /></a></div>Putting tomato sauce and cheese on a flat bread is considered to have originated in Naples, Italy. Originally peasant food (the dough was used to test the temperature of the oven and then sold to poor people), its toppings were simple, either cheese or tomatoes or fish or just oil. Eventually it became popular among tourists who would buy it from open-air stands by the slice-- much like now in most mayor cities. The most popular variation was the pizza with tomato. But pizza only really took off in the Italian court when Queen Margherita of Savoy tried some and fell absolutely in love with it. A Neapolitan baker then named a style of pizza after her, one carrying tomato sauce, mozzarella, and basil in honor of the Italian flag. And there you have the Margherita Pizza. (Source: the Una Pizza Neapolitana menu and Wikipedia).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKqCTqEZavhhyphenhyphenRUC05wSsHqrCyTuCmj_DOK4EUXZ5RI6RyUY21uvjNeOUlRK25Yj3WKl3SCaAkp4hhBq_zWZMTE6FwsC6hvkdGde_HIksHM42hVBf5olxdOvJcoLbim4B-WqYy7hel2mUV/s1600/0_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKqCTqEZavhhyphenhyphenRUC05wSsHqrCyTuCmj_DOK4EUXZ5RI6RyUY21uvjNeOUlRK25Yj3WKl3SCaAkp4hhBq_zWZMTE6FwsC6hvkdGde_HIksHM42hVBf5olxdOvJcoLbim4B-WqYy7hel2mUV/s320/0_1.jpg" /></a></div>Today, pizza is the ultimate comfort food and the variations are endless-- Brick Oven, Neapolitan, Deep-Dish, Thin Crust, Flatbread-- and the types of toppings sweep the spectrum from nothing but sauce (the pizza Marinara, which when well-made is absolutely amazing) to goat cheese with herbs, summer squash, and lemon. When it comes to putting stuff on top of bread, there are no rule. What's basic is the dough.<br />
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For a homemade pizza, here's a really simple recipe for the dough, my recipe of the sauce, and I'll include the specific mix of ingredients I used to create the pizza that actually got my Dad to finally say, "That was really good, honey."<br />
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<b>Easy Homemade Pizza (with Mushrooms and Onions)</b><br />
<i>Dough recipe adapted from SmittenKitchen</i><br />
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Serves 4<br />
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Ingredients<br />
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For Dough:<br />
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3 cups flour (I split the difference between whole wheat and all-purpose)<br />
1 packet Dry Active Yeast<br />
1 cup lukewarm water<br />
2 teaspoons salt<br />
2 tablespoons olive oil<br />
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For Sauce: <i>(Bonus: you will have leftovers so you can use them for pasta)</i><br />
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1 16 oz. can crushed tomatoes<br />
1 tablespoon tomato paste<br />
1/2 white onion, chopped<br />
2-3 garlic cloves, minced<br />
1 teaspoon Italian Seasoning<br />
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper, optional (Disclaimer: I used a North African spice mix RX gave me for Christmas so I know cayenne is included but not sure what else, you can also use crushed red pepper flakes)<br />
1/2 teaspoon brown sugar<br />
Splash of red wine <br />
Salt and Pepper<br />
Oliver Oil<br />
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For Mushrooms and Onions:<br />
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1/2 cup buffalo mozzarella, shredded<br />
2/3 cup smoked mozzarella, shredded<br />
1 can sliced mushrooms, drained (you can also use one packet of fresh mushrooms sliced, I was working with what I had)<br />
1/2 white onion, sliced into half moons<br />
1 teaspoon Balsamic vinegar<br />
Salt and Pepper<br />
Olive oil <br />
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Preparation:<br />
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Starting with the dough, mix together all dry ingredients then slowly add the water, mixing as you go. Add more water is necessary. When dough is sticky, place on floured surface and knead for a minute or so. If its too sticky, let it sit on the counter for a few minutes under a mixing bowl.<br />
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When the dough is soft and malleable, roll into a ball and place in a lightly oiled bowl. Make sure all sides of the dough are coated in oil, cover with plastic wrap, and let sit for 1-2 hours, or until the dough doubles in size.<br />
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Meanwhile, make the sauce. Heat up olive oil in a saucepan over medium-high heat and add the onions, salt lightly. Sweat them until they are soft then add Italian seasoning, cayenne, if using, and garlic, allow to cook for a few more minutes. Add the crushed tomatoes and tomato paste, some more salt and pepper and the sugar, and stir. Bring to a boil then cover and reduce to a simmer. While its simmering add the wine. Allow to cook, stirring occasionally, for at least twenty minutes. Taste and adjust seasoning.<br />
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During this time, start on the topping. Heat olive oil over medium heat in a frying pan or skillet, add the onions. Sweat them until the become limp then add the mushrooms and balsamic vinegar. Cook, stirring occasionally, until onions are translucent, about 15 minutes.<br />
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When the dough has risen, place on a floured surface and flatten it to get all the air out. Knead it gently once again, roll into a ball, and allow to rise under the plastic wrap for another twenty minutes.<br />
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Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Prepare a pizza pan or cookie sheet by sprinkling cornmeal evenly over it. If no cornmeal, I find oiling it has also worked.<br />
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When the dough is ready, use your hands to stretch it out then place on the pizza pan or cookie sheet and gently spread it out with your hands. This can get greasy. When the dough is sufficiently spread out, cover the surface with sauce then top with both cheeses. Add the mushrooms and onions. Sprinkle a little more salt and pepper over everything and glide it into the oven. Allow to cook for about 20 minutes (check it occasionally depending on how hot your oven gets). The crust should be golden brown and the cheese melted and slightly seared.Andrea Moyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06582751900362173353noreply@blogger.com1