apples & oranges

Busy Making Other Plans

2011-12-19T16:19:00.000-08:00

There’s a reason why it takes nine months to have a baby, and it isn’t just because this is the amount of time that the female body needs to develop a human being. The way I see it, these nine months are a gift that mother nature bestows upon future parents, a precious yet rapidly narrowing window of time for us to prepare for the biggest job of our lives; parenthood.

Nine months can go by surprisingly quickly. There’s plenty to do to keep busy; countless hours spent deciding among the plethora of nursing chairs, strollers, bassinets, and car seat choices, each selection more complicated than the next. Nine months of buying and washing baby clothes, of building cribs and swing chairs, of reading books on everything from breastfeeding to vaccinations to making-yours-the-happiest-baby-ever-how-tos.

The fact that everything in my pregnancy has gone exactly according to plan has only served to speed up this process. The changes in my body have played themselves out like clockwork, at least as specified in every pregnant woman’s meccas of information; the weekly babycenter newsletter and the fourth edition of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I was sleepy and lethargic during the first trimester, energetic and productive during the second, and simultaneously restless and exhausted during the third. As zen as I’m attempting to remain throughout these last few weeks before the big day, it’s tough to stay cool and collected when a protruding belly, a squished bladder, and disturbing dreams prevent you from getting any kind of uninterrupted shut-eye (props again to mother nature for giving me a head start on sleepless nights).

Restlessness aside, the third trimester has by far been the most instructive. For starters, I’ve developed a new-found appreciation for my laid-back Miami lifestyle. One weekend in the Big Apple was all it took to discover how not fun it is to ride crowded subways filled with New Yorkers oblivious to the work that comes with carrying a tiny human being in your belly.

Now that I’m finally big enough for people to notice that I’m pregnant, I’ve also learned what a great asset this can be, especially when it comes to traveling, skipping long bathroom lines, and getting seated quickly at trendy restaurants (Carlos and I have taken full advantage of Zuma’s we-don’t-make-pregnant-women-wait policy). As with everything, these benefits come with drawbacks; for some reason a big belly seems to give perfect strangers the urge to hurl all kinds of unsolicited advice my way, from the nosy FIU med student scolding me for ordering a decaf cappuccino in the campus Starbucks to the supermarket bagger at Publix chiding me for carrying my own groceries.

But the biggest lesson of all has come in preparation for labor. The fact that everything I knew about childbirth up until a few weeks ago was shaped by what I’d grown up seeing in movies meant that I was in for a steep learning curve. The same went for Carlos, whose biggest fear was the fact that our hospital is a 25-minute ride from our home. “What if you have the baby in the car?” he wondered out loud, eyes frozen with terror. If only babies came out in 25 minutes.

There’s a whole new set of words that become an inextricable part of your vocabulary once you start preparing for labor. Mucus plug, effacement, pitocin, epidural, midwife, doula, birth plan, meconium, pelvic floor...and in my case, the most unexpectedly relevant of all...breech.

By the time that Carlos and I went in for our 36-week sonogram, we had all of our childbirth plans figured out (or so we thought). After briefly considering a home birth, I decided to stick with my doctor and hospital, but complemented this more conventional route by hiring a doula. I had my doctor sign off on a birth plan, interviewed and selected a pediatrician, and soaked up every last word of Birthing from Within, my natural birth bible.

As Carlos and I busied ourselves preparing for the birth, we remained totally oblivious to the fact that Sofia was making plans of her own. At 36 weeks, she was still sitting upright, in breech.

Most babies are head-down by week 30; this is the position that they naturally gravitate to, since its typically the most comfortable way for them to settle in the womb as they grow and space becomes restricted. It also happens to be the only way that babies are delivered naturally in Miami-Dade County. Because breech deliveries are rare and complicated, these days most doctors deliver these babies by Cesarian.

By the time I found out that Sofia was in breech, I was so heavily invested in my natural birth plan that the news came out of nowhere and hit me like a brick. I was devastated.

As the unwarranted input of family, friends, and absolute strangers began to flow in, I resolved to take the advice of anyone willing to to offer it. I crawled around my house on all fours until my back and knees hurt. I lifted my legs up into a “pelvic tilt” until I had trouble breathing. Even Carlos became involved, patiently burning a Chinese herb called moxa near the outermost corner of my pinky toes for 40 minutes per day (the process is called Moxibustion, and the heat from the moxa activates energy linked to the uterus which has been proven to give babies the extra pep they need to flip).

At some point in the midst all of the madness, I eventually came around to the realization that I was losing sight of the ultimate objective; having a healthy baby. Hence the first of many parenting lessons; as much as I try to give Sofia the space and energy that she needs to get out of breech, she is ultimately the only one who can decide how she is born. And as much as I continue to hope that at some point she will flip, I am now finally at peace with whatever path her birth ends up taking.

Welcome to the Monkey House

2011-09-27T16:49:00.000-07:00

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned recently, it’s that most of the things that people assume that they know about pregnancy don’t actually turn out to be true. In my case, it’s been six months and I have yet to eat a single pickle. To Carlos’ great dismay, there’s been no need for 2am ice cream runs. I never once felt nausea nor vomited myself into oblivion. I don’t cry at the sight of cute dogs on TV commercials. And the shape of my belly has nothing to do with the sex of our baby (sonograms don’t lie people -- either it’s a girl or we’re in real trouble).

When it comes to pregnancy, it turns out that the few people that actually know what they’re talking about are...drumroll...mothers. Yes, mothers, that mystical species I’ve only recently begun to come to terms with.

For some reason, mothers don’t ever talk to non-mothers about pregnancy. It’s an unspoken rule (that I’m all too happy to break). The space in which mothers speak about motherhood is like that very exclusive club in Chelsea that seems impossible to get into, and elevated hCG hormone levels are the only way to get past the velvet ropes. Once you get in, the floodgates open, and every mother wants to tell you her story, including intimate details about her labor that are best not shared with newbies.

One recurring theme among members of this club is this idea that pregnancy awakens new senses; you develop an awareness that you never knew you had. One of the first thing that a mother will tell you about expecting is that the feeling of being pregnant is unique, even though it’s impossible to describe at the very beginning. Forget morning sickness, missed periods, and pregnancy tests -- you find out that you’re pregnant when your intuition tells you. One day you just wake up and you know.

Of course, anyone can claim extrasensory powers in retrospect, and it’s easy to dismiss this as romanticized hindsight. And yet, the more I think about it, the more I tend to agree that it wasn’t just my body that was acting differently during those first few days of pregnancy.

For first-time mothers, these early spiritual clues can be difficult to read. In my case at least, those first few days of knowing without really knowing were unnerving -- I really thought that I was losing it. By the time I actually believed that I was pregnant, I had blown through $50 worth of pregnancy tests and subjected myself to multiple inconclusive vaginal ultrasounds (I’ll kindly spare my male readers the details). On most days I was certain that the only ward I was headed for was the looney bin.

Looking back on things now, the signs were crystal clear. We had just come back from Berlin and I had come down with a cold. Instead of overdosing on over-the-counter medicine, I decided that my body could battle the flu on its own (this is quite unusual for someone who pops Tylenols at the slightest hint of a headache). Rather than combat my low energy levels at the gym, I buried myself deep in the sheets for unprecedented stretches of time (outlandish behavior for a self-proclaimed non-napper). And for several consecutive evenings during dinner, I watched in awe as my delicious tumbler of cabernet remained untouched (as obvious a warning sign as any).

And then, just like that, one day I woke up and decided to take a pregnancy test. The fact that it came out negative only served to encourage my bizarre behavior; at that moment I decided it would be a fantastic idea to save the urinated relic. As if that wasn’t strange enough, a few hours later I paid my unlikely souvenir a visit. And that’s when I saw it -- the faintest, most obscure little line you ever saw. Or didn’t. I was sure I was hallucinating.

During the next few days that followed, I woke up every day at the crack of dawn to pee on sticks and scrutinize ill-defined lines. In the process of clearing out the pregnancy test aisle at CVS, Carlos did research on the mystery of the indistinct line. “All the forums say that a line is a line, no matter how fuzzy,” he kept insisting. And even though deep down inside I know that I knew, for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

Why did I have such a hard time listening to my own intuition? It may be that identifying this sixth sense is another one of those things that only comes with experience. Kind of like that hard-earned entry into the motherhood club.

Fatto in casa

2011-07-18T18:33:00.001-07:00

Thanks to my tropical roots and ten consecutive years surviving cold winters, the summertime is and has always been my favorite time of year. Forget autumn foliage, white Christmases, and cherry blossoms. Blistering sun, sweltering heat, frizzy-hair-inducing humidity -- hands-down this is the time of year when I’m happiest.

Exciting things always happen in the summer, and this year proved to be no exception. Not only did we discover a little bun baking in the oven (more to come on that later), we also had a two-week family trip to Italy to look forward to. What more could we possible ask for?

An on-time departure would have been nice. Our trip got off to a rocky start courtesy of American Airlines, who decided to torture us with four hours of 30-minute delays before canceling our overnight flight to Madrid. Two Admirals Club lounge visits and an electric blue airport-shop blanket later, we sluggishly made our way back home, disappointment only partly offset by the prospect of trying out the British Airways Business class pods thanks to a rescheduled flight via London.

Despite an additional setback at Heathrow involving a painstakingly meticulous security agent determined to discover anthrax in my Mott’s applesauces, we finally landed in Rome. Although our weekend was cut short, it was enough time to revisit key staples; a stroll to the Spanish Steps for an early evening spritzer, a quick wish at the Fontana di Trevi, and a dubious meal at a tourist trap in Piazza Navona.

Fortunately for me and my then lime-sized fetus, the focus of this trip wasn’t centered strictly on wine-tasting. Instead, we took full advantage of the wide range of cultural events and festivities emblematic of summers in Europe. In Siena, a picturesque pedestrian hill town just 40 miles from Florence, the curved, nearly egg-shaped Piazza del Campo was colorfully decorated for the bi-annual Il Palio festival, a notorious horse-race dating back to the 17th century. Every year hundreds of zealous spectators gather in the center of the piazza to watch delegates from 10 of Siena’s 17 districts compete in a perilous saddle-free race around the square, each district represented by an improbable animal such as a porcupine, caterpillar, tortoise, and yes, even a snail. It was just days before the race and the anticipation was palatable, with die-hard fans gearing up for the festivities by reserving 300+ euro seats for 90 seconds of front-row action.

Our stay in Verona coincided with the inauguration of the Opera Festival; this is how it came to be that I had the privilege of spending my last minutes as a 28-year-old watching the dramatic death of La Traviata in the magical Arena di Verona (a 1st-century amphitheater turned open-air opera house). Venice had its Biennale art festival, Lucca its summer music festival, and in Perugia, our last stop, the small town buzzed with thousands of Umbrians celebrating the annual International Jazz festival.

Of course, there was always room for the occasional wine-tasting pit stop. In Montalcino we visited the Castello Banfi, a 7,000 acre wine estate where 20% of Italy’s Brunellos are made. A tasty three-course degustation lunch was followed by a rudimentary tour of the facilities, where I learned that Prosecco is just one type of Espumanti (Italy’s champagne), that Grappa is made from vinaccia (the leftover skins and seeds of the grape used to make wine), and that our 2009 trip to the Spanish wine country has forever transformed us into self-professed wine-tour snobs.

On my end, my inability to drink wine actually turned out to be an advantage, as it translated into increased intestinal capacity. In Siena we developed an infatuation with Pici, an extra-thick spaghetti so hearty and delicious that Carlos hand-carried bags of them for the remainder of the trip just so he could make them back home. Our Florentine food epiphany took place in a tiny local restaurant called Il Fagioli, where we were temporarily transported to chocolate lover’s paradise by the cantucci e vin santo -- freshly baked biscotti filled with the warmest, most decadently rich chocolate dipped in sweet Italian wine. In Venice we did our best to avoid the perils of dining al fresco and opted instead for the well-enclosed and very famed Harry’s Bar, home to the birth of the carpaccio. At 41 euros a pop, the enlightened raw meat was by no means wallet-friendly, but worth the splurge nonetheless. Equally delightful were the bacon and saffron pappardelle, the incredibly delicate veal cannelloni, and an outrageously fluffy vanilla cream cake.

The culinary peak of our travels culminated in Bologna, known as the gastronomic capital of Italy. A small, rose-colored city filled with culture and charm, Bologna is not often frequently visited by tourists, but turned out to be the site of some of the very best meals of our trip. The formula was simple; fresh ingredients, simple recipes, and most important of all, lots of TLC on the part of the most passionate nonnas in the nation. It was here that we met Manuela, the proud owner and quasi-dictator of Osteria La Traviata. “La sua specialità è la pasta,” she proclaimed early on, “fatto por me”. In other words, don’t bother eating anything but pasta, which I make with my own bare hands. We followed her instructions to the T and found that this was one tyranny worth succumbing to; silky tagliatelle with asparagus and pancetta, carefully crafted tortellini in brodo, artful tortelloni filled with ragú, and, perhaps most delicious of all, ricotta-filled tortelloni generously topped with black truffle. Dessert? The creamiest mascarpone, fatto por Manuela. After-dinner drink? A potent coffee-rum liqueur, fatto por Manuela. If there’s one lesson we learned in all of this, it is that the key to unlocking Carlos’ culinary potential lies somewhere deep within the heart of Manuela’s kitchen.

And just like that, in the same way that the glorious months of summer always seem to pass too quickly, our tour of Italy came and went. All that is left is a couple bags of Pici, a few hundred megabytes of photos, and renewed hopes for a future apprenticeship with a Manuela-style nonna.

What lies beneath

2011-05-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

For years I’ve had an unwarranted aversion to Germany as a tourist destination. There are three things that come to mind when I think of the Deutschland; gallons of beer (not exactly my drink of choice), a heaping plate of sausages (the white ones make me queasy), and the incorrigible tone of the acerbic German tongue (I’ll take Swiss French any day, lazy numerology included). Without a doubt, these stereotypes have gone a long way in keeping Germany a considerable distance from our travel radar.

Luckily for Carlos and I, most of our vacations are family-oriented, so the decision of where to travel is not always ultimately up to us. This is how it came to be that despite my self-imposed disinclinations, the city of Berlin became our first post-Geneva European getaway.

Much like Obama’s birth certificate, Berlin is a city that generally flies under the radar; until someone sparks the conversation, that is. Then, out of nowhere, a whole universe of zealous Berlin-lovers start making spontaneous appearances, complete with an extensive array of fond memories and travel tips. “You have to go to the Pergamon!” The perma-what? “Berlin has such amazing architecture!” Big whoop. “I just know you’re going to love it!!!” Alllll-righty then.

Despite the mounting expectations, it wasn’t until my first glimpse of the city that I finally started letting go of my stubborn inhibitions. Impeccably blue skies, an endless expanse of minty green lilly trees, pristine waters flowing beneath quaint bridges, an array of palaces, embassies, and mansions, each more unique than the other. There’s no denying it, the place has charm.

According to Ramon, our impetuous Argentinian tour guide, Berlin’s beauty transcends the physical. “This is a city of tolerance,” he declared emphatically on our first day, “everybody gets along. Just look at the Tiergarten.” By this he referred to the large park in the center of the city, where on an average day one is equally likely to spot mothers taking their babies for a stroll as throngs of lesbians tanning in the nude. Liberal attitudes aside, I couldn’t help but wonder; can a city that spent nearly half of the previous century violently divided by competing ideologies really live in absolute harmony?

It’s quite obvious that today, efforts are centered on representing the two sides of the city as one, particularly through the city’s architecture. Tourist attractions are riddled with phrases like “Berlin’s fluidity”, “building a band between the east and west” and “the old becoming new again”. And yet, upon further inspection, it becomes clear that tensions remain. Contrasts between old, new, past, and present spill throughout the city; the monstrous Sony Center media complex in the West; boxy Ikea-type buildings on the East; a WWII bunker turned billion-dollar art deposit; larger-than-life ads used as temporary façades for yet-to-be-financed construction sites; fake balconies on Russian-style buildings. The fabric of society has its own way of unraveling, and in Berlin, the undercurrents of change fit anything but seamlessly into the politically-sponsored narrative of unity.

Although in four days we barely scratched the surface, it was certainly enough time to read between the lines. I also gathered plenty of material to develop my own fresh perspective on Germany, one that goes well beyond sausages and wiener schnitzels.

A Little Less Conversation

2011-03-31T15:30:00.000-07:00

As I’m sure everyone does when making life-changing decisions, Carlos and I resorted to a Geneva vs. Miami pros and cons list before resolving to move. Looking back, I’d say our assessment was pretty much on the money. Then again, it’s hard to beat gorgeous weather, ocean views, spacious quarters, and Caribbean weekend getaways.

In one area that we did undervalue our life in Europe was in the quantity of great meals we experienced. Although we knew that Miami would be a food downgrade (neither of us was delusional enough to expect Publix to size up to Globus), we weren’t exactly anticipating culinary dearth. Had I known eight months ago during our last meal at Anne Sophie Pic that I had reached my culinary zenith, I would have let the cloud of champagne-infused grouper melt in mouth a little longer before letting the luscious foam slip into oblivion.

I didn’t realize how deprived we were (or how spoiled we’d become) until our most recent vacation-planning brainstorm session, during which we found ourselves narrowing down possible President’s Day weekend destinations by restaurant caliber as opposed to beach quality. It’s a good thing that we slept on it; after nearly committing to a six-hour flight to Las Vegas, common sense prevailed and we opted instead for New York City, where I was willing to endure two days of wintry weather for the sake of culinary sanity.

Thanks to an oversized crunchy French toast at Norma’s, a suckling pig at Maialino’s, and a five-course meal at Per Se, we returned home with our gourmet food cravings somewhat satisfied. When it rains it pours, and when the sun shines it scorches; upon arriving at Miami International Airport, an unexpected surprise awaited us in the form of a cardboard flyer welcoming incoming chefs to the South Beach Wine & Food Festival. Alas, a Miami-based event with culinary promise!

With tickets booked just hours later, Carlos and I began doing what we do best; setting ourselves up for failure by inflating our own expectations. By the time we arrived at the event, we anticipated nothing short of the Food & Wine Classic in Aspen. What we got instead was a Miami-style beach party featuring free booze, loud salsa music, and the inevitable cougar battle over perfectly coiffed twenty-somethings. Gourmet food seemed to be the last thing on anyone’s mind; to my dismay, Celebrity Cruises had one of the few stations with anything truly tasty to offer (oh, the irony!).

Fear not, dear readers, for it wasn’t all a loss; our disappointment with the food was offset by colorful demos by some of our favorite culinary heroes. We got to see Jamie Oliver, whose passionate discourse was filled with poetic phrases like “human aioli”, “salad philosophies”, “food is medicine”, “dressing the board”, and “kissing the meat”.

Things began looking up for every man in the room when Giada showed up, all dolled up in a pretty purple dress and full-on hair and make-up. Rather than get down and dirty, Giada let eager volunteers cook her spaghetti al melone as she took questions from the audience. We learned trivial facts about her life including how she maintains her figure (exercise, small portions, and daily 5am yoga sessions), her favorite pick-me-up (a spoonful of nutella) and her future baby plans (not anytime soon, she claims).

Despite his inability to speak coherent English, Morimoto impressed the audience with his whole roasted pig preparation (I apologize to any vegetarians I may have traumatized with the above image). Last but not least came Guy Fieri, a.k.a culinary rock star. The challenges of making pizza in 90% humidity did little to deter Guy from riling up the crowd; all he needed to galvanize hundreds of screaming fans was a show-stopping DJ and 25 gallons of the “South Beach Slurr-icane”, a vodka-fruit-punch cocktail that he concocted on the spot (check out the video after the jump).

The Sobe Food & Wine festival was emblematic of our Miami culinary experience; the scene took precedence over the food. Nonetheless, inspiration from the chefs helped us ease back into our new food lifestyle, which is now composed of a lot fewer restaurants, much more home-cooking, and the occasional culinary escapade.

All Aboard

2011-01-31T15:39:00.000-08:00

In Latin America, having a large extended family is the norm. Rather than limit family reunions to Thanksgiving weekends, get-togethers take place on a weekly basis. Since my family and I spent most of our lives thousands of miles away from our relatives, we crammed our reunions into bi-annual visits to Panama. Besides getting caught up on family drama, my favorite pastime during these occasions was counting how many cousins I had to later show off this number to my impressionable friends back home, many of whom were seriously lacking in the kinship department.

Dating Carlos quickly rectified this inflated perspective. His family (on both sides) is so large that meeting each and every person required a week-long trip to Venezuela. We had been dating for nine months by the time we went on this “vacation”, and although I had met his parents and the occasional uncle or cousin, I certainly wasn’t prepared for the jam-packed agenda that awaited us. New events cropped up every day like groundhogs in a whack-a-mole, and it wasn’t long before I was forced to readjust my lifelong conception a big family. Hundreds of first aunts, uncles, cousins, and nephews later, my own family tree started feeling more like a bonsai. Not to mention the overwhelming amount of second, third, fourth, even fifth cousins that the Machado-Ball household runs into on a day-to-day basis; just remembering the faces and names of this vast network of individuals is a full-time job I still haven’t quite mastered (you know you’ve failed miserably when you’ve heard the mortifying phrase “You don’t remember me? I went to your wedding in Panama!” on more than one occasion).

This holiday season, Carlos’ mom’s side of the family decided to organize a trip to celebrate the New Year together. As you can only begin to imagine, deciding upon, agreeing to, and booking a destination for 40-plus opinionated individuals was a feat all on its own. Although I was not privy to the entire process, I did sit in on one five-hour session dedicated to debating where to stay in DisneyWorld. As a Ball-family-vacation-planning newbie, I seemed to be the only one taking the exercise seriously, spending twenty minutes on the phone with Hyatt reservations only to discover a few hours later that Mickey and Minnie had been entirely dismissed from consideration. Some lessons are learnt rather quickly.

I still can’t quite figure out how it happened, but somehow everybody managed to agree on a cruise in the Caribbean. The day after Christmas, Carlos and I made our way to Port Everglades in Ft. Lauderdale, where we were greeted with an embarrassing “CRUISE VIRGINS!!!” shout-out at the Celebrity Solstice check-in. I’m not sure why our cruise-free status was so fascinating, but I’m glad to have gotten the awkward initiation over with.

In theory, the cruise concept is infallible. It’s basically a large floating hotel, complete with its indoor and outdoor pools, bars, restaurants, random boutiques, spa, club, and casino. The food is included (for the most part), and if you choose to purchase the overpriced drink package, consumption generally becomes a stress-free experience. One of the greatest advantages is that the cruise enables you to visit multiple destinations at your own pace and without the hassle of extensive planning. Once the ship is docked in a particular destination, passengers have the option of waking up at the crack of dawn to embark on organized excursions, or sleeping in and improvising. We wisely opted for the latter, which turned out to be as simple as hop-off, hop-on.

As with everything, the cruise has its drawbacks. Although I didn’t get seasick, it took a couple of restless nights (not to mention a few adventures on the treadmill) to become accustomed to the ship’s constant motion. The food was not disastrous, but there was certainly room for improvement. In the Grand Epernay, the main restaurant, the key was keeping it simple. Unfortunately, Master chef Michael Roux made it practically impossible to do that, what with his Paul Bocuse complex and the food marketing department’s uncanny ability to fabricate mouth-watering descriptions of what too often turned out to be very mediocre dishes. The best bet were the specialty restaurants, although these were fully booked well before departure. And then there were the extra fees and tourist traps -- a soft drinks package limited to watered-down soda fountain beverages, a $5,000 bingo with a skimpy $300 grand prize, and, for those of us who caught colds and viruses, a $10 bucks-a-pop price point for antibiotics.

Once you become accustomed to the caveats, it becomes clear that the cruise is a particularly appropriate venue for extended families. Although each of us had the liberty to do exactly as we pleased, we were all physically constrained within a 5-mile radius. By a mysterious force of nature, we constantly gravitated towards each other, either for dancing in the lobby, sunset-watching at the stern, or crepe-eating on the fifth floor bistro. For those of us who live abroad and are constantly playing catch-up, these impromptu gatherings were hands-down the highlight of our seven days on the high seas.

Chicken or pasta?

2010-12-01T16:40:00.000-08:00

The fact that we’re no longer living in the heart of Europe hasn’t slowed down our travel agenda, it’s merely displaced it eastwards. Although replacing the minimalist serenity of the Geneva airport with the chaos of MIA hasn’t exactly been easy, two years’ worth of accumulated American Airlines upgrades have somewhat eased the transition. There have even been improvements; to start with, I’m no longer forced to crush my purse into my carry-on during boarding to meet ridiculously literal one-bag-per passenger policies (take that, Easy Jet). Our temporary business class status means we can avert heightened levels of exasperation at inefficient travelers slowing down security lines one metal accessory at a time. Other perks include free drinks at the Admirals club and the seriously addictive warm chocolate chip cookies served in the first class cabin. We’ve further improved our on-flight culinary experience by carefully coordinating seat assignments with flight numbers to ensure first dibs on “chicken or pasta” (as Carlos quickly discovered following a near-death altercation with a chicken-less steward, food is served from front-to-back on even flights and back-to-front on odd ones). In fact, the only real set-back to our Miami-outbound weekend getaways is the hassle of immigration lines and passport stamps. In an effort to address this concern, we kept our most recent beach-capade as local as possible, spending Columbus Day weekend in the US virgin island of St. Thomas.

Carlos and I are self-professed island enthusiasts, and though I’ve never really given much thought to our passion for these isolated geographic entities, I suspect that a lot of it has to do with islanders and the carefree ambiance they generate. From Despina’s bubbly team in Santorini to the infectiously upbeat staff at Coco beach in St. Martin to Capri's exceedingly eager grotto guide Mario, all of the island hosts we’ve ever encountered have been pleasingly easygoing. Given this track record, it’s not surprising that the concept of an unhappy island had never even crossed my mind.

St. Thomas was a different story. The stress began at the airport, where we faced an intimidating group of aggressive taxi drivers barking a confusing series of fares at droves of unsuspecting tourists. Somehow we (I) managed to avoid a $100 private ride to our hotel, only to discover minutes later that this was far from a triumph. We soon found ourselves trapped in a small, air-conditioner-free van with a dozen other passengers, many eager to strike up pointless conversation. As our lethargic driver chugged us along each and every inch of St. Thomas’ winding roads, we watched the last precious minutes of sunlight vanish, and for the first time in my life I wished Carlos had taken the bait. Many furtive “I-told-you-so” glances later, the unwarranted tour of every hotel on the island ended, and we arrived at the Ritz-Carlton. The realization that we’d spent one-third of our vacation in a hot, smelly van was only slightly offset by what proved to be the only courteous islander in St. Thomas; a frail, apprehensive old woman in the lobby whose entire job description involved welcoming guests by pouring a complementary shot of rum into plastic cups filled with tropical punch.

Maybe it was the rough start that did it, but despite the beautiful hotel and gorgeous beaches, Carlos and I had trouble syncing with St. Thomas. It wasn’t just the hostile service; in my opinion the island has a bit of an identity crisis. While its famous for being the most frequented port in the Caribbean, there’s nothing to see or do on the island beyond shop (this is not an asset when you live in Miami). Long distances, expensive taxis, and antagonistic drivers make it difficult to explore the culinary scene. Unless your idea of living on the edge involves paddle-boating and kayaking on a plateau of water, I wouldn’t exactly call it a place for adventure. And when it comes to fellow tourists, there’s not much room for diversity; everyone there was either running after a baby or attending a five-minute wedding ceremony.

I realize that this is a harsh review considering we were only there for 48 hours, so I’m willing to give the US virgin islands the benefit of the doubt; it may be that it's a place best explored with a little bit of a longer timeline and a whole lot more patience. One important lesson we did learn? An immigration line is a small price to pay for an authentic island getaway.

Dental drama

2010-10-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

For many years I’ve had a painful relationship with my teeth, in fact, many of my childhood memories are associated with dental drama. From very early on a combination of factors comingled to make my mouth the site of a perfect storm. It all began with a real estate problem; an abnormal square-inch-of mouth-per-tooth ratio translated into multiple extractions. Although I can’t claim that these procedures were painful (I was numbed with anesthesia), they were definitely traumatic; I can still feel the surgeon’s ferocious tugging and pulling and hear the crick-crack of my teeth as they slowly gave way. Next came five tortuous years of braces. I’m not quite sure how my mother managed to drag me to the orthodontist every month; my volatile teenager mood-swings were only intensified during those fateful days when the only silver lining was getting to pick a new color of brace bands (side note: how was a whole generation duped into thinking those were cool?). Hours of waiting, examining, and tightening typically ended with a discouraging consultation involving a convoluted explanation about why I needed an extra year of braces (my orthodontist had a knack for building up false expectations). The glorious day when the braces were removed slowly came and quickly went, but new problems ensued; I’m in double-digit territory when it comes to cavity fillings, I’ve dropped hefty sums of money on whitening kits, have my own gory wisdom-teeth-removal story, and have evolved into an exceptionally destructive grinder. To sum it up, bad genes, extensive orthodontist work, light sleep, and years of gum-chewing, candy-eating, and soda-drinking have made my mouth a breeding ground for disaster.

Moving around has led me to a fair share of dentists, the most memorable of which has to be Dr. X* in New York City’s midtown east. A charming and competent Hispanic woman in her forties, Dr. X is the only dentist I know who’s attempted to address the discomfort associated with the cringe-inducing sound made by dental instruments. As soon as you lay down on the dentist chair, Dr. X’s sweet-as-pie assistant Brenda offers you a laminated one-pager of pirated movies and TV episodes to pick from. Once you make your choice (always, always go for comedy), she sets up a mini-dvd player, equips you with projectile glasses and earphones, and voilà!, the show begins. The last movie I watched there was The Break-Up, but the real entertainment began when the audio malfunctioned in the midst of a tiff about Jennifer Aniston wanting more lemons. With my mouth wide open and Dr. X and Brenda in full-on cavity-filling mode, there was nothing I could do to warn them; I was involuntarily forced to (gasp!) eavesdrop on their entire conversation. That day I learned much more than I needed to know about Dr. X, including lucid details about her affair with a married man notorious for making empty promises to leave his wife.

Despite the range of procedures I’ve had and host of personalities I’ve encountered, nothing could prepare me for what I would experience in Miami. It had been almost a year since my last check-up and the hypochondriac in me was sure there was something wrong with one of my fillings. So, without doing the appropriate research, I took the first dentist recommendation I received. In retrospect, I probably should have paid more attention to the warning signs; the sketchy run-down office in the port of Miami, the undeniable smell of cigarettes emanating from Dr. Y, and, to top it all off, x-rays that revealed zero cavities (a near-impossible scenario). With increasing hesitation I agreed to a filling repair; the trouble began when Dr. Y insisted that she would do the work without anesthesia (“it’s on the surface, you won’t feel a thing”). Feeling overly confident about my pain threshold I conceded, only to be met with a sharp-shooting sting within the first five seconds of drilling. Dr. Y was by no means pleased by my performance. “You’re lying!” she yelled, “there’s no way this can hurt!” Tears streamed down my face as I watched her snatch up a humongous needle from a nearby tray and violently jab it in my cheek. The movement was so abrupt that she missed the vein she needed to target and numbed the wrong tooth. My requests for more Novocain only served to exacerbate her diatribe. There was nothing left to do but clutch the chair in angst and await an end to the agonizing experience.

Carlos doesn’t understand why I didn’t just get up and leave, but the fact is that as slowly as time seemed to pass, it all transpired very quickly. By the time I was capable of reasoning, I had a hole in my tooth the size of a pea. Somehow, the prospect of leaving it uncovered frightened me more than the psychotic woman holding me captive.

The nightmare didn’t quite end there; two weeks later as I was enjoying an afternoon snack consisting of chewy homemade merengue cookies, I heard a strange crack. It only took me an instant to know that the sound was not of eggs and sugar. They say that the tongue has a magnifying effect, but a quick inspection of the area confirmed my worst suspicions. Half of my molar had vanished.

Although at this point in the game there was really nowhere to go but up, I was extremely distraught, and inevitably a sleepless night ensued. It wasn’t until the next morning that I was able to cry and beg my way into an appointment with what turned out to be a miracle dentist. During the first half hour of my visit, Dr. W compassionately listened to my sob stories and offered a whole box of tissues for my tears (note to self: stop being such a baby!). Next came a full-proof, anesthetic application involving a numbing swab, a ph-balanced injection (to avoid that stinging feeling), and finally the standard analgesic. He then spent two and a half hours meticulously reconstructing my broken molar and encouraged me to observe every step of the process through a hand mirror (ok, not exactly Sex and the City reruns, but fascinating stuff nonetheless).

By the end of the day, I felt like I’d gone through a rebirth, but the sad reality is that this mouth will never have a happy ending. In the brief time he had to inspect my teeth, Dr. W made no less than two brand-new diagnoses (receding gums and acid erosion). At least I can take some temporary comfort with the fact that I now have a complete molar, an exceptional dentist, and an impressive head start to what will undoubtedly be a long list of new year’s resolutions.

*names have been omitted for obvious reasons.

One simple island

2010-09-16T17:13:00.000-07:00

During the past two and a half years that we’ve been blissfully wine-tasting in Bourgogne, sipping limoncello in Positano, mosque-hopping in Istanbul, and fine dining in Paris, one particular destination has continuously lingered in the back of Carlos’ mind. In his view, one has to look no further than 17 miles off the coast of Venezuela to find the perfect vacation trifecta: translucent beaches, a wind factor potent enough to repel all types of mosquitoes, and a very high casino density.

If there’s one word that defines the island of Aruba (besides the ministry-of-tourism-endorsed ‘happy’), it is simple. The nature of the island is such that every kind of activity is accessible, meaning that each individual is free to tailor their own experience. This removes the vacation stress associated with pleasing your travel companions. You can choose to spend your whole day lying in the sun reading a good book (as I did), commuting to and from the casino (I won’t mention any names), going snorkeling and taking sunset cruises (American tourists), or riding jetskis, rubber donuts, and banana boats (Latin American teenagers). The food is not exactly Zagat-rated, but as long as you know where to go (the Flying Fishbone) and avoid the tourist traps (stay away from the Lighthouse!), it doesn’t have to be a deal-breaker. People are laid-back, friendly, and approachable; this was perfectly exemplified by everyone from Mr. Thomas, an Olympian fencer who also happened to drive taxis for a living, to Neris, our favorite blackjack dealer at the Radisson (and not just because we won there), to Katie and Matt, the Californian honeymooners we befriended Monica-and-Chandler style during the last night of our stay.

Of course, reaching tranquility-mode is never automatic. I’d estimate that on average, there’s a 12-hour transition period from stress to serenity, even for double-digit repeat visitors like Carlos and I. This time around, we arrived late at night, giving us the opportunity to sleep it off, but only after a Carlos-imposed casino expedition which resulted in a moody wife and a loss of $200 in 20 minutes. It wasn’t quite over the next morning; when we finally hit the beach, we were unexpectedly faced with the Hyatt cabana mafia. Apparently there exist a group of overly ambitious Aruba vacationers willing to wake up at 5:45am on a Saturday to claim the best huts on the beach, leaving us late-comers cabana-less.

Despite these initial setbacks, before we knew it it was noon, and, like clockwork, our transition-to-paradise dues had been duly paid in full. Any remaining stress was swiftly dissolved by an assortment of frozen alcoholic concoctions. From that point onwards, we effortlessly engaged in our favorite Aruba pastimes; sun-soaking, ocean-floating, sunset-watching, and, of course, casino-hopping. By the end of the trip, Carlos was so relaxed that he was miraculously cured of months of lower back pain, a symbolic reminder that in his heart and mind, nothing beats a weekend getaway bon bini style.

Coming to America

2010-08-26T17:06:00.000-07:00

After many weeks living in limbo, Carlos and I were thrilled to finally see an American light at the end of the tunnel. As soon as we had the go-ahead from the embassy, we got right down to business. We made one last trip to Bern to pick up his visa, booked our tickets on the next available flight to Miami, and wisely spent the remaining hours bidding Europe farewell in the best way we knew how; culinarily. Terrible as my memory is, I know I will never forget the seven-course tasting menu at Anne-Sophie Pic restaurant; the intoxicating fusion of sweet and savory in a perfect foie gras crème brûlée, the unexpected punch of a tiny tomato-basil macaron, the silky delicacy of seabass foamed in champagne and caviar. With our Michelin-star food quotas filled to the brim, we knew we were ready for departure. The following morning, nothing seemed potent enough to dampen our spirits; not the 5am wake-up, not the endless emigration line during a too-tight connection in Frankfurt, not the penetrating wails of deceivingly cute kids on the exhausting airplane ride (why are we always surrounded by babies?), not even the standard one-hour wait for no good reason at the Miami Airport car rental.

So began our fervent love affair with the land of the free and home of the brave. During the first few days we stumbled around in a daze, like impressionable children in Disneyland. Every day was a fantastically simple re-discovery. Rows and rows of pancake mixes and maple syrup! 71 channels of “basic” cable! Air conditioning! AMC 24 theater movies! $4 magazines! Exclamation signs everywhere! Most shocking was the reemergence of a word we’d long since removed from our vocabulary; service. It all culminated during a routine dinner at Houston’s/Hillstone, where an exceedingly affable waitress insisted on carrying our drinks and remarked that we “really shouldn’t have to work so hard!” It took me almost a minute to snap out of my temporary stupor; in that moment I knew exactly how my godson felt during his first encounter with the life-sized cast of Toy Story. I was equal parts delighted and skeptical.

As with all impassioned romances, this one too has its flaws; as we would soon discover, not everything in Miami is as easy as it first seems. Finding the right apartment, for example, turned out to be a major challenge; the city may be teeming with ultra-modern high-rises, but these are often riddled with questionable tenants, an obscene dog to human ratio, and/or impending foreclosures. Leasing a car was hardly a snap of the fingers; it took us 10 straight hours to prove our credit-worthiness to the car dealer, and still another day for approval on car insurance.

Of course, when placed in the context of Swiss bureaucracy, these were just minor hiccups. And although the initial euphoria has worn off somewhat now that we’re finally settled, all it takes to rekindle the flames of this romance is a cursory glance at the obscene size of my walk-in closet.

Subject to approval

2010-07-14T14:51:00.001-07:00

As you may have noticed by now, I’m a bit of a planner. As the rest of the world engages in an endless struggle against the monotony of routines, I wholeheartedly embrace them. Every day of my life is organized by a mental calendar worthy of an I-phone application. I always wake up five minutes before the alarm sounds. I’m never late to appointments or meetings. I make restaurant reservations weeks in advance. My virtual agenda never ceases to operate; even when I’m on vacations where activities are limited to sun tanning and strolls on the beach, these too are scheduled into neatly structured blocks of time.

As I learned quite recently, there are serious flaws inherent in this system; very often the more organized you are, the less control you end up having. Despite having carefully planned our move to Miami down to every last detail, in the final days I was forced to cede my strict command of the calendar to the US government. Notwithstanding his vehement denial of previous employment in either the Cuban or Venezuelan government, my fellow Americans deemed Carlos worthy of a third and rather prolonged security check. This is how it came to be that with beach towels, bathing suits, and flip-flops in hand, and the rest of our belongings drifting somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Carlos and I found ourselves facing an extended period of days, weeks, maybe even months of homelessness in Geneva. The abrupt change in plans slapped us in the face like an angry Mel Gibson tirade.

Fortunately for me, homelessness in Carlos’ sense of the term doesn’t exactly equate to living under a bridge. While I spent a few muted days clouded by the seeming futility of life without a plan, Carlos quickly organized a business trip that landed us in the Palace Duhau Park Hyatt in Buenos Aires, Argentina for three consecutive weeks.

The 12-hour plane flight and five-hour time difference did little to transport my frame of mind. Although it may seem difficult to imagine being anything but relaxed amidst Swedish massages, World Cup games, eclectic shopping, and succulent meat, I couldn’t quite manage to unwind.

I found myself zoning out of life and zeroing in on arbitrary details. But the self-imposed paralysis wasn’t entirely fruitless; I took advantage of the change in perspective and made a few observations. I realized, for one, that upon close examination Argentinian service is as moody as a temperamental teenager. The average Argentinian waiter undergoes a radical shift from downright antisocial to warm and fuzzy in a span of 30 minutes. While it’s impossible to ignore the impatient sneers at the beginning of service, sometime between wine and appetizers an unanticipated transformation begins to take shape in the form of discrete instances of unwarranted small talk. By the time the meat gets on your plate, the waiter sneaks in a smile and throws in a compliment. And when it’s finally time to go, he (and I purposefully use the term "he" because the waiters are all male and in their 70s) is downright chatty and insisting on an on-the-house digestif. The phenomenon covers a wide range of services; I had a strikingly similar experience with the initially grouchy Patricia at the beauty salon (she now considers me one of her best clients) and at my favorite boutique Paula Cahen D'Anvers (best jeans on the planet!), where Laura’s icy aloofness morphed into obliging affection five minutes into my second visit.

It remains to be seen whether the cycle can be avoided once relationships are well-established; I have a feeling it has a lot to do with timing. Which brings me back to the topic of planning and my temporary loss of sanity. As it turns out, in the moment you least expect it, life has a way of sorting out your plans for you; two hours after landing in Geneva, the US embassy greeted us with the phenomenal news that Carlos’ visa was ready for processing. At this late stage in the game, I couldn’t have planned it better myself.

La dolce vita

2010-05-09T11:29:00.000-07:00

With a month left in Geneva and Carlos on garden leave (fancy private banking terminology used to describe one month’s paid vacation) the moment was ripe to take one last trip in Europe. Carlos made good use of his newfound liberty and did all the planning; before I knew it, it was 12pm on a Tuesday and I was lunching grilled calamari in Capri.

The first thing that most people associate with southern Italy is the phrase ‘tutti ladri’. As much as I’d love to debunk that theory, a few hours in Napoli is all that is needed to confirm the myth’s accuracy. The first Napolitano we met was our taxi driver, who spent most of the ride insisting we hire him for our entire vacation. At the marina, one man’s trade consisted of standing next to the ticket counter reading out loud the crystal clear sign that read “11 euros round-trip to Capri” and demanding a commission. On the ferry, a very insistent Italiani carried out an aggressive sales campaign of 5-euro donuts.

Having successfully survived these early encounters scam-free, we descended the ferry and were immediately greeted by a friendly old man from our hotel who kindly offered to carry our belongings. After a whole morning trudging two very heavy bags, Carlos instinctively conceded. Two seconds later, the old man disappeared, and we panicked. A quick phone call to the La Minerva hotel confirmed that we hadn’t been robbed – well, at least not our luggage. “Yes”, the manager confirmed, “the sweet old man who took your bags works with us. He also charges 10 euros for each piece of luggage”.

Carlos and I are big suckers for islands, and Capri did not disappoint. The town rests at the top of a mountain accessible through a three-minute funicular ride. The streets are made of cobbled stone accessible only to pedestrians, and the town is filled with polished hotels and elegant boutiques. Every inch is meticulously tidy. During the day, the streets bustle with tourists, but at night, as the town empties out, it becomes enchantingly quiet. I dragged Carlos on a (worthwhile, I must say) hike to a series of ancient villas, and we also went on a two-hour boat ride, in which Mario, our captain, took us on an exhaustive tour of every single grotto around the island. The translation for grotto is cave, but I’d say they’re more like glorified craters, which Mario claimed had exotic names like grotto di Valentino (a heart shape), grotto di la Madonna (I never quite managed to make anything out of that one), and grotto di champagnia. The man had a Phd on grottos.

At the end of our stay in Capri, we came to the conclusion that the island must be run by mafias. This is the only plausible explanation for our hotel manager’s disapproval of some of the tasty local restaurants we were intent on trying, and for the leery reaction of the owners of those family restaurants at the mention of the hotel where we were staying.

For the second half of our journey we returned to the mainland, rented a car in resplendent Sorrento, and drove to Positano, where we stayed in a jewel of a hotel called Le Sirenuse. There we spent hours lounging by the pool (where Carlos ate the best club sandwich in the history of club sandwiches) and sipping Prosecco on our balcony, which overlooked the town’s tiny picturesque houses. We took day trips to Amalfi and a cozy mountain town called Ravello, where I ate the best meal of the first half of 2010: a summer truffle and potato chip carpaccio followed by a painfully perfect lemon millefeuille.

Which brings me to an important final point: I’d never really given much thought to the lemon, but in the Amalfi coast it’s practically impossible not to become a fan. Lemonade, lemon sorbet, lemon gelato, limoncello. Lemon-less meals have been a major post-Amalfi adjustment, along with the harsh reality of the impending conclusion to our two-year honeymoon in Europe.

Petit comité

2010-03-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

One of the consequences of being a child expat is that you grow accustomed to a constant influx and outflow of people. In Campo Alegre, my international school, the amount of students that stayed on from kindergarten through to high school was so few that during graduation they were famously rewarded with a fancy black pen. Although I myself was not privileged enough to qualify for the much sought-after longevity pen, the fact that I stayed in the same school for a whopping twelve years was more than adequate consolation.

Change being our only constant, you'd think we'd grow weary of the recurring process of friendship-building, but quite the opposite was the case. Being outside the realm of Venezuelan society; the annual end-of-school-year paranoia (fueled by a sneaking suspicion that your parents’ strange behavior could only be explained by the awful secret of an impending move); the continual transformation of best friends into pen pals -- these were our common bonds.

Looking back ten (gasp!) years later, I find myself once again living at the core of the expat life. Beyond being impossible to penetrate, Geneva society is a conundrum – it’s been two years and I have yet to meet a “vrai Genevois”. The rest of the population seems to be divided into two buckets; those who have just arrived, and those who are about to leave. Sitting as I often do in the stamping ground for the transitorily inclined (Starbucks), I've developed an uncanny ability to determine where an individual is on this short spectrum. While newbies tend to timidly order their coffee in broken French, those whose Geneva days are numbered revert back to English, no longer willing to subject themselves to the recurrently perplexed stares of Swiss baristas (how complicated can it really be to decipher “un té , s’il vous plaît”?).

In Geneva, friendships are formed through mutual experiences. My relationship with my first friend here (who has already left, incidentally) was based entirely on our shared disbelief at the trivial (yet often enraging) changes we were adjusting to; overpriced dry-cleaning, endless bureaucracy, bad service, small food portions, outdated appliances, and tiny freezers. Nonetheless, it’s only a matter of time before your once alien surroundings become second nature, and as you evolve, these initial friendships fade into the background. After a rigorous (and seemingly endless) period of meeting and greeting, after a few disappointments and letdowns, and with a little bit of luck, eventually you find yourself surrounded by few, but meaningful friendships. While most tend to be based on shared linkages to home, occasionally you have the good fortune of sharing fundamental views and values with people from entirely different backgrounds.

The funny thing about the expat life is that whenever a new stage ends, a surprisingly potent element of melancholy emerges. As Carlos and I begin preparing to close what has been an unforgettable chapter (77 days to go, but who’s counting?), I get the feeling that the lingering nostalgia has less to do with Geneva (although it is hard to imagine life without macarons) and more to do with the experiences we’ve had and the hard-fought friendships we’ve developed.

Duck à l'orange

2010-01-31T11:36:00.000-08:00

When it comes to food philosophies, Carlos and I share the simple yet fundamental motto of live to eat. In fact, most of our time together inherently involves some sort of food-related activity. Our evenings are spent in the kitchen, slicing and dicing, boiling and browning as we share the day’s stories. Our social life revolves around brainstorming what we should cook for friends coming over for dinner. Our travel destinations are based on the cuisines we crave and the restaurants we yearn to discover. Our weekend outings in Geneva are mostly limited (quite voluntarily) to a leisurely promenade up and down the lavish aisles of the Globus delicatessen. Even our favorite TV shows are food-related (nothing builds up an appetite, I have to say, like an Iron Chef competition or Gail Simmons’ fervent descriptions of anything fried and buttery on Top Chef).

There are many important advantages to being married to someone with a passion for cooking. Besides the obvious fact that one gets to eat fabulous food 24/7, it also significantly simplifies the gifting process. The stress of the holiday season, which coincides with Carlos’ birthday, is drastically reduced by the mere fact that I always have some sort of kitchen appliance to fall back on. My dependence on this last resort is evidenced by the fact that we now own both a deep fryer and a pasta machine despite not having enough counter space for a toaster.

Another major benefit to having a cuisine-loving husband is that it enables ingenious self-gifting in the guise of generosity. This year proved to be no exception – weeks of fruitless brainstorming ultimately culminated in a fleeting flash of genius, and before I knew it I was shamelessly free-riding on a cooking class for two at the Cordon Bleu (not to mention a weekend in Paris).

The first time that Carlos and I took a professional cooking class was a few years ago at the Institute of Culinary Education in New York City, where we learned how to make what they considered to be the best dishes from the city’s best restaurants. The class was a blast and the food was delicious (I still have vivid memories of those silky Babbo mint love letters), but it wasn’t exactly practical, especially since, at that point in our lives at least, the concept of making fresh pasta was complex and foreign, and the idea of de-scaling fish far from pragmatic. And so, after much research, reflection, and debate, we finally decided on a course titled ‘Homemade Sauces, the finishing touch’.

Beyond gift-giving, a companion’s culinary passion also simplifies a wife’s duty to properly care for her husband. In Carlos’ case, it’s quite simply a matter of food and sleep, in precisely that order. This explains Carlos’ uncharacteristically upbeat mood on a very early Saturday morning as we made our way to the Cordon Bleu through the still-dark streets of St. Germain-des-Prés.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by a tall, gangly, chirpy young man who exchanged our coats for a cooking agenda and a couple of Cordon Bleu pens (I mention this fact because receiving random paraphernalia is another Carlos-happiness-enhancer). We made our way to the institute’s tiny blue cafe, where we were treated to a ‘simple French breakfast’ composed of orange juice, coffee, a croissant, and butter (perfection!).

Our chef was the delightfully animated and very French Marc Thivet, who effortlessly began guiding us through the process of making the perfect veal, chicken, and fish stocks. While Carlos listened attentively, I furiously jotted down the chef’s pearls of wisdom; the best way to hold a heavy pot; how to carve out a chicken wing; why carrots should be omitted from fish stocks; the art of slicing an orange; the time of year when a roasted garlic tastes just like potatoes. Then there were his anecdotes; the smell of his grandmother’s kitchen on a Sunday morning; the delicious simplicity of a slice of bread doused in freshly squeezed Provence olives. And finally, his (very intractable) opinions, including his zealous disapproval of dehydrated stocks sold at supermarkets (a.k.a cubitos Maggi) and his indignation at minimalist modern plating (less than two tablespoons of sauce per person? An outrage!).

Then it was time for us to get down and dirty. On my end, there were a few moments of panic, especially when faced with the prospect of single-handedly deboning a chicken, but somehow I managed to extract two beautiful breasts with uncanny efficiency. Among Carlos’ many culinary talents we discovered his knack for sauce thickening. And in very appropriately French fashion, we mastered the art of sauce reduction, transforming four bottles of wine into a few cups of Bordelaise.

That night, as we shared our feast with old friends and new acquaintances, I couldn’t help but reflect on how simple it is to make a fantastic duck à l’orange, and on the great pleasure involved in properly caring for and feeding my husband.

Que vida tan dura

2009-12-16T13:02:00.000-08:00

One of the downsides to living in Geneva is the lack of good quality mindless entertainment. The fact that Carlos and I now get excited when curling is on TV (a sport whose objective is to slide a round disk onto a bull’s eye on ice) gives you some insight into how little the cable here has to offer. A snapshot of the movies playing at the cinema this week illustrates the random and mediocre nature of the selection: Saw 6, Final Destination 4 (in 3D), The Box, Paranormal Activity, and New Moon. Sigh.

This helps to explain why, when a decent movie comes along every six months or so, I end up going to see it more than once, which, now that I reflect on it, makes absolutely no financial sense –I’d be better off purchasing the DVD various times over.

A few weeks ago I went to see the Julia Child movie, Julie & Julia, for the second time. I had seen it with a girlfriend while Carlos was in Argentina, but I felt impelled to go with him again in part due to his love of cooking, but also because I knew he would get a kick out of our uncanny resemblance to the melodramatic, spastic aspiring writer Julie and her saintly and encouraging husband Eric (with the important distinction that we do not live above a pizza place in Queens or go as far as de-boning ducks).

Last Sunday, after an unsuccessful twenty minutes of Geneva TV channel-surfing that culminated in an exhilarating cross-country skiing competition, Carlos brought up the fact that I had not posted a single blog entry in over a month (okay, maybe two). He insinuated that I was “letting my followers down” -- much like Julie feared she was when an important food critic failed to show up for dinner. My first reaction was, of course, defensive: “between school-work, work-work, and house-work, do you have any idea how busy I am???”

A few days after reflecting on the issue, I was finally willing to admit to myself that, as he very often does, Carlos had a point. The fact that I no longer spend a large part of my days aimlessly wandering the quiet streets of Geneva does not mean that I no longer feel compelled to write. And, as they say (and by “they” I’m referring to my how-to-become-a-writer-self-help-books), with writing comes responsibility.

I also began to realize that the issue went beyond a missed blog or two. This year I skipped Thanksgiving (on the bright side, I saved a few unsuspecting guests from a rendition of last year’s overcooked turkey breast). I have yet to attend a single Christmas party. I can’t remember the last time we went on a road trip (did I mention the Audi-less life is no more?). And just as my macaron-making skills were picking up speed, I completely abandoned the moody little suckers.

It’s a good thing, then, that the holidays are upon us and it’s time to make resolutions. While there is still plenty of room for improvement on this one, I am proud to report that I've already made some progress, evidenced by my ability to enjoy a stress-free weekend in Rome a few days before finals. So here's to 2010, a year I hope will be filled with precisely these kinds of sacrifices.

Back to basics

2009-10-09T08:23:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been thinking about the events in my life that have somehow managed to remain etched in this mediocre memory of mine. First time my parents let me drive the car to school. First time I crashed it. First roommate. First hangover. First time in Europe. First interview. First boss. First pay check. First tilting of the head to look up at a New York City skyscraper. First date with Carlos. First apartment. First plant. First grown-up bike. First grown-up bike accident. And then, of course, there’s the first day of school.

In Carlos’ mind, there are two types of people in the world: those who like to work and those who like to study. Case in point: while the mere thought of a textbook gives Carlos allergies, there are few things I enjoy more than the smell of a new book, the apprehension in an all-nighter, the satisfaction in turning in a good paper. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am a full-fledged nerd and I’m not about to deny it.

After four years in the workforce, the prospect of going back to school was both exciting and unnerving. Sure enough, the week before the big day, I started feeling butterflies in my stomach and having silly nightmares. The I-have-one-day-to-study-for-the-final dream. The I-forgot-to-drop-this-class-and-now-I’m-going-to-fail-it dream. The I’m-missing-a-credit-and-now-I-won’t-graduate dream.

Anticipation-related anxiety aside, the first day came and went in a flash (as most things seem to go these days). And now three weeks in, I am quickly discovering just how different it is to study at 27 from what it was at 18.

To start with, for the first time in my life I’m feeling old. I blame it on the excess of fresh-out-of-college 22-year-olds citing Treaty of Versailles terms from memory. While I’m still cherishing the gel pen as the greatest advance in note-taking history, they’re taking theirs on tiny laptops. Then there’s the whole issue of time management. Multi-tasking seemed to be a big deal in college, and now I’m wondering, was it really all that hard to balance going out and studying? It all seems fairly simple next to the responsibilities that come with being a student, a working professional, and a wife. Coco seems to be the only person I really spend any time with these days: ride to class, ride to work, ride to the library, ride to Coop, ride home. I find myself maximizing the efficiency of tasks I very recently considered precious (e.g. grocery shopping) and eliminating others I once considered vital (e.g. perfecting the art of macaron-making). I’m outraged at the inexplicable amounts of time I spend making copies of books that merit owning. And I have to continually remind myself to make time to be a good friend, daughter, and wife (the last of which basically comes down to keeping Carlos at a safe distance from the poisonous textbooks).

And so, after a very wonderful year as a not-so-desperate housewife, I quickly find myself back to my old over-productive, over-extended self. Except this time, I have to my advantage bountiful piles of reading, interesting professors, papers in dire need of writing, and, amidst all the chaos, a friendship or two waiting to be discovered.

East meets West

2009-08-31T11:25:00.001-07:00

The only downside to spending three nights in Santorini is that you’re eventually forced to deal with the psychological aftermath that comes with saying goodbye. In our case the transition process was particularly difficult; we’d be leaving a romantic island of 13,000 for a metropolis of 13 million.

Our home in Istanbul was the Kempinkski Çırağan Palace, originally built by Ottoman Emperor Sultan Abdülâziz in 1872 – so not at all a bad a place to overcome heartbreak. Of course, coming from the absolute simplicity of Anastasis Apartments, everything felt exceedingly opulent; luscious gardens, pillow menus, unaffordable mini-bars, sophisticated concierges. During check-in, we were greeted by a tall, lanky, red-headed, Fifth-element-type woman in an electric blue suit. I couldn’t help but give her a long, mystified look as I watched her pull out a credit card machine from her Louis Vuitton messenger bag.

Istanbul, the city where east meets west, is quite fittingly a place of paradox. Our hotel was just one example of many; visually stunning, bad service. The old city is filled with places of grandeur that transport you back in time in seconds: the Blue Mosque, the Haghia Sophia, the Topkaki Palace. And yet, anytime you exit, you quickly become exposed to obnoxiously aggressive merchants that hastily bring you back to reality. At the Dolmabahçe Palace on the Bosphorous, a guided visit of the amazingly preserved, extravagant inside furnishings is abruptly offset by an ill-mannered coordinator (“This is Turkish turf!” he barked at a group of Spaniards attempting to enter the palace before the locals. Their punishment was to endure the 45-minute tour in Turkish). The Grand Bazaar, though immense, felt more like a shopping mall than a market, and we were so intimidated by our weak negotiating skills that we didn’t dare enter the stores, much less attempt to buy a rug. In the end, we settled for towels, achieved a measly 10% discount, and later discovered that although quite pretty, they weren’t so hot at drying.

Then there’s the whole concept of the Turkish bath, which Carlos insisted was a necessary investment for what he often terms “blog-writing research” (expensive hotels, wines, and dinners also have a tendency of mysteriously falling into this category). I do have to admit that there is something luxurious about lying down on a huge stone of hot marble and being doused with buckets of soapy foam and warm water. And I’ve never felt so squeaky clean. Nonetheless, there is something rather disconcerting about paying a sixteen year old girl a hundred Euros to bathe you.

In sum, Istanbul is a place of wonder, awe, bewilderment, and intricacy. While the spectacular visual surroundings are a constant reminder of its rich history, its spirituality has the power to infuse even an outsider. Then, for a few hours at night, a transformation occurs, and it’s almost as if all of the traditional rules and customs are forgotten. Stylish rooftops buzz with trendy music, fancy cocktails, and lively chatter. For my part, there was something strangely comforting about melting into this seemingly laid-back atmosphere, especially knowing full well the complexity surrounding us.

Honeymoon hunters

2009-07-31T06:42:00.000-07:00

After many years of soul-searching, Carlos and I have recently come to the conclusion that we’d like to spend the rest of our lives perfecting the art of honeymoon hunting. Now the only thing standing in the way of our hopes and dreams is a blank check from a shady reality-TV executive.

Given the vast array of stressful tasks women tackle when planning a wedding, it’s hard to have any sympathy for the mostly futile role of the groom in this process. As a recent bride-to-be, however, I still remember and am willing to acknowledge the challenges associated with planning a honeymoon.

First and foremost is the issue of the target audience. Chances are that even the sweetest, most care-free girlfriend (ahem) will unexpectedly morph into a mercurial, emotionally unstable, insatiable bride-to-be with grand expectations of this all-important, once-in-a-lifetime, unbelievably-magical vacation. Then there’s the dreaded matter of the budget. Having maxed out your credit card on the engagement ring, you’re now faced with the dilemma of financing what will most likely be a pretty extravagant hotel stay for a period of no less than ten days. Once these matters are settled, the excruciating waiting period begins; it requires keeping your lips sealed (a particularly daunting feat for Carlos) and your fingers crossed that there won’t be any unexpected setbacks. The sad reality is that random circumstances (say, an outbreak of swine flu in Mexico) often end up crushing meticulously planned honeymoons for eager couples around the globe.

It’s no surprise then, that honeymoon planning can turn out be nearly as stressful to the groom as, say, finding the perfect wedding shoes is for the bride. But fear not, soon-to-be-engaged male readers, because it’s not all downside. Although you most likely won’t execute the perfect honeymoon the first time around, ten days of tranquillity gives you plenty of time to start brainstorming for the next one. What’s more, this time you’ll have the help and input of your better half (who at this point will have reverted back to her somewhat manageable self).

In our quest to find the perfect destination for our second honeymoon, Carlos and I stumbled upon a place called Anastasis Apartments in Santorini. Given that Santorini is synonymous with sunsets, it seemed a pretty obvious choice. Then again, there is much more to honeymoon happiness than pretty settings and flutes of the bubbly. In my book it has a lot to do with great service.

I’ve recently noticed that the past few years of wining, dining, shopping, and travelling have made me an avid critic. I’ve witnessed all types of service, from downright rude (any cafeteria person at the University of Pennsylvania), to pushy (Argentinian saleswomen), smart (the waiters at Daniel restaurant in NYC), pompous (the concierge at the Claridge’s), genuine (the staff at the Four Seasons in Argentina) and, of course, nonexistent (any premise in the canton of Geneva). And so, after a few tireless hours reading rave reviews about Anastasis Apartments’ outstanding service, I knew we had to try it.

Anastasis Apartments is more of a home than a hotel. It’s made up of ten simply decorated and impeccably clean rooms, each with its own balcony. The staff is composed of its owners (Despina, Anastasis, and their charming son Anastasis Jr.), two concierge-types (Dina and Katarina), two servers/barmen and a few cleaning ladies. It’s situated in the quiet town of Imerovigli, right in-between the much more populated Fira and Oia (pronounced ee-ah), which means that although the latter are easily accessible, you’re completely isolated from the overwhelming swarm of tourists. In fact, when you’re in the hotel, you rarely ever see more than six people at a time. The view is spectacular, the pool pristine, the food fresh, and the ambiance absolutely stress-free.

Our 7am arrival did nothing to deter an enthusiastic welcome from Katarina, who was waiting for us at the door. Katarina is a wonderfully bubbly woman from Georgia, who speaks in a strong Eastern European accent in a series of friendly commandments: “You will layout by the pool, I will bring you wonderful breakfast, Greek coffee, and then you will relax…and you will be happy”. Having woken up at 3am, Carlos and I were exhausted, so we pretty much just sat there as she singlehandedly settled us in and got us acquainted with the island. For starters, how to communicate (“Yassas is hello and goodbye, Kalimera is good morning, Efharisto is thank you. You will learn these words because when you meet Despina she will test you”). How to catch the bus (“Here is the schedule, but always calculate that it will be 5, 10, 15 minutes late”). When to catch a cab (“ok for Fira, too expensive for Oia”). Where to eat fresh, local, authentic food (Vanillia, Archipelago, Fillipas, Roka). What beach to visit (“Red beach is too crowded…you will go to Oia Amoudi bay instead”). How to rent a car or ATV (“we will do it for you”). What excursions to go on and which ones to avoid (“the volcano is very hot…there is no wind down there… people come back very red and sweaty…you will save those 90 euros and have nice dinner”).

It was 8am and we could feel the stress melt away. From then onwards, everything was as simple as it was that first morning. Not surprisingly, I found it impossible to resist exaggerated quantities of baklava and its infinite range of sinful varieties (I repeatedly had to stop myself from trying to calculate the calorie content in the explosive combination of phyllo dough, nuts, honey, and syrup). Consequently, my days began with a one-hour, two-mountain hike from Imerovigli to Oia. With a re-awakened appetite, I’d wake Carlos up and step out onto the balcony for breakfast. Each day there’d be a new surprise: Tiropita (Greek cheese pie in a light, crispy Phyllo dough), fresh fruits, granola, and yogurt (my favorite), a selection of fresh-baked cakes (Carlos was obsessed with the pound cake). Next we’d spend hours staring at the view, reading, talking, and taking the occasional dip in the pool. Once we’d had enough sun, we’d zip around the island on our ATV, eat fresh fish, calamari, and octopus by the beach, and explore a few towns. In one thing we were consistent: we would always be back in Anastasis when it came time for the sunset, which we discovered was best viewed with a bottle of champagne in the hot tub on our terrace.

Although there’s no doubt that Anastasis Apartments is now on our official list of honeymoon destinations, we’re still not quite convinced that four days was enough research, and so haven’t entirely dismissed the idea of a timely repeat visit.

Home sweet home

2009-06-29T11:34:00.000-07:00

Although it’s hard to imagine a suitable way to conclude a seven-day trip to St. Martin, Carlos and I happened to have just the ticket: a week of Venezuelan-style pampering in Caracas. I knew our scheduling arrangement had been a stroke of genius the moment I got off the plane and was greeted with “Estas negra!” (“You’re so tan!”) as opposed to the customary “Estas mas blanca que una rana…te urge una playita” (“You’re as white as a frog…we’ve got to get you to a beach ASAP”).

It felt like an eternity since our last visit, but it didn’t take very long to adapt to the good life. Delicious home-cooked meals? Check. Having our clothes magically washed, dried, and ironed twice in one week? Check. An at-home seamstress dedicated to us for the day? Check. Unlimited manis, pedis, and hair blow-outs? Check. Check. Check.

Anyone who lives in Venezuela will tell you that the economic, political, and social situation gets worse and worse every day. Although I do know that Caracas is by no means the same place I grew up in, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of nostalgia every time we drive up from the airport. The reality is that when you live abroad and only visit for a week once a year, it’s hard to focus on anything but the positive. And so, from this very biased perspective I thought I’d share a few of the things that keep Caracas at the top of my narrow list of “cities-I-want-to-live- in-the-long-run”:

SOAK UP THE SUN: After nine years helplessly trying to embrace this bizarre concept of seasons, I’ve decided that it’s simply not for me. Falling leaves, barren trees, white Christmases, freezing temperatures, flu season, allergies? I’ll take Caracas weather and the occasional outbreak of dengue fever any day.

GET IN MY BELLY: It’s important to mention the obvious: arepas (a flat, unleavened patty made of cornmeal stuffed with a limitless range of foods including my favorite combo of eggs, ham, cheese, and avocado), tequeños (fried bread dough filled with cheese in the form of a breadstick), and cachapas (thick pancakes made of fresh corn dough, topped with the best white cheese on the planet). Then comes the beauty of totally improvised backyard barbeques (I’m still a bit traumatized by the fact that I live in a place without direct access to a backyard, barbeque, or decent piece of red meat). These days, the caja china is all the hype (a method of cooking meats involving a large wooden box and six hours of some serious slow-roasting), and I must say that our 20-pound pig lived up to expectations. I even discovered a new passion for tropical fruits I didn’t know existed (and am now suffering from a condition I’ve coined ‘nispero-withdrawal’).

SURF OR (WATER) SKI: Not to diss Lac Leman or the Swiss Alps, but it’s hard to top 45-minute proximity to tropical beach paradise. What’s more, in Caracas you can spend every single spare moment engaged in some sort of outdoor activity without paying ridiculous membership fees (in my case the possibilities are endless - hiking, tennis, swimming, field hockey…in Carlos’ case, it’s pretty much golf-centered).

YOU MAY NOW KISS THE BRIDE: Venezuelan weddings are always unforgettable, even though they all tend to follow a similar pattern. It goes something like this: an unpunctual religious ceremony involving way too many bridesmaids (think: 20) followed by a swank reception offering a little bit of bubbly, a whole lot of whisky, and shot variations of some kind (in this case, tequila was distributed in carved out half-limes – unfortunately it took me one too many shots to notice the communal reuse of the lime cups). You greet the bride and groom, catch up with old friends and what seems like hundreds of relatives you never knew you had, and soon find yourself shamelessly hailing down the single waiter offering tequeños. Six or seven (or eight) tequeños later, some of the older generation retires, and the bride and groom assume their rightful place on the platform. From then on, it’s pretty much just dance.

All of this, of course, is impossible without our friends and family. Although we may occasionally irritate them with our constant conversion of everything into dollars, our cluelessness when it comes to directions, and our endless appreciation of the littlest of things, no one could possibly do a better job of spoiling us.

A place called Cocomo

2009-06-15T11:17:00.000-07:00

The Restrepo annual family getaway took place a few weeks ago, and even though this year it involved a 24 hour journey with a slightly traumatic stopover at Charles De Gaulle (who knew it could take two whole hours to get from one gate to another?), Carlos and I were ecstatic about the prospect of a beach vacation. When you grow up in Venezuela, the Caribbean is your playground, and much like year-round 70-degree weather, it’s one of the reasons you often fail to understand what motivated you to leave in the first place. It only takes one or two deflating experiences to realize how narrowly defined your concept of the beach is. Acapulco? Murky water. Lima? Ice cold. Florida keys? Phony sand. South of France? Rocky. Genève plage? The ultimate hoax.

It was our first time in St. Martin, and it actually turned out to be quite different from the typical Caribbean experience. In a very literal sense, the island has a split personality -- it’s physically divided into two parts. The Dutch side (St. Marteen) is more what you would expect; high-rise hotels, lots of shops, random American tourists. Our expeditions to this part of the island were limited to two destinations; the airport and the casinos (Carlos has slowly helped me overcome my once vehement aversion to gambling, so much so that I can now truly appreciate the beauty of a $5 minimum blackjack table). The French side, which we stayed on, has a much more European feel; the hotels are clusters of houses, the food is spectacular, and the people are...well...French.

Our four-room cabin-style house in La Esmeralda had its own swimming pool, an essential component, it turns out, in any vacation involving a water-loving three-year old (a.k.a my godson Ale). The beach is a five-minute walk away, and as close to perfect as you can possibly imagine. The sand is white, doesn’t get hot, and has the ideal texture (neither too grainy nor too mushy). There aren’t any little rocks pestering your feet as you go into the ocean. The water is translucent, just the right temperature, even the waves are flawless in their size and frequency.

For anyone who’s a foodie (as we all tend to be in my family), St. Martin is quite the culinary experience. At Coco’s, our hotel’s beach bar and restaurant, the mere wave of a hand guarantees the timely arrival of your drink of choice (in my case, a frosty margarita). Lunch is not only varied (fresh seabass, lobster fettucini, pizza, mussels, carpaccios, salads, sushi) but also delicious. And as if selecting what to eat wasn’t enough of a challenge, the meal concludes with the very significant decision of what complimentary rum digestif you desire: caramel, cinnamon, or coffee-flavoured. All of the restaurants we dined at had flavourful, delicate dishes using the freshest ingredients, all in a very informal atmosphere. There’s something paradoxically charming about savouring garlicky escargots and foie gras four ways in a dingy old house in the tropics.
Like everything in life, St. Martin is not without its flaws. An early morning walk on the shore means being subject to a multitude of less-than-sculpted naked bodies (living in Europe and frequenting the Holmes Place locker room has only strengthened my belief that some things are just not meant to be shared). The island consists of a series of badly signalled forks on the road, so driving is a bit of a nightmare. On the first day, Carlos and I naively accepted the car rental agent’s ambiguous directions (turn right on KFC and keep going) along with an island map reminiscent of a five-year old’s drawning; it took us hours to find our hotel. The service in restaurants, although more efficient than Geneva (then again, what isn’t?), does involve dealing with the occasional obdurate French owner. And the climate can be moody; I don’t think I’d ever been exposed to clouds or rain in my long history of Caribbean excursions. Lucky for me, Ale kept me so busy chasing iguanas, boogie boarding, flying kites, and building sand castles, that I barely had a chance to notice the occasionally nubilous weather.

Coco avant Chanel

2009-05-15T12:54:00.000-07:00

After three and a half years of financial independence, the psychological adjustment to life without a personalized income (and bank account) has been one of the biggest challenges since moving to Geneva. As expected, the adaptation process has been slow, but it’s also resulted in the less-than-anticipated development of an obdurate aversion to consumption. This explains how I’ve managed to restrict myself to window-shopping despite living on Geneva’s most commercial street. It also explains why this blog has not helplessly morphed into a sound bite right out of “Confessions of a Shopaholic”.

My irrational spending fear hasn’t been limited to shopping; it soon began to include items that while not exactly indispensible, would considerably improve the quality of life of anyone living in Geneva. Case in point: the bicycle. Despite the advice of friends and Carlos’ relentless insistence that we get one, I spent a whole year stubbornly swimming against the tide before I conceded.

On a beautiful spring Saturday Carlos and I finally made our way to the S.O.L.D. bike shop in Carouge. I was in a bit of a daze and spent a good 15 minutes wondering why every item in the store had already been purchased (in my defense, I was nursing a hangover). Fortunately, Carlos was focused on our objective, and after a quick consultation he found Coco, a sleek, strapping white-and-red beauty perfectly suited for weekday trekking in the city and weekend adventures in the countryside. It was love at first ride.

Coco’s arrival came just in time; what followed were two weeks of amazing bike-worthy weather. I have to say that there are few things more delightful than a ride around the lake on a sunny day (as long as you keep your mouth closed upon traversing the occasional swarms of bugs). I also have a new-found appreciation for riding in the city; staying accident-free is somewhat of an art-form. As I suspect it is in most places, the bike rider in Geneva is a secondary citizen. For one, clearly signaled bike channels are too often inexplicably transformed into bus routes. In these situations, I opt for what I consider the safer option of riding on the sidewalk, even though it means maneuvering around excruciatingly slow, intolerant pedestrians. And then there’s the issue of security; it turns out that crime does exist in Geneva in the form of bike theft. An indestructible lock is a must-have, and at night, keeping her in the house is essential. This means fitting Coco into our impossibly tiny elevator two times a day. Up until now I’ve somehow managed to keep my clothes from being torn or oil-stained, although I have acquired my fair share of scratches and bruises.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Coco was a smart buy; in fact, Carlos was probably right in that we should have purchased her a year ago. And although I can’t say that I’m totally cured of my phobia, I did buy Carlos his own new toy as a token of my appreciation; a pasta-making machine. Meticulously rolling up little raviolis is now his equivalent to my bike rides, and in spite of the fact that dinner is now limited to pasta, I’m starting to realize that sometimes its life’s simplest diversions that make all the difference.

God save the Queen

2009-04-30T14:50:00.001-07:00

It had been exactly ten years since either Carlos or I had been in London, so when we found out his parents were stopping over for three days on their way back home, not even a 6:50am flight with a stopover in Amsterdam could restrain us from tagging along. I was excited to return; I could barely remember anything from my last visit and was also eager to dispel the typical negative connotations associated with England (bad teeth, bad food, bad weather).

London is in many ways the opposite of Geneva; for one, you can spend hours and hours walking and never run out of interesting ground to cover. In what was unquestionably a walking-without-complaining record for Carlos, we treaded Regent street, Picadilly, Pall Mall, St. James Park, the Horse Guard Parade, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, the Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, and Covent Garden before even noticing our feet were sore. The city boasts a plethora of remarkable museums and monuments (granted it’s not hard to beat Calvinism and watch-making). Shopping goes way beyond the row of exorbitantly-priced brand-name stores with a host of unique, affordable boutiques at which I had a challenging time exercising self-control (recurrent exchange rate calculations finally did the trick). Trendy bars and restaurants abound, with delicious drinks served in high-ball glasses (hello, ginger vodka tonic) and spectacular food (highlights include a sea bream carpaccio in salsa verde and the most succulent coquelet in my poultry-eating history).

Of course, it’s hard not have a bias towards London when you’re staying at the Claridge’s. One of the city’s most reputed and elegant hotels, it has welcomed guests as remarkable as Queen Victoria, Peter II of Yugoslavia (whose suite was temporarily declared Yugoslavian soil for the birth of his son), and Spencer Tracy (Katharine Hepburn’s on-and-off hubby). In my humble opinion, it lives up to the hype. Upon arrival, the front desk clerk doesn’t just check you in; he gives you a tour of the hotel, personally escorts you to your room, and in our case, offered to make arrangements for lunch. The elevator has a gloved liftman (I thought that was only in movies!) and a fancy sofa which I couldn’t resist sitting on (even though our room was on the first floor). And the delightful convergence of the seemingly mutually exclusive terms pajamas and fine china take the concept of room service to a whole new level.

Not to say that everything about London is tea and trumpets. I didn’t need to wait for our credit card statement to know how much financial damage could be done in a mere three days. I don’t need to visit Canary Wharf to know how hard-core the work environment can be. And from a general quality-of-life standpoint, it is possible that Geneva may have the upper hand.

One last plus; celebrity sightings. Waiting outside the hotel for our taxi, we witnessed the presence of my favorite Iron Chef, Mario Batali. Bedazzled by the rainbow of colors radiating from his feet, my first instinct was to stalk him, but I could tell from the firmness of Carlos’ tenacious grip that such behavior would not be up to par with Claridge’s standards. Reluctantly, I conceded, but only with a guaranteed promise of a timely return.

Been there, done that

2009-04-22T12:29:00.000-07:00

You may be wondering where I’ve been or why my blog-writing frequency of late has been as tepid as the Britney Spears comeback. I’ll put any suspicions to rest and confess that these days, there are only two things that dilate the promptness of my updates; visitors and travel. In recent weeks, the two circumstances fused to generate the perfect storm: an extended vacation to Lyon, Provence, and London with Carlos’ parents.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about traveling with friends and family who come to visit us, it’s the importance of prior experience; a little bit of on-site research can go a long way in obviating occasional delays and disappointments. For example, I’m sure Michael would have found Carouge’s quiet streets charming had we not told him to expect the hustle and bustle of Soho. I certainly wouldn’t have subjected Carlos’ family to a four and a half hour boat ride to the tiny town of Yvoire had I known we could cover 90% of that distance by train. And chances are I would have taken my parents to see the Mont Blanc during a time of year when the cable car at Chamonix is actually open.

Keeping things positive, it is thanks to these early experiences that my hosting skills have improved. In Geneva, for example, I always take first-time visitors to the St. Pierre Cathedral in the old town, where I know the 157 steps to the North Tower are steep and narrow, but that the view is worth the investment. I’ve narrowed down the most worthwhile museum options to the Ariana (ceramics and porcelain) and the Patek Philippe (watches), and ruled out the Red Cross museum. I know that a beer and thin crust pizza in Molard is a must on a nice day, that Martel is the best bakery for an afternoon cappuccino, and that in times of boredom or uncertainty, food tourism is always a viable option.

With Lyon, the critical ‘exploratory visit’ took place with my parents and was quite a catastrophe. Despite having done some research (does wikitravel count?), I completely underestimated the fact that this was France’s second largest city, and not the typical self-explanatory one-street town. We left Geneva without a GPS or a map, relying solely on my Google-maps driving directions to the restaurant where we’d be having lunch. Upon arrival we discovered that Lyon had more than one ‘Rue Neuve’, and that regrettably, it didn’t happen to be the one I had directions for.

We managed to make lunch in the nick of time thanks to Carlos’ Blackberry GPS system and my numerous phone conversations (in French) with the very patient maître d’ at Brasserie Le Nord. By the time we arrived, everyone was both too moody and too hungry to give either of us credit for this accomplishment. After lunch, I dragged everyone on a steep walk up to the Fourvière basilica, not knowing that a funicular could have taken us up (and down) in seconds. Even finding a coffee place in the late afternoon was complicated; we spent at least thirty minutes trying to find a spot that wasn’t imploding with people.

This one-day learning curve, though steep, helped make our subsequent visit to Lyon with Carlos’ parents a whole lot smoother. Memories of our previous mishaps still fresh in mind, Carlos and I were practically locals, and we enjoyed a wonderful day and a half of sight-seeing. Lyon is a large, beautiful city situated between the Rhône and Saône rivers, and feels almost like a mini-Paris. It is also the gastronomic capital of France, and they sure don’t worry about keeping things light. The infamous Lyonnaise salad consists of heaps of bacon, croutons, and a poached egg mounted on a few leaves of lettuce. You can only imagine what the rest of the dishes are like; tripe soup, chicken liver cake, all kinds of sausage, calf’s heads, pig’s feet...not exactly the most convenient of places to spend Good Friday.

We continued onto Provence, where we’d be staying in what turned out to be the smallest town any of us had ever been to; a small group of cobblestone streets known as Castillon du Gard. Although we’d picked the place based on the accommodations, not the town’s entertainment value, it did take a few minutes to assimilate the fact that our hotel was the Castillon du Gard, and that we had a very long, quiet night ahead of us. I personally found the solitude refreshing, especially after securing playing cards from the front desk and a bottle of wine at one of two of the town’s restaurants.

I thought I’d mastered the art of shopping in French towns, but Provence has totally redefined my standards. The next day we had what turned out to be a fully packed agenda at St. Remy, Baux-de-Provence, and Avignon, and let’s just say that strong winds and hard rain did nothing to limit our purchasing power. Delicious food markets, stores dedicated solely to tapenades and olive oils, walls lined with spectacular ceramics, unlimited soap fragrance alternatives, exquisite linens (reality check: at what point in life did I become a person passionate about linens?). Many a lavender pouch later, we made our way to Châteauneuf-du-Pape, which up until that point I’d claimed was ‘my favorite French wine’. I quickly rectified this now clearly preposterous statement upon discovering that this was actually not a single winery, but rather a whole region made up of over 350 distinct wine estates. Our Provence shopping experience culminated at Domaine de Nalys, where Carlos settled for two cases of wine.

I continue to think that proper preparation facilitates successful visits to new cities. Nevertheless, there is something to be said about the communal process of making new discoveries. Some of the most notable experiences from a journey are often sporadic, messy, and unexpected; having an old Provencal man laugh at us for letting the GPS guide us into town through an impossibly narrow back road; taking a one-hour detour to Marseille and not having time to do anything other than eat lunch (but those mussels were worth it!); discovering a little too late that our hotel boasted an amazing view of the famous Pont du Gard. At the moment they happen these occurrences may not be the most idyllic, but when looking back, they’re often the memories we most cherish.

Hot N Cold

2009-03-25T12:33:00.000-07:00

In just a few weeks, Carlos and I will be celebrating yet another anniversary – our one year in Geneva. In commemoration of this remarkable achievement, I thought it appropriate to give an update on how we’re adapting to Swiss life. Here are the things we’ve learned to like, slowly grown accustomed to, and those we can still only barely tolerate.

HOT: Unlimited dessert potential. LUKEWARM: Significantly smaller food portions. COLD: Dining out.

HOT: The honor system on the tram. LUKEWARM: Getting away with not buying a ticket. COLD: Authoritative bus drivers.

HOT: The cappuccinos at the gym. LUKEWARM: People yelling during Spinning class. COLD: Guys checking guys out at Holmes Place.

HOT: Extended visits from friends and family. LUKEWARM: Quality time as a two-some. COLD: The six-hour time difference.

HOT: People who give up their seats for pregnant women. LUKEWARM: Cute little kids that speak French. COLD: The four-baby average at the local Starbucks.

HOT: Après-ski drinks. LUKEWARM: The customary glass of champagne before dinner. COLD: Mediocre cocktails.

HOT: Our apartment. LUKEWARM: An all-in-one washer/dryer. COLD: Small (and uncomfortable) showers.

HOT: Bike-riding through vineyards on a summer day. LUKEWARM: Skiing in the alps on a winter day. COLD: Crossing the lake on a windy day.

HOT: A 5 franc wine glass. LUKEWARM: A 15 franc rotisserie chicken. COLD: An 18 franc movie ticket.

HOT: Speaking French. LUKEWARM: Not understanding Swiss-German. COLD: Being replied to in English.

HOT: Extended store hours on Thursdays. LUKEWARM: Everyone taking off during the holidays. COLD: Not being able to buy anything on Sundays.

HOT: Swiss chocolate. LUKEWARM: Swiss precision. COLD: Swiss bureaucracy.

HOT: At-home medical visits. LUKEWARM: Trilingual doctors. COLD: Over-priced health insurance.

HOT: Watching Friends in French. LUKEWARM: Watching French movies. COLD: Watching French game shows.

HOT: Feeling generous with a 10% tip. LUKEWARM: Feeling sympathy for an overextended waiter. COLD: Feeling like you’re going to faint after a 45-minute wait for your appetizer.

HOT: The one-and-a half hour flight to Madrid. LUKEWARM: The four-hour train to Paris. COLD: The 12-hour flight to Argentina.

HOT: Not seeing homeless people on the street. LUKEWARM: Not having to deal with oblivious tourists on the street. COLD: Getting pushed around by discourteous people on the street.

HOT: Swiss bankers. LUKEWARM: Swiss banking secrecy. COLD: UBS.

A well-fed marriage

2009-03-20T12:41:00.000-07:00

Carlos and I just celebrated our two-year wedding anniversary in Buenos Aires. Beyond enjoying perfect end-of-summer weather, we focused our efforts on making new culinary discoveries. Our adventures began on Sunday at the Hotel Alvear brunch. In true Moni fashion, we tried (or rather, I ate) every single type of dessert available, only to discover that it’s absolutely impossible to trump the dulce de leche fountain at the Four Seasons. Another little surprise: the Alvear staff not only reads, but actually follows up on the silly things one writes on comment cards many glasses of champagne later. “The desserts were not sweet enough for you ma’am? Would you care to elaborate?”

Somehow, I managed to convince Carlos (and myself) to forgo a few nights of meat. Contrary to popular opinion, sushi in Buenos Aires doesn’t have to consist solely of salmon or tuna. At Osaka, a trendy Peruvian-Japanese fusion spot in Palermo, we indulged in ceviches, tiraditos, and my personal favorite, protein rolls (brilliant!). We even went for vegetarian at Casa Felix, a 12-seat terrace in the house of Diego Felix, an up-and-coming organic chef who grows local herbs and vegetables in his own backyard.

During the day, while Carlos was in meetings, I lounged by the pool. In honor of our anniversary, I decided it would be a good idea to re-read my trusty (not to mention dusty) marriage self-help book, “The Proper Care & Feeding of Husbands”. And so, in Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s company, I did some thinking about our lives post-matrimony.

More often than not, Carlos and I are told that we look like we’re still in our honeymoon phase. At first, this seemed like a compliment, one which I accepted gladly. With time, however, I’ve grown increasingly wary about what the comment implies. Does our relationship seem immature, or superficial? Is there something wrong with the fact that we haven’t started ripping each other’s hair out? After seeing what Dr. Laura had to say on the matter and doing what turned out to be some rather shady online research, I’ve concluded that our relationship status is certainly not still in this so-called ‘honeymoon phase’.

For starters, there’s the fact that these past two years have been characterized by unrelenting change; based on my research, there’s no room for such upheaval in a honeymoon stage. We bought, remodeled, briefly lived in, moved out of, and rented out our NYC apartment. I left my corporate job for a non-profit start-up, left the start-up for a to-be-determined job, and somehow learned to enjoy having no job at all. Carlos has been promoted, transferred, and now finds himself smack in the middle of the biggest economic storm of the century. And if there’s anything we’ve learned about the financial crisis, it’s that it’s breaking up honeymoon-stage relationships all around the globe (or maybe just in NYC).

We’ve both made some important individual changes. I’ve learned to stress less and enjoy life’s simple (free time) and more extravagant (business class) pleasures. Carlos now puts his dirty clothes in the hamper, brushes his teeth before bed (still working on the floss), no longer bails out on doctor appointments, and somewhat voluntarily goes to the gym once a week. Furthermore, we are proud caretakers of four plants, three of which seem to be surviving quite nicely (Eva is in full bloom, although white spots are plaguing the African violets).

There’s no doubt in my mind that moving to Geneva has both tested and strengthened our relationship. There have been ups (travel) and downs (homesickness), things we love (fresh air), others we miss (NYC noise pollution), but, at the end of the day, we find happiness in being fundamentally connected by common dreams and aspirations. Not to mention that we both continue to believe that a big, juicy piece of meat is the best meal in Argentina.

The Audi-less life

2009-02-27T03:46:00.000-08:00

Like most eager teenagers, I began driving as soon as I had the ok from my parents and had completed the embarrassing driver’s ed classes. I was fifteen, and as a girl, I was only allowed to drive during the day, a rule that restricted many of the activities that I considered essential at the time -- for example, taking my friends to non-matinee movies. All the same, I made the most of the daylight hours. I loved the freedom and liberty of taking off on my own, and like most people at that age, considered myself to be an exceptional driver (I have since come to terms with the fact that I am just ok, while understanding that no male ever outgrows this skewed self-perception). For those of you who’ve never been to Caracas, the elements that define a good driver in Venezuela are quite distinct from the rest of the civilized world; it means running as many red lights as possible (without endangering others, of course), always knowing exactly which back-roads to take to avoid traffic, zig-zagging through slow cars on the highway, and never, ever having to wait at the end of a long line of cars to take an exit (there’s no doubt in my mind that the concept of cutting was invented in Latin America).

I didn’t have a license, but not for lack of trying…I had filled out the application and paid several times, but for some reason (a.k.a Venezuelan bureaucracy) the paperwork never went through. Fortunately for me, I was never stopped by a traffic cop (was there such a thing?), although there were a few hiccups here and there. My first “non-accident” was little more than a bump, and could have totally been avoided had I not been such an ambitious multi-tasker (listening to music and talking on the phone, to start with). The next incident was more of a “non-hit-and-run”. It was raining, I had no visibility, and I was backing out of a tight parking lot when I lightly bumped a parked car behind me. In panic, I convinced myself that it could mean no more than a scratch and drove on home. To my dismay, I’d made a huge dent on the trunk of the car and had some major explaining to do to my parents. It only took one look for my father to know that I hadn’t been mysteriously hit by a car in the parking lot. This time, it was a few months before I recouped from the drama, not to mention my relentless paranoia that the cops were out to get me (to this day, the sound of police sirens gives me the chills). The important thing is that I learned from these experiences; I learned that I wasn’t invincible, that I needed to be more careful, or as my mom termed it, "drive defensively". And it worked, because I was accident-free from then on… although this could be attributed to the fact that my car was stolen a few months later. Maybe it was a sign.

Minor setbacks aside, I’d always considered myself a car person, and so it’s interesting to me that after four years living in Philly and four more in New York, relying on anything other than public transportation no longer feels natural to me. Just the thought that we’d have to own and drive a car in Geneva made me anxious.

Lucky for me, it turns out that a car is not, as we were told, a “must-have” here. It’s one thing if you reside in the suburbs, but as long as you live in the city, a vehicle is not vital. Carlos and I had initially planned to buy a car a few months into our arrival, but after doing some research on the investment (gas, taxes, parking), we decided to hold off. Eight months later, we’re still surviving quite nicely – simply enough, whenever we need one, we rent it.

From time to time, Carlos revives the car-buying discussion, and I understand why. It’s nice to have the freedom of spontaneously driving out to the mountains for lunch, or to take last-minute day trips to little French towns, to do the things one always does in little French towns (buy exorbitant amounts of random delicacies). And even beyond the autonomy of spur-of-the-moment travel, I’ve noticed that owning a car in Geneva is part of the culture, part of the attitude that comes with living here.

On my end, my aversion to driving only strengthens with each passing day, and this past weekend proved to be no different. My mom was visiting, so we planned a day trip to Annecy (you guessed it, a little French town) followed by a quick stop at IKEA (we needed to buy some essentials). The car that Carlos rented included one of those portable GPS thingamajigs. Technological advancement? I don’t think so. To me, this GPS system represents a whole new barrier to car person re-entry. For starters, it makes people lazy (whatever happened to reading a map, printing out GoogleMap instructions, or even having a general sense of how to get where you’re going?). It makes us question our sense of direction (“Should we take the route GPS tells us to or the way that we know is right?”). It makes both the driver and passengers more aggressive (about an hour is all I can tolerate of that machine’s annoying voice). Worst of all, it has the dangerous consequence of continuously keeping the driver’s eyes off the road.

GPS ordeal aside, I have to admit that the whole renting routine is not entirely perfect. Assiduous as they may be, Genevans choose to end their work-day at 6pm, which means that the car has to be returned at the airport. It’s a cumbersome six-step program: 1) drive to the airport, 2) fill the tank, 3) return the car, 4) take a bus to the terminal, 5) a train into the city, and 6) a tram home. Then there are the little surprises that creep up on you when you finally get home; you left something in the car, or you realize that you picked out the wrong box at IKEA. In all honesty, I can’t say that I’m thrilled to be stuck with two under-sized bar stools. All the same, I’m contented to know that in Geneva, I can still consider my own two feet my primary mode of transportation.

Weekend at Crans-Montana

2009-02-12T13:19:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I discovered that an old friend from high school is living in Geneva. We got together for coffee, and in the process of catching up she disclosed what, to me, was a shocking revelation. After living in Geneva for seven years and having a Swiss boyfriend for five, this winter was the first that she’d ever been skiing.

Because I had trouble hiding my disbelief, I made an effort to clarify; if there’s one thing that’s been drilled into our psyches during these past seven months, it is that here, the terms “winter survival” and “skiing” are like Siamese twins; one cannot exist without the other. Strangely enough, my explanation didn’t seem to faze her. I resigned myself to believe that she must be an unusual case, an unlikely aberration.

Dutifully following the advice of friends and guidebooks, I began mentally preparing myself for the ski experience months ago. Nonetheless, it was only in December, while forking over a considerable amount of dough to purchase our ski gear, that a subtle yet undeniable feeling of dread started to creep up on me. Jackets, pants, gloves, tights, socks, goggles…I felt suffocated, and I couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t that I was afraid; I’d enjoyed recklessly flinging myself down double black diamonds during various ski trips in middle school. It wasn’t that I was lazy; I’m probably the only person at the gym whose trainer encourages them to do less exercise. And I can’t claim spousal solidarity; Carlos may be afraid of heights and averse to any form of physical exigency, but he still seemed genuinely gung-ho about skiing (so much so that I had to restrain him from making an even heftier investment in ski equipment).

February was nearing and we hadn’t yet made it to the mountain; although it was easy enough to blame the flu and Carlos’ chronic inability to wake up before 9am on a Sunday morning, I couldn’t help but feel guilty about my defeatist attitude. I began to fear that our social life was in jeopardy; after all, there are only so many invitations one can refuse before slipping into a life of misanthropic seclusion. In panic, I urged Carlos to make plans, and the next day we accepted an invitation to a place in the Swiss Alps called Crans-Montana.

A few breaths of fresh mountain air was all it took for my trepidation to vanish; it wasn’t long before I was magically transformed into that fearless thirteen-year-old in Killington. Carlos was also doing surprisingly well, at least for the first couple of hours, although his situation began to deteriorate after lunch. First he was dragged into a foot or so of fresh powder, and spent twenty minutes struggling to get out. Then, during our descent, he was forced to take on some pretty steep slopes; it was the only way of reaching the bottom. What began with apologies “I’m holding you guys up…you should go on without me” soon became moaning and groaning…“I can’t feel my hips…I can’t feel my legs”, followed by defeat…“Guys, I really don’t think I’ll be able to make it”, hysteria… “This is the worst day of my life” and finally, wrath “I am NOT skiing tomorrow”.

Carlos’ aches and pains continued into the following morning, but were offset by nasty weather; much to his delight, it was far too cloudy, snowy, and cold for any of us to go skiing. Although sad to see the trip cut short, I was glad to have gained both confidence in myself and insight into the Swiss ski experience. I’ve concluded that although there are a few hard-core ski fanatics out there, most people are more concerned with the activities that surround it: lunch on the mountain, a walk around town, a little shopping, a nice dinner, and of course, the infamous après-ski. I’ve even learned that some folks (I won’t mention any names) go so far as to skip the skiing altogether (gasp!). Given the ratio of skiers on the mountain to drinkers at the bars, I have a sneaking suspicion that this is more the norm than the exception. Not that I wish to encourage such behavior…I’m just happy to know we’ll have absolutely no trouble fitting right in.

A not-so-desperate housewife

2009-01-30T11:29:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, my dental hygienist (a sweet, upbeat woman from Colorado) very accurately described a phenomenon that’s been on my mind recently. “This city”, she pronounced in an uncharacteristically dispirited tone, “is teeming with underused female brain capacity”.

Geneva has a distinct workforce; a very high percentage of professionals are expats with two to three year assignments in financial institutions or NGOs. Most arrive married with children, their spouses entrusted with the duty of finding a nice house in the suburbs and a great school for the kids. There are a few, however, who arrive (dare I say it) single, or, to complicate matters a little further, bring along partners who have careers instead of toddlers. These individuals face a whole different set of challenges, as it is only a matter of time before their unsuspecting spouses discover that in Geneva, their resumes are helplessly lost in translation. Experienced? Try non-European and requiring a visa. Well-rounded? Likely to move. A natural-born leader? Ready to start having babies.

After four laborious years in New York City, the thought that I’d have some time off before finding work in Geneva seemed both sinfully appealing and downright challenging. To me, my intensely crammed and extremely efficient lifestyle seemed only natural; a 6-mile run at 6am, a 10-hour workday, a quick drink with friends before picking up groceries and heading home for dinner, followed by a few hours of tv and a page or two of reading. As most of us tend to be in NYC (although not all of us will admit it), I was chronically exhausted. Nonetheless, I had come to believe that my industriousness was an important part of what defined me. The concept of finding happiness while being unemployed seemed like a total paradox, and I couldn’t silence that little voice in my head…“What would I do all day? Would I be bored? Would I ever find a job? What was this going to look like on my resume?”

There’s no doubt that being an underused female brain in Geneva, as Martha calls it, comes with its challenges. Nevertheless, I can say in all honesty that I am quite grateful for the opportunity. Without it, I never would have understood that my way of life in NYC was a choice, not an intractable character trait. I now know that having the capacity to thrive on hard work and crazy schedules doesn’t in any way deny me the capability to enjoy absolute tranquility. Most importantly, I realize that these are just lifestyles, as opposed to things that define me.

Having said all that, it comes as no surprise that to friends, family, and new acquaintances, the question of what it is that I do all day is a natural topic of conversation. The fact that I have a hard time coming up with a coherent answer only serves to aggrandize the mystery. So I decided it was time to come clean. After three weeks of careful observation, I put together a list of activities that make up the daily life of a jobless, childless, inexplicably contented individual in Geneva*:

• I’m getting enough beauty sleep. Nine hours a day, to be exact, and within the 7-9 hour range recommended by the Center for Disease Control and Prevention.

• Live to eat? Buying, cooking, planning, preparing, and eating food takes up four hours a day. In my defense, anyone who has visited or lived in Geneva knows how addictive food-shopping can be. I even make a conscientious effort to restrict my visits to Globus, a magical place of unmatched time-sucking capacity.

• Thank goodness for Holmes Place. a.k.a the Equinox of Geneva, a.k.a my second home, a.k.a the gym.

• Three hours of reading and writing a day keep the mental doldrums away. Carlos is counting on a best-selling novel; Amazon is making a killing.

• Our TV addiction hasn’t been cured. Thank you ITunes and Slingbox.

• Happy hour has been replaced by Skype. Besides potentially avoiding a hangover, there’s absolutely nothing happy about this.

In sum, it looks like I still may not have a clear, succinct answer to what it is that I do. But hey, at least now I have a much better idea of who I am.

*Other activities include French classes, visits to the doctor, random errands, and the occasional manicure. And don’t forget that I walk everywhere.

Confessions of a holiday enthusiast

2009-01-14T11:25:00.000-08:00

The holiday vacation is one of life’s few authentic respites. It comes at a pivotal moment when you’ve just about had enough; you can’t stand one more day in the bitter cold, you’d rather step on hot burning coals than go to work, and (this year, at least) you’re so stressed about the credit crunch that you’re prepared to give up all materialistic desires, set up a small shack in the Caribbean, and spend the rest of your life selling (and drinking) piña coladas.

Not only does the much anticipated V-day take too long to arrive, it also always takes too long to get to your destination. Despite booking flights months in advance and paying exorbitant prices, there are no guarantees when it comes to holiday travel. All you can really count on is a high likelihood that:

1) You’ll get bumped from your flight. You know you’re a victim if the seat number on your boarding pass has been inexplicably replaced with an ‘SBY’. Sucker!

2) The flight will be delayed just long enough to prevent you from catching your connecting flight. In this case, all you can do is hope that your layover takes place in a developed nation where the concept of retail opportunity is alive and kicking. Case in point: rum and cigarettes is about all they sell at the Guatemala airport.

3) Your luggage will go missing. Which inevitably leaves you reluctantly doubling up on toiletries, borrowing clothes, trying to convince people you really did buy them a Christmas gift, and, in my dad’s case, worrying about the temperature controls at Atlanta International and their potentially damaging effects on a very expensive bottle of Vega Cecilia.

Yes, at times holiday travel seems a bit like masochism. And yet, once you arrive at your (hopefully) tropical destination, all of it fades into a distant memory, along with the notion of routines, alarm clocks, conference calls, budgets, puffy jackets (!), and most exceptionally of all, email. Nowadays holidays are the only time of year when not being glued to a blackberry is somewhat socially acceptable. And although most don’t like to admit it, it feels really good (at least to those of us trying to have a conversation with you…oh, forget it).

Let’s clarify one thing before you start thinking I’m delusional: the holidays are by no stretch of the imagination a safe haven of care-free oblivion. Quite the contrary, this time of year generates a whole new breed of anxiety, a unique kind that can only be produced when bringing family together for an extended period of time.

Holiday stress is inescapable; it happens in the happiest of homes. I knew that this year, like any other, any attempts to avoid it would be futile, but I was determined to try and understand the beast (and maybe tame it a little bit). After much observation, introspection, and experimentation, I discovered that although holiday anxiety manifests itself in different ways each time, at its core is an issue of power struggles.

Let’s start with the most obvious example. Throughout our childhood, we witnessed our parents argue every holiday season about splitting up time between the two sides of the family. Who gets Christmas? Who gets New Years? Should we leave the 26th or the 27th, what’s more fair? The fundamental issue here is that even if you were to split things up perfectly evenly, timing each and every last minute (which might also be very stressful), no one will ever be completely satisfied because it’s in our nature to want more. It’s an unconquerable battle that only intensifies once the kids start getting married and having to split up their own time.

Then there’s the power struggle we’ve surreptitiously been fighting all of our lives; sibling rivalry. Anyone who’s not a single child has, in their lifetime, fought a little or a lot with their brothers and sisters. As we grow up, move away from home, and become independent, we come to realize that those fights were about a whole lot of nothing. Nevertheless, the loaded baggage lingers. I know my brother still recalls how I cruelly used to lock him out of my room anytime he attempted to play with my friends. I won’t let my sister forget about the traumatizing day she stuffed broccoli down my throat. The fact is that for some strange reason, during the holidays, these memories unconsciously creep up on us, causing us to act in inexplicably loopy ways.

Not to mention the power struggle among families. Who’s studying what, who’s working where, whose boyfriend we like, whose girlfriend we don’t care for, who’s too skinny and who needs to lose weight. The list of topics varies each year depending on the circumstances, but a thin layer of tension remains.

And so, chances are that once again this year, your much-awaited holiday vacation didn’t go according to plan, and you didn’t have an absolutely and flawlessly fabulous time. Instead of being disappointed, I say we start embracing the holidays along with all of its shortcomings. Expect the unexpected. Anticipate delusion. Drink a little more of that eggnog. In the end, imperfections are what make us family, and isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

Carlos Moni Barcelona

2008-12-17T12:22:00.000-08:00

I had never visited Geneva before Carlos was offered to move, so during our decision-making process we consulted friends, colleagues, and guidebooks to try and imagine what life would be like. We heard and read a lot of what seemed like outrageous and bizarre stories. Fortunately for us, the majority of these turned out to be exactly that; just stories. Imagine our delight to find that we could actually flush the toilet after 10pm, engage in raucous housework like laundry on Sundays, and occasionally eat red meat for dinner (albeit in small quantities).

With respect to the weather, consensus here continues to hold that Geneva is milder than New York. As a Panamanian I have an innate sensitivity to the cold, and after the first few weeks of my first winter here, I feel obliged to shed some light on this claim. I’ll be the first to admit that there are a few days and even weeks of really cold, really miserable New York weather. And yet, the beauty about NYC is that the climate is as erratic as the people. You never know what to expect; it’s entirely plausible for a furious snowstorm to be followed by sunny 60 degree weather (resulting in a very messy walk to work). In Geneva, on the other hand, the weather is as consistent and reliable as the trams and the buses; you can always count on mid-30s, lots of wind, and clouds. NYC may more frequently reach colder degrees, but from the perspective of someone whose moods are analogous to the forecast, I’ll take volatility any day if it means an occasional chance of sunshine.

Seeing as I’m only 24 hours away from a delightfully hot and humid trip to Panama, it would probably serve me best to save the whining for next year. But let’s face it; complaining about the cold is an activity I like to indulge in all year-round (my least favorite place in the world: the frozen food section at the supermarket).

In an attempt to escape the doldrums, Carlos intelligently proposed escaping to Barcelona for his birthday, and I subserviently agreed. We took an early morning flight on Easy Jet, a low budget airline that’s all the hype. In all honesty, the fact that the fares are cheaper is about all I’m willing to concede. Like most everyone I know, I have a pretty long history of terrible travel experiences, but this was a totally different playing field. The occasional bad airline service I can take, but on Easy Jet, they’ve single-handedly wiped out the entire concept of a customer experience.

To start with, seats are unassigned, which means that unless you purchase a ‘Speedy Boarding Pass’ or get up at the crack of dawn to be in ‘Boarding Group A’, the first dreaded hours of your trip are spent fretting about what kind of seat you’ll end up in. The boarding process is by far the most fun, as hundreds of increasingly aggressive passengers form an egg-shaped line and begin shoving their way through (some major elbowing ensues). In addition to neglecting you the right to a seat number, the fare does not allow for checked luggage (unless you pay extra), meaning that everyone has a carry-on. If you’re lucky enough to avoid being stopped on your way into the plane because your perfectly sized carry-on is ‘too big’, by the time you get on board there’s no overhead space available, which means that you’re forced to check it in anyway. On-flight service has been morphed into on-flight sales. Stewards don’t offer pillows and blankets; they sell cartons of cigarettes, bottles of alcohol, perfumes…and the occasional overpriced bottle of water.

In any case, we arrived in Barcelona safely, and, as we’d hoped, it was sunny and a considerable amount of degrees milder. We had a great weekend, many parts of it reminiscent of our typical trips to Spain. For example, we spent most of our time eating too much and then struggling to digest in hopes of being able to eat more. The city was alive and energetic, with masses of people on the street perusing Christmas fairs and fresh food markets. Soccer was the hot topic, with everyone paralyzed by Saturday night’s face-off between Real Madrid and FC Barca.

At the same time, Barcelona’s unique edginess was evident from early on. The city has an artsy and intellectual richness and an eclectic and international population. Each and every street is a discovery, with one-of-a-kind stores specializing in everything from whiskey to olive oils to eco-friendly accessories (no Banana Republic here). Although Catalonia’s separatism is emblematic of the situation in the country as a whole, the sense of individuality here felt even more pronounced than any of the other regions we’d visited in the past.

Our trip ended on a less than perfect note; on Saturday night we concluded our foodfest with a three-hour, eight-course seafood and champagne feast. Clams, snails, sardines, shrimp, calamari, langoustines…I’m convinced we caused a serious depletion in the population of little sea creatures in the Mediterranean Sea. Our punishment was intoxication; nausea and severe stomach pains followed by many days of chicken noodle soup. The upside is that we quickly lost the pounds that we’d gained, and the fact that only sweet memories remain is a true testament to how much we loved Barcelona.

Deconstructed Thanksgiving

2008-12-02T06:05:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving weekend has come and gone with a not-so-subtle reminder of what the holidays are all about; overeating. It’s almost as if the switch in our brains controlling food intake was automatically programmed to turn off during this time of year. Before you know it its Monday morning and you’re wondering what on Earth motivated you to scarf down that third, fourth…last piece of pie, googling terms like “detox diet”, and experiencing mini anxiety attacks with the mere thought of stepping on a scale.

Like any proud, recently-converted US citizen, I wanted my very first American Thanksgiving meal to be perfect. And yet, it wasn’t long before I realized that I would have to settle for less. To start with, my relentless search for “turkey for three” led to the inevitable discovery that turkeys don’t exactly come in quail size. After numerous visits to every supermarket in town, I was forced to accept the world’s apparent one-size-fits-all turkey policy. It’s quite silly, if you ask me, how with so much technology out there (artificial insemination! hormones!) somehow the production of tiny turkeys has trumped mankind.

The only other alternative I could find was an overpriced turkey roti. And what exactly is a “turkey roti” anyway…right? Given that my last four attempts at describing the thing were completely futile, I’ll post the picture below so you can see it for yourself:

As it turns out, turkey recipes for anything that’s not the whole bird do not abound. After hours perusing twelve cookbooks and countless websites, I miraculously found a “deconstructed turkey” recipe by Ted Allen, who momentarily became my savior/new best friend. Thanks to Ted, things finally seemed to be turning around, and I felt newly inspired to draw up the rest of the menu: mashed potatoes, butternut squash, cosmopolitan cranberry sauce (I might as well add some vodka to the meal), and apple pie. Ok, I’ll admit it…I wasn’t planning on actually making the pie.

Next, I cranked out the dictionary. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from living abroad, it’s the importance of translating your recipes before you leave the house. “Courge” for butternut squash, “bouillon de poulet” for chicken stock, “airelle” for cranberry, “feuille de laurier” for bay leaf…and…yep, Grand Marnier is just Grand Marnier.

By the time I was ready to shop, it was time to pick my friend Meli up at the airport. She was our Thanksgiving guest of honor, and I was both ecstatic and nervous about her visit. Ecstatic because she’s one of my best friends and I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Nervous about cooking for what I knew would be a tough critic. Meli is what I’d call a selective eater (which is different to just being picky). Her food philosophy consists of honing in on the foods that she loves; anything that’s not entirely mouth-watering is simply not worth the time or calories. She wouldn’t be caught dead eating plain sliced bread or airplane food (in her own words: “if the two people next to me can’t explain what it is they’re eating, then I’m not about to try”).

Meli is also Venezuelan, meaning that she speaks her mind, no holds barred. In Spanish we call this “no tener pelos en la lengua” (having a hairless tongue). I knew that despite my palpable desire to make an appetizing dinner, anything but great would be duly noted.

Thanks in large part to Movenpick vanilla ice cream and my local baker’s scrumptious apple pie, dinner was not a total debacle. The mashed potatoes were creamy and tasty (kudos to Carlos). Although we made enough cranberry sauce for about five large families, it did have a nice kick to it. Depending on what piece you got, the butternut squash was somewhat edible (so much for winging that one). And the turkey…well, the turkey had a lot of potential, had we not added so much flour to the gravy that we turned it into a second set of mashed potatoes, as Meli quite accurately described.

To end the story on a positive note (it is the holidays after all), the fact that we set the bar so low this first time around means that there’s plenty of room for improvement next year. Moreover, the weekend turned out to be a completely ridiculous overload of various types of cheeses (brie, truffled brie, brie with walnuts, goat cheese, peppered goat cheese, caramel goat cheese, fig goat cheese, vacherin, gruyere) and flavored macarons (mango jasmin, passion fruit, apricot, chocolate, pistachio, rose, berry, citron, and my personal favorite, ovomaltine), all of which quickly transformed our insipid turkey into a vanishing memory. Most important of all, we had the opportunity to enjoy a few great days with Meli, and to give thanks for what has otherwise been a year filled with truly exceptional meals.

Red, white, and blue

2008-11-18T13:20:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s official: I’m an American citizen. After six months of paperwork, fingerprints, interviews, and memorizing random U.S. history and government trivia, I am now one of millions of immigrants permanently conjoined to the land of the free and home of the brave.

In an effort to obviate any need to revisit the dreaded “identity” issue, I made a resolution early on to detach all emotion from the naturalization process. I reassured myself that this was all a simple matter of convenience and focused on keeping my eye on the prize (the passport). On the afternoon of my scheduled interview, I dutifully arrived at 26 Federal Plaza no more than 30 minutes prior to my appointment, as instructed by the INS. I walked into a large room of about 300 people, and sat near the front, next to a group of chatty Dominican women. I’m not typically an eavesdropper, but I’d naively assumed that a 2:30 appointment was a 2:30 appointment; I hadn’t brought anything to read and cell phones were not allowed. As I sat there and listened, I quickly learned that their concerns went way beyond the history questions I’d spent so much time studying; to start with, they hardly understood or spoke English. “No matter,” explained Maria Lucilda, the self-identified leader among them in Spanish, “when they start asking you a bunch of questions, just say no to all of them”, she advised the group with conviction.

Four hours later, it was 6pm and there were only five of us left. Despite the wait I was somewhat reassured by the fact that most of my new Dominican friends had passed their interviews. Finally, I was called in by Maxie, a less than friendly woman with little to no desire of being there or interrogating any more linguistically challenged Hispanics. We went through my application, and then she began to bombard me with the series of questions Maria Lucilda had warned us about. “Have you ever committed a crime? Profited from prostitution? Been affiliated with the Communist Party?” I averred my ‘nos’ and was on the verge of relaxation when out of the blue, she fired a question that nearly had me jumping out of my seat.

“Excuse me?” I heard myself say, voice quivering slightly.

“I said, are you aware that the United States government does not believe in dual citizenship?”

Uhhh…really?

“Yes, ma’am,” I fired back, feeling a big lump form in the back of my throat and my palms getting sweaty.

“Are you aware that you must renounce your Panamanian citizenship to become an American citizen?”

It was one of those out of body experiences; the room was spinning and I wanted nothing more than to run out of there and take it all back. But I knew it was too late.

“Yes, ma’am”, I replied solemnly.

I stumbled out of the interview in a daze, my mind wandering to the exact place I’d been hoping to avoid. It was inevitable now to face the question that had been lurking in those deep, dark corners of my mind: “What will it mean to become an American?”

I came to the US for the first time almost two decades ago, and there are two distinct images embedded in my mind from the year that we lived in Cincinnati, Ohio. The first took place early on in the move; I was in school making some sort of craft, and I needed to say glue. I didn’t understand or speak a word of English and entered into a crying fit of hysteria. Unintelligible and inconsolable, I was placated only by the sight of my sister, who they brought out of her class to translate. The second event took place seven months later and was in many ways the diametrical opposite; I’d gone to class one day and participated in a contest called the spelling bee. I remember heading home that afternoon, my fingers wound tight around a shiny gold medal, my face radiating with an overwhelming sense of pride and elation.

Following that year in Cincinnati we moved to Venezuela, where for thirteen years I studied at an international school. As opposed to the rigid structure of Latin American schools, Campo Alegre’s teaching approach reflected American ideals; basically, each individual’s experience was what they made of it. You could do as little as possible and get by, or you could take advantage of the opportunities available and thrive. Beyond being inspired and motivated in the classroom, I had the chance to participate in everything from volunteer work, to journalism, to male beauty pageant hosting (don’t ask).

It’s no surprise that when it came time to apply to college, I immediately knew I wanted an American education. If I stayed in Venezuela or studied in Panama, I’d had to choose my major immediately, and I wasn’t ready to make that decision so early on (and really, who is?). In Philadelphia, I had the opportunity to explore a broad range of disciplines (neuroscience, english lit, political science, sociology) before narrowing down my field of study. I got to study what I loved (history and economics) and landed a job in an investment bank, of all places. I then had the flexibility to move to a marketing department in publishing, followed by a start-up in development.

I don’t really know who I would be without these experiences or if I’d ever been constrained to a singular path. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it becomes clear that the question isn’t what will it mean to be an American; in many ways I already am one. Now more than ever, the world in general and the US in particular is a place of amalgamated identities. Maxie may oblige me to renounce my former allegiance, but a part of me will always be Panamanian, and I know that this too is what makes me an American.

La Cuaima

2008-10-19T00:28:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking recently that whenever we step outside of our comfort zones, we tend to focus on the differences as opposed to the similarities between the new and the old. I know I do it all the time; New York vs. Geneva, Latin American vs. European, new acquaintances vs. old friends. I’ve consequently been making an effort lately to focus on commonalities, and so far it’s given me a surprisingly refreshing perspective. Take the female species, for example; so many of our attributes transcend cultures and barriers. One trait that I’ve observed quite frequently since moving to Geneva is a tendency towards high-maintenance. Beyond realizing that this is a tie that binds, I’ve also begun to consider that contrary to popular opinion, it has the potential to transform a good thing into a great one. In fact, I’m willing to go as far as to say that high-maintenance is an essential ingredient in the formation of women of high standards; independent thinkers; strong and resolute partners; interesting and passionate friends. For all you naysayers out there smirking at this very moment, I don’t buy your objections for one minute. If high-maintenance girls were really as disagreeable as you so claim, why would so many of you happily submit to the torture of dating and even marrying these very demanding women?

Fortunately for me, Carlos has come to terms with the reality that he’s married to someone with really high standards (or as he likes to call me, a cuaimita). His acceptance of this fact is one of the key pillars upholding our very harmonious home. Eating at a restaurant, for example, could be a potentially trying event. You see, to me a menu is a conundrum, and I have a tendency to vacillate endlessly between two or three items. I’m typically the last to order and almost always change my mind twice; once as soon as the waiter leaves and a second time when the food arrives (“I knew I should’ve gotten the quail”). Through the years, Carlos has resolved to focus less on what’s appetizing to him and more on what may be appealing to me once we have visuals. He’s also learned that there’s only one right answer to the question “Should we get dessert?”, and that he’s best off eating one or two spoonfuls, but no more than three or four, lord forbid I not conclude my meal with a satisfying amount of sugar.

Beyond culinary life, Carlos has mastered the art of teetering on the edge of the bed (I sleep diagonally and I can't help it, blame the genes!). He pretends to enjoy Desperate Housewives, Project Runway, and The Hills (his favorite is Whitney), and accompanies me to enthralling films like “Sex and the City”, “The Break-up”, and “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2”. The other day I even managed to convince him to accompany me to disco spinning class.

I’m sure you’re probably wondering “what’s in it for him?”, and to be honest after making this list I became a little self-conscious myself. After a long (and yes, forced) interrogation with him on the subject, I finally realized that to Carlos, these ‘demands’ aren’t really all that onerous, and that they in fact offer him the opportunity to contribute to my happiness in small, yet meaningful and tangible ways. In a sense, these minor achievements help take pressure off the more considerable preoccupations in life; our mortgage, our move to Geneva, our careers. With those much more substantial issues looming overhead, eating small quantities of dessert and watching girly movies become marginal sacrifices.

The fundamental thing then, ladies, is to stay true to our high-maintenance selves, but to always show appreciation for the little things.

The show must go on

2008-10-06T12:20:00.000-07:00

Carlos’ parents concluded their recent trip to Europe with a five-day stay in Geneva. This last leg of their trip coincided with the onset of Wall Street’s much anticipated demise, which meant that Carlos had to work longer hours than usual, designating yours truly as the official tour guide. After my last experience hosting Michael, I was anxious that I’d bore them to tears. It may have just been politeness, but they seemed impressed with my knowledge of the city, asserting that I’d already become somewhat of a local. At first this seemed like encouraging news, but now I’ve realized that this is actually a frightening thought; it took me a whole summer just to understand a few subway routes in New York City, so if that same amount of time is all it takes to know the ins and outs of Geneva, you can imagine what a comparatively tiny place I must be living in.

New York is generally viewed as a tough, taxing city, which I have to agree that it can be (we’ve all had our Andrea Sachs in Devil Wears Prada moments). The great thing about New York is that unless it conquers you (which is quite possible), then it’s just a matter of time before you conquer the city, an event that simultaneously imparts a powerful sense of strength and invincibility. The rest progresses from there, the pieces start falling into place, and before you know it, you’re a tried and tested New Yorker.

Geneva is quite the opposite; at first glance it seems small, easy, and accessible. Upon further inspection, however, you uncover a place riddled with rules and processes. These long-established procedures are the oil that keeps its very precise engine running, but it also results in a culture of bureaucracy. It’s almost as if people thrive on scrupulous planning, extending seemingly routine tasks into laborious undertakings. On the one hand, you’ll never waste a minute of your life waiting for a late bus (there are no objections to the potential sacrifice of sluggish pedestrians for a guaranteed timely arrival). And yet, if I add up all of the pointless hours I’ve spent at a bank, post office, or régit* in the last few months, it would be equivalent to sitting in a dark room watching three consecutive seasons of Lost. In either case, you become a little loopy.

The first thing we did when we arrived in Geneva in May was go house-hunting with Sandra Bloch, which went surprisingly smoothly (Sandra was the exception rather than the rule, we’d soon learn). The second day we tried to open a bank account so that we could make payments on the fabulous apartment we’d just found. It was a long, excruciating afternoon, where among other things we learned that a Swiss banker’s favorite expression is “no”. Can I open a bank account? “No”. Can I apply for a credit card? “No”. Can I make a transfer? “No”. Can I place a money order? “No.” Ask anything, you’re guaranteed an initial no. Maybe it’s an innovative new tactic employed to test brand loyalty; torment your customers to the point where you’ve determined just how badly they want to open a UBS account.

It was only day two, so I consoled myself knowing that all I needed to do was keep my distance, and that although this incident had been particularly painful it wasn’t my first nor would it be my last bad banking experience. And yet, it didn’t end there. It turns out that the same kind of mental resilience is required to fix anything that breaks down in your home. You can’t contact the electrician or plumber directly; that would just be too easy. Instead, you have to call the régit, who then phones the electrician/plumber, who calls you back a few days later to schedule an appointment in a few weeks. It’s a cumbersome ordeal, and in the meantime you’re stuck getting dressed in the dark and washing your clothes at a Laundromat (and good luck trying to find one).

Given that this was one procedure I couldn’t keep my distance from, I resolved that I’d attempt to assuage the agony by visiting the régit in person, in hopes that together we could contact the electrician/plumber directly and avoid all of this silly back and forth. The person who manages our apartment is a burly man with a strange smell named Monsieur Barrue. Funny scent notwithstanding, the first visit went pretty well and I managed to get the dishwasher fixed in record time. During my second visit, however, I was met with some resistance. “Why do you keep coming to my office,” he barked, “when you can just call me?” My first reaction was to explain that visiting was no bother at all since my home was two blocks away, and then I remembered that he knew exactly where I lived. I decided I’d simply ignore his comment, but I was a bit nervous about how I’d be greeted the next time around. Little did I know I wouldn’t need to worry about that; during my third visit, Monsieur Barrue was mysteriously nowhere to be found (I suspect he was hiding underneath his desk, eating pain au chocolat). I returned an hour later; still no sign of him. I came back an hour after that, at which point his secretary insisted that it would really just be a lot easier if I called him by phone instead of insisting to show up in person. Not quite ready to give up but seeing as I wasn’t getting anywhere, I reluctantly started making my way out. And then, just as I opened the door, I heard Monsieur Barrue’s undeniable voice coming from inside the office. I knew then and there that my face-to-face encounters where over, and that from now on I had no choice but to succumb to the tedious routine that I’d unsuccessfully tried to circumvent.

You could say I learned my lesson; what in New York is revered as resourcefulness in Geneva translates into undesirable traits like “intolerant”, “impatient”, “aggressive”, or in this last case… “stalker”. But don’t count me out just yet. I may have lost a few early battles, but the New Yorker inside me is still alive and kicking.

Don’t miss out on the video, my brother-in-law and I living it up in the old town.

*régit: a corporate body created for the purpose of authorizing, supervising, administrating, organizing, overseeing, handling, and managing the renting of apartment buildings in Geneva.

Speaking of Paris...

2008-09-17T05:56:00.000-07:00

I was a 19-year-old college student the first time I visited Paris. I was only there for three days, a quick stopover before continuing on a six-week summer program in Tours (a small town in the Loire valley known for its chateaux, perfect French accents, and very uptight inhabitants). This trip coincided with a rather tumultuous time in my life; I was smack in the middle of figuring out my majors, had recently gotten out of a volatile three-year relationship, and, without knowing it, was beginning to embark on the long and intricate journey of figuring out who I was and what I wanted out of life.

I came to Paris with high expectations; I’d studied French for six years, had heard fabulous stories from friends and family, and often found myself daydreaming about what it would be like to live a chic Parisian life. And so, when I returned home at the end of the summer proclaiming that I didn’t like Paris, no one could quite understand this phenomenon (especially my father, who had financed the whole operation). How had I managed to dislike one of the most spectacular cities on earth? Had I visited Notre Dame, walked Champs-Elysees, sat in the Luxembourg gardens, seen Napoleon’s tomb? Yes, I retorted, and I’d found it all too perfect and proper for my taste. This seemingly ridiculous statement was pretty much discarded by my family as an act of rebellion. But I was actually being truthful. Paris had overwhelmed me; I’d felt swallowed by its broad avenues, confined by my cramped living quarters, intoxicated by its intricate aesthetics.

It wasn’t until we moved to Geneva late last spring that I was forced to give Paris another chance (or was it me who was given a second opportunity?). I wanted nothing more than to redeem that first visit and love Paris the way that everyone else seemed to. It couldn’t be too hard, considering the obvious upgrades; a quaint hotel on Champs-Elysees replaced the hostel in Montmartre, monotonous cheese sandwiches magically transformed into snails, foie gras, and crepes au chocolat, museum-filled excursions traded in for peaceful promenades in neighborhoods just waiting to be rediscovered. I saw the Paris that Carlos knew; we spent a whole afternoon sipping mojitos and meticulously examining chic and not-so-chic Parisians, hopped from gallery to gallery, ate spectacular food, and took in the eclectic nature of the city in comfort and delight.

Last weekend, during my now third visit to Paris, I came to the conclusion that the city is a kaleidoscope of experiences. Paris means vastly different things to different people; rich, poor, old, young, chained, free, adventurous, conservative, pretentious, flamboyant, reckless, complacent. It can also mean different things to a single individual at different moments in time. My first visit to Paris was a reflection of the impending change taking place in my life; a change I didn’t know or understand. Today I still may not know exactly what I want out of life, but I do know who I want to spend it with, and I also know that with every new visit to Paris, I come that much closer to discovering who I am.

Mi Buenos Aires querido

2008-09-02T12:30:00.000-07:00

This is my third consecutive night eating rotisserie chicken at Chez ma cousine (see blog post #1: Chicken, anyone?) This is the only downside to having a husband both more talented and interested in cooking; I have now become that person that’s too lazy to make dinner. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy eating at Chez ma cousine. In fact, I even tried a new dish this time, the Indian chicken salad…let’s just say I’m back to the rotisserie special. But really, three days of chicken isn’t so bad, especially when followed by ten consecutive days reveling in large quantities of sublimely tender, juicy Argentinean meat.
Before treading off on a culinary tangent, I should start at the beginning. Carlos travels to Argentina three to four times a year for work, and in the past I’ve been too busy to accompany him. I was really looking forward to this trip, and so the fact that we weren’t traveling together because he needed to arrive earlier didn’t faze me. Until I got on the plane, that is. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had the privilege of traveling on Iberia, but the moment you step foot on that plane it’s as if you’re traveling back in time instead of forward. The seats, blankets, and pillows gave off an undeniable seventies vibe; I couldn’t help but wonder if the engine was as outdated as the decor. This did nothing to ease my already ominous fear of flying, and I had a small but noteworthy panic attack during take-off. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m more likely to die in a car or a bathtub. News flash: I don’t own a car, and I’m very careful in the shower.

To my delight, we managed to avert any catastrophic engine failures and landed in the Ministro Pistarini International Airport twelve hours later. Norberto, the company driver, was waiting for me, and after spending almost an hour with him on our way into the city, I was pleasantly surprised by his agreeable and friendly manner. Now I know it’s completely unsound to judge a whole country of people based on a few experiences, but the fact is that in my lifetime I have come across one or two pompous Argentineans, and it hasn’t been pretty. I was inevitably wary and cautious, but quickly learned that my previous encounters had been the exception rather than the rule; everyone I met in Buenos Aires was extremely cultured, amicable, and warm. I can’t go as far as to deny that they’re proud; in fact they’re extremely loquacious on the subject of their country’s achievements. Norberto was adamant in highlighting key characteristics of the city, proclaiming that the main avenue, la 9 de Julio, was the widest in the world (not true, an Argentinean friend would tell me later) and that the national theater had the best acoustics in the world (it’s actually #2, Carlos would soon clarify). During an official city tour that I took a few days later, we were introduced to BA as the ‘Paris of Latin America’ (I was just in Paris a few weeks ago, and I’m not sure I would go that far), told that the train station was an exact replica of Britain’s Victoria Station, and forced to sit through a sonorous ten-minute video illustrating that Maradona was an angel, a God, the best soccer player that ever lived (a downright preposterous claim to everyone on board, most of all the Brazilian tourist, who from the corner of my eye I could see was making a major effort to not wring the tour guide’s neck).
In a sense, I understand this assertiveness; there’s absolutely no doubt that Buenos Aires is a captivating city and distinct in Latin America for its European flavor. After liberation from the Spanish, Argentinean leaders destroyed all but three remnants of colonial rule and, in an effort to prove their sophistication and progress to the old world, they rebuilt the city in the French style of architecture that had enchanted the country’s wealthy individuals during their recurring trips to Europe. This European influence permeates beyond aesthetics; during that time Argentina was also a place of opportunity for immigrants fleeing from Europe. The first wave of Europeans came predominantly from Italy, which explains BA’s fabulous cappuccinos and people’s tendency to speak with their hands. Beyond Italy and Spain, Argentina drew in immigrants from Germany, Ireland, Portugal, France, Croatia, and England. They arrived to Buenos Aires with little means and lived together in large houses that they rented from rich families. This communal lifestyle left them no choice but to intertwine cultures and communities, and this is part of what makes BA such an eclectic and fascinating place. It is also how Tango was born; the only transcendent mode of communication among this hodgepodge of people was music, and so Tango grew out of the sharing and gradual blending of different individuals’ instruments, beats, and sounds into a new genre.

Argentineans also have much to brag about in terms of cuisine. Simply stated, eating in Argentina is a glorious and gluttonous event. A typical meal starts with a juicy, melted chunk of Provolone cheese. Next up are the appetizers: moist morcilla, spicy chorizo, and crispy sweetbreads (you get used to the fact that you’re eating clotted blood and cow glands surprisingly quickly). Then the bife de chorizo makes its way onto your plate; a monumental slab of succulent meat. For me, the true revelation came at the end of the meal, just when I thought it couldn’t get any better…and I’m now convinced that Argentina’s desserts are unbeatable. It’s not a complicated formula, now that I think about it; they simply pile on loads of smooth, luscious caramel on anything and everything. And boy does it work! From dulce de leche crepes to dulce de leche flan, dulce de leche cookies (a.k.a alfajores) to dulce de leche cheesecake, and finally, on the last day, a chocolate soufflé oozing with rich, warm, perfectly sinful dulce de leche.

And with that, hopefully I’ve explained my recent calm and quiet submission to rotisserie chicken; I’m still savoring the cultural and culinary delight that was Argentina.

A Swiss affair

2008-08-22T15:47:00.000-07:00

If I had to choose three words to describe myself, “international” would be at the top of my list (yes, “disciplined” is in there, along with “moody”). Thanks to my parents’ decision to leave our home country of Panama when I was six years old (or should I say thanks to politics, which sooner or later seems to displace us all) I spent my formative years in Escuela Campo Alegre, Venezuela’s best international school (if anyone from CIC is reading this don’t protest, you know it’s true). I happen to have a terrible memory, but I do remember my first day joining Ms. Gomez’ class in the third grade. To my great misfortune, this day coincided with P.E. (physical education). The game was kickball, and in fear of quickly becoming that girl who always gets picked last, I tried to catch a very fast-moving rubber ball violently booted by a very strong boy. Quite predictably, I didn’t catch it, and instead it hit me flat on the stomach, squeezing every inch of oxygen out of my body. It was another one of those humiliating moments that I’ve recently felt compelled to share with the world. In any case, besides total mortification, I also remember that moment vividly because it was then that I made my first Campo friends: a Dutch, an Italian, and an American. It seemed pretty remarkable at the time, considering I’d just spent a year living in Cincinnati (where my sister and I were practically a new species in St. Gertrude elementary school).

When it came time to pick a university twelve years later, density of international students was a close second determining factor after academics (Penn had a whopping 15%; now you understand why I didn’t end up at Duke). And after four years in Philadelphia, moving to New York City (which I viewed as THE international city) was inherently the next step. Being in big cities and diverse places has helped forge unique friendships, and I’ve found that for some reason, the natural course of my life has always involved remarkable experiences, stories, and travels with friends from around the globe.

Living abroad has been very fruitful and I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world. At the same time, I’ve always had a bit of trouble defining exactly where I’m from. Although all of my family was born and lives in Panama, I’ve spent most of my life in Venezuela, and after marrying Carlos I now have family there as well. It’s not the most perplexing of issues, especially considering that the two countries are pretty similar (people are equally loud, lively, family-oriented, and on the conservative side). But it’s been an issue nonetheless.

After a few months in Geneva, I’ve realized that this identity business which has been brewing in the back of my head for most of my life is actually not much of an issue after all. At least not when you compare it to the phenomenon of what it means to be Swiss (what exactly does it mean?). I’ve met many people in many circumstances, and although I’m not 100% sure that the sample size is big enough, absolutely no one will admit to being from here, even if they are. “Yes, I was born and raised in Geneva, and I plan to live here my whole life,” explained one non-Swiss Swiss, “but my mother is Italian and my father Dutch, so I’m not really Swiss. More like Dutch-Italian.” The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes. This is a country of Swiss-Germans, Swiss-French, and Swiss-Italians. Not Swiss-Swiss. And yet, the more obvious it becomes, the more bewildering it seems. What does it mean to be born in a country without a distinct sense of nationality?

I still need some time to figure it out, but at least this observation has forever cured me of any identity issue I may have once had. In the meantime, I leave you a video from the Fêtes de Geneve, a ten-day fair that takes place every summer. You’ll notice that the spectacle is anything but Swiss, in fact its Russian (Moscow was the featured city). Go figure.

Babyland

2008-08-09T04:55:00.000-07:00

Since our move, there are two questions I’ve grown accustomed to hearing when meeting new people. One is “What do you do?” (a totally normal and acceptable question, whose answer becomes muddled when you’re in-between jobs), and the other is “When are you planning on starting a family”? (a totally normal and acceptable question only in Geneva, where everyone and their mother is in the process of having a child). This week, during my yearly check-up at the gynecologist (sorry if this is more information than you need), I got a new one: “So, will this be your first child”? I was bit taken aback (what, did I look pregnant?), but managed to regain composure quickly and explain that I was just there for a regular check-up. The doctor gave me a mystified look.

As much as everyone in Geneva wants us to procreate, Carlos and I have plans to enjoy our life as a two-some before exploring that territory. In fact, we came to the conclusion a while ago that before having kids, we first need to master the art of owning a less challenging type of living matter; in our case, a plant (I’m not a big fan of animals).

Our first experiment was Lucy, a three-foot, vibrant tropical plant hailing from Wallingford, Connecticut, given to us by Carlos’ mother. I liked her immediately; I knew she was going to be very low-maintenance. And that’s exactly what she turned out to be. We could leave her indoors or out, she only required water a few times a week, and quantity of water was never an issue (she’d often lay in what resembled a murky pond for days, happily soaking up the soppy mess). Occasionally we would find her droopy and sad (it’s New York, sometimes you’re too busy to keep tabs on your plants), in which case all it took was a half liter of water and she’d be back to her lively self.

It had been almost a year of not killing Lucy, and I was starting to feel confident about my parenting abilities. Little did I know what was coming my way in Geneva. After settling into our apartment, we decided to host a small housewarming party with Carlos’ work colleagues. I was nervous about meeting everyone, but completely unprepared for what would be the next step in our planting parenthood; they brought us a beautiful, tall, and delicate (key word here) orchid. My initial nervousness was immediately replaced by a state of total panic.

The next morning, as I woke to a throbbing headache resulting from too much wine, I stumbled directly onto the computer. When in doubt, google. “How to take care of an orchid”: #1) No direct sunlight. Damn! I ran down the stairs quickly to remove her from the sun’s glare. #2) Only water her once a week. Easy enough. #3) Keep in a humid place. A humid place? Was our apartment humid? I couldn’t be sure. And how could I be expected to control that?

A week passed and we realized that she was there to stay, so we might as well name her. In a naïve state of optimism, we picked Ava (meaning “life”). She was still in the white plastic container they brought her in, and I thought it was time to buy her a nice pot. I’d seen a beautiful flower shop on my way to the nearby neighborhood of Plainpalais, and now was the perfect opportunity to visit. I explained the task at hand to a very tall, very blond, very Swiss man with an apparent fascination for gardening. “Oh, an orchid!” he explained, “That’s a wonderful plant for an apartment”. The comment reassured me somewhat, and I picked a pot that looked to be about the right size. Everything seemed to be going according to plan when I proceeded to ask the polite man if he could also sell me some dirt. And then, I got it again, the puzzled look. You see, in almost every exchange I have with strangers in Geneva, I get this disconcerted look. Typically I’m asking for something I deem totally normal (like adding grilled chicken to a salad, exchanging something at a store, or receiving dry cleaning in less than five days) and it turns out to be a completely outrageous and impossible request. As you can only imagine, the look infuriates me.

“Didn’t you say you have an orchid?” he continued. Growing increasingly impatient, I answered yes, of course, that’s why I’m here, an orchid. He heaved a long sigh. “I can sell you dirt, but it wouldn’t be of much use. Madame, orchids grow on trees, not on the ground. ”

It got worse; I soon discovered that I’d been watering our orchid incorrectly all this time (it had been a month). I was mortified, but above all concerned. After a thorough consultation, I hurried home and followed his instructions. I filled a plastic tub with water, dipped the roots inside, and waited for them to dry before putting her back in the pot (apparently orchids don’t love laying in soppy messes). I was starting to feel much better about the whole ordeal (especially considering how nice the new pot looked on the dining table) when I suddenly sensed that something terrible had happened. I turned to look at Ava and found that one of her leaves had mysteriously fallen off. I froze for what must have been a whole minute, paralyzed in horror and shock. A whole leaf! I knew the damage was irreparable.

Ava’s been drooping ever since that fateful day. My previous practice of offering obscene amount of water won’t work (although I still consider it occasionally, knowing it would put an end to the whole ordeal), and for the first time, I’m not quite sure what to do. My only consolation is that I now have a perfunctory response to the dreaded baby question: “my hands are full reviving an orchid”.

New York, New York

2008-07-31T01:01:00.000-07:00

We were in NYC last week. The purpose of our trip was purely logistical (I’m in the process of attaining my US citizenship and needed to be fingerprinted), but we took advantage of the opportunity to see family (Carlos’ parents flew into town), visit friends, and immerse ourselves in the inescapable humidity of summertime in the city.

Although delighted and eager to return, I was a bit anxious about what it would be like to come back. Carlos’ friend Svein (an ex-New Yorker who’s been living in Geneva for two years) reassured us that it would be great: “When you go back to NYC, it’s like you never left”.

Spoken like a true prophet. After a jerky cab ride from JFK (the typical aggressive stops and starts, christian music blaring, the radio host enthusiastically pronouncing the teachings of God), we neared the city, and I was overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity, grandiosity, and well – propaganda. New York City may not have changed, but the billboards had, and I quickly realized that during the past few months the term “shopping” had been an uncharacteristically underused part of my vocabulary. An uncontrollable urge swelled within me, and in an almost blind daze I proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon traveling from store to store. Pookie & Sebastian, Macy’s, Lord & Taylor, Saks, Banana Republic, J. Crew…ahhh, it really did feel like home. That night, as I took a moment to reflect on my day (and the exponentially growing number of shopping bags scattered throughout the room) I wondered how I’d survived so many years in New York without racking up massive amounts of debt.

Upon careful inspection of the city in-between shopping trips, I came to the obvious and unsurprising conclusion that NYC is, well, a very dirty city. In just a week I saw four large subway rats, and trust me, I wasn’t looking for them…somehow my eye just wanders down into the tracks. Buses emanating fumes, pungent garbage bags lined up on the streets, the sound of little animals parading around your feet at the movie theater. Gotta love it.

Despite all of its filth and materialism, you have to give NYC credit for its genuineness. Sure, people are loud, rude, and crazy on many levels, but at least you know what to expect. In any case, you grow accustomed to the dirty looks, passionate outbursts, and everyday battles with strangers, until it becomes the soundtrack of your life. Now more than ever I find this frankness charming, especially coming from a place like Geneva, where composure is the norm. In my opinion, New Yorkers and Genevans are fundamentally the same people. The difference is that New Yorkers aren’t afraid to show their true colors year-round, while Genevans only dare sport their spiky hair and pink tights during summer festivals, when they can blend into the crowds. All Geneva needs is to come out of its shell a little bit; a healthy dose of New York authenticity could do the trick.

Finally, there’s the comfort and convenience factor, which I have a very hard time believing will ever be matched anywhere else in the world. And with this I’m referring to the luxury of being able to watch Friends and Seinfeld reruns at any time of day (in air conditioning). The beauty of making my own salad (Artichokes! Mandarins! Almonds! Egg whites! Now that’s what I call a right to choose) and having them chopped it up into little pieces in a matter of seconds. Food portions larger than the size of my pinky. Lychee martinis and ginger mojitos in every bar in the city. The shameless $3 purchase of celebrity-obsessed tabloids (really, how many angles can there be to the Brangelina invitro story?). A quick trip to Duane Reade transformed into an hour-long expedition buying things you never thought you’d need. And the ability to peruse the aisles of your local deli at two in morning, amidst rows and rows of sugary cereals, taking in the wonderful sight of boxes of Fruit Loops, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Golden Grahams.

It only took a few days of non-stop NYC activity before an overwhelming sense of exhaustion began to creep in. And to think that only a few months ago, this was our life…I’m surprised at how well (and for how long) we handled the city’s unrelenting tempo. The truth is that I am relieved to return to a life of clean air and zen-like serenity, but only because now I know that NYC will always welcome me back with open (though mucky) arms.

être comblé

2008-07-19T14:34:00.000-07:00

I learned a new expression in French class the other day; “être comblé”. The literal translation “to be full” is inexact; rather than a physical condition (Uggh…I ate so much pasta I’m having a food baby), it illustrates a mental one; a state of total fulfillment (the pasta was delicious, and I ate just the right amount, now I have room for chocolate soufflé…and I have such a speedy metabolism that I won’t gain a pound…life is great!!!).

Mme. Danielle, our French teacher, asked that we use the new phrase in a sentence, reminding us that we were free to invent something if we needed to. “C’est impossible”, she added, “que personne soit comblé”. In other words, let’s get real kids, life is short and never wholly satisfying…but go ahead, make up a phrase while you’re at it!

We were already three hours into the class and every bone in my body was begging for a coffee break, but for some reason this observation got my philosophical juices flowing. I looked around the room at a dozen or so quite privileged individuals and thought – surely someone here is comblé? But as we went around the room, the complaints mounted. Many longed to return home (let’s just say no one in this class views Geneva as their optimal place of residence), almost everyone wanted a job, others wished they were married, the married folk wanted children, and the one woman who was married with children didn’t have enough time for herself. So maybe Mme. Danielle was right, I thought dejectedly, maybe we are never meant to be totally satisfied with what we have.

Minutes later, my unease was replaced by a long-awaited cappuccino showered with chocolate powder (that’s how they make them here…what’s not to love?). But the thought stayed with me, leaving a bad taste in my mouth, like the unapologetic smell of tequila after a late night out.

This happened just around the time we left for Spain. Regrettably, large portions of wine, cheese, and jamon Serrano could not keep me from mentally revisiting the issue. The truth is, I also have complaints, and I’ve always justified them with the belief that one day every single piece of the puzzle falls into place. But if at 20, 30, 40, German, Canadian, Brazilian, Polish, no one was there, when exactly would that day be? And did I really want to leave this all in the hands of time? I was determined to change. I knew I had all of the important components in place (an amazing husband, a wonderful family, health, an apartment in New York!). Was it possible to restrain myself from yearning for more?

I decided that this vacation would be my little experiment. You see, vacations are a perfect example of the ‘it’s never good enough’ phenomenon. We spend so much time daydreaming about getting away from our routine, not to mention planning and researching the perfect vacation. When everything is finally settled we wait anxiously for the day to arrive. Once we’re there, we spend half the time wishing it would never end and the next half thinking about how much we’d like to go home. It’s only a matter of time before we find ourselves itching for our comfortable bed, our home-cooked meals, the routine we were so earnest to get away from. When we finally return and begin enjoying the comforts of home, the credit card bill arrives (“what was I thinking having six piña coladas a day?) and we’re back to square one. It’s time to go back to work.

Maybe I was getting too wrapped up in the whole idea, but I convinced myself I needed to stop the restless cycle. If I could appreciate this vacation at every level every day, I told myself, it would be an important first step in proving Mme. Danielle wrong. Granted, we were going wine-tasting in Spain for two weeks. The proposition wasn’t exactly horrifying.

Now that I’m back, I can’t honestly claim that I succeeded. Nevertheless, I will say that I took advantage of this vacation at my maximum capacity. I was uncharacteristically positive, cheery, and undramatic for the majority of the time (I’m a Cancer, and known as the moody one in the family). Around the tenth day when I started sensing the edginess around me (“The office can’t survive without me”, “I’m tired of living out of a suitcase”, “I need to get to the gym and lose all the weight I’ve gained”), I refused to cave in. In fact, I lasted until the last day when, inevitably, it happened. I think it was my final (and probably hundredth) piece of jamon Serrano. I gave Carlos a hard, long look and finally admitted: “I can’t eat any more tapas. I can’t drink any more wine. I want to go home”.

While I can’t declare that I’ve become comblée, the fact doesn’t upset me any longer. The important thing, I think, is that my list of ifs and butts is much shorter than everything that’s on the other side. And so, I’ve concluded that as long as I do a better job savoring life, it may not even matter when and if all the pieces fall into place.

Kalea Zuloaga

2008-07-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

During our trip to Spain, Carlos found his roots in a small town near San Sebastian called Fuenterrabía. The skeptic in me could not believe he came from such a breathtakingly beautiful, utopious place, but when we found a street named after his family, I put my cynicism aside and let him enjoy this discovery. The fact is, we were all a little envious, and I couldn’t help but wonder, what is it about heritage that fascinates us? Genealogy is one of the most popular hobbies in the U.S., and millions of hours are spent every year mapping out zillions of branches on family trees so that we can then claim to be one quarter Irish, an eight French, a sixteenth British – everything seems to be more glamorous than what we are.

So yes, Fuenterrabía was indisputably gorgeous and quaint, and although we were only there for a couple of hours, when we sat down to sip wine in the plaza we felt like we could stay there forever (okay, maybe not forever, but certainly the whole day). The incredible thing is that, during this trip, we felt like this in every city (with the exception of Santander, which was too much small-town snobbery for us to handle, and ended badly at a casino were Carlos was kicked out of his seat because a local wanted to be dealt first at the blackjack table). Although the places we visited were vastly different, each had its own magnetism, and we always ended up feeling like we belonged. In La Rioja, the tiny, sleepy town of Cenicero was so friendly and cozy that it instantly felt like home. In the chic and lively San Sebastian we found La Taberna Gandarias, a bar/restaurant where we became locals in just three days (they even added an extra table for us on a Saturday night when they were booked solid).

It was rainy and chilly during the two nights that we spent in Oviedo, but this didn’t get in the way of its warm, inviting atmosphere, where we joined in on the fiesta de San Juan Bautista, which involved the lighting of a large, barely containable fire in front of a cathedral while people danced energetically around the flames at midnight.
Even trendy, Frenchy Biarritz was welcoming, Pamplona had such a good vibe that I wished I could stay a few days longer and go running with the bulls (13 injured so far this year, so now I’m not so sure that would have been a good idea), and in Ribera del Duero, Peñafiel was utterly charming in its simplicity.

We also quickly grew accustomed to the Spanish schedule, which meant no open businesses or activity between 12pm and 5pm, lunch only began at 1:30pm, and dinner started at 9pm. We made friends with our tour guides, waitresses, and bartenders, and grew sympathetic to their lax work schedules and laid-back attitude towards life. “Can you believe I only get a one and a half hour lunch break?,” quipped Laura, our guide at Bodegas LAN. “That doesn’t give me enough time to eat at home!” Big sigh…I think we all could get used to this.

I don’t know if I’ll ever know the exact town where I’m from, and chances are it won’t be as perfect as Fuenterrabía. What I do know is that I felt a unique connection in each and every one of these places, and so the generalized “Spain is my heritage” is now, more than ever, satisfying enough for me.

The art & science of making wine

2008-07-01T13:10:00.000-07:00

Non-sobriety aside, we really did learn a lot about wine during our time in Spain. We visited a total of seven wineries in Rioja and Ribero del Duero and drank over 100 bottles of wine. You’d think that by the last visit there would be little left to discover, but our experience was quite the opposite. Everywhere we went, we learned something new.

They say that during a job interview, you decide whether or not you like the candidate in the first five minutes that you meet them. In a similar way, I found that you can capture the essence of a winery within minutes. From conservative, to modern, to presumptuous, and even authoritative, each winery has its own distinct character.

Muga, for example, is the Charlotte of wineries. They are so traditional that they still ferment their wines without temperature controls, they remove sediments with an antiquated process that employs hundreds and hundreds of egg whites (not sure who has the smelly job of cracking those eggs, but I sure don’t envy them), and they build and produce their own ageing barrels. They scoff at the mention of screw caps. It’s a time-consuming and expensive process, but to them, it’s the only way that their wine can be made.
At the other extreme is Legaris, a younger winery whose use of technology is at the heart of what they do. From the raw material (they track and analyze each and every grape at the vineyard) to fertilization, cleansing, and bottling, they control the process at every level with state-of-the-art technology, and have no qualms about maintaining little to none of the tradition.

So many factors outside technology affect the wine-making process that it’s impossible to claim that the other wineries we visited fell neatly in-between these two extremes. Take Tinto Pesquera from Ribera del Duero, for example. Although quite conservative, what defines this winery is its leadership. Pesquera was created by the Stalin of wine-makers, Alejandro Fernandez, and at 76 years of age, he still controls every step of the process (quite literally – his house is 10 meters away from the winery and he’s known for storing bottles in his room). At Marques de Riscal, everything is a talking, walking marketing cliché. In an attempt to refresh their identity, they’ve fallen prey to an overambitious advertising campaign (click here to watch a few minutes of their introductory video and you’ll see what I’m talking about). And at Marques de Caceres, we found a winery that’s both traditional and modern, has great business sense, and a growing export model (can you tell this was my favorite? Although I have to guiltily admit that the gift bag of three wines per capita also helped push that decision along).

Although I may now need a little break from it, I have to say that I have a newfound appreciation for all of the tradition, knowledge, and dedication that goes into making a bottle of wine.

La Rioja becomes us

2008-06-18T04:15:00.001-07:00

Over a year ago my father began planning a two-week family trip to Northern Spain. I have to warn you that the use of the words “plan” and “my father” in the same sentence are not to be taken lightly. The delight, pleasure, and time that he has spent carefully preparing for this trip reminds me of that extracurricular activity in high school that you devoted hours to after school just because you loved it (okay, maybe I’m the only nerd who felt as passionate about the high school newspaper). In any case, you get the point that this trip has been mapped, researched, and designed to the last detail with much care and enthusiasm. My father has a detailed, custom-made one-pager on each city’s highlights (I know what you’re thinking -- now you understand how I came to be the organized freak that way I am). And we’re going to that glorious, fabulous, unrivaled paradise called Spain. No doubt there will be plenty of stories to tell in the coming days.

We kicked off the weekend in Madrid, and on Monday rented a large van (or more accurately, a small minibus) and drove three hours to Rioja, one of Spain’s major wine regions. I’ve always considered my father an intelligent, gifted individual, but I have to say that this decision to start our trip off in the wine country is simply genius. I’ve already noticed that the fusses and squabbles that I once deemed inevitable when a family reunites have been avoided for the most part. The car rides that once generated complaints are now the perfect opportunity for napping in-between wine tastings. Finally, I’ve decided that if I survive this trip without officially declaring myself an alcoholic, I think I’m safe for the rest of my life.

I’m sure you’re wondering what a typical day in Rioja is like, so let me illustrate. Disclaimer: if you are at work right now, reading this may provoke feelings of jealousy, despair, anguish, and anxiety. I’ll try and make it short and sweet (or well-balanced, structured, and smooth). We started the day off at a 10am winery appointment at Muga (one of my new favorite Riojas) and by 11:30am found ourselves happily drinking our first glasses of wine. This was followed by lunch (accompanied by more wine, of course) at Echaurren, a superb restaurant from one of Rioja’s most renowned chefs (think artichokes with jamon Serrano, goat cheese terrine, piquillo peppers, morcilla, cochinillo, merluza…you get the idea). Carlos was convinced he had identified the lady that made the croquetas (picture a large, burly woman with an unprecedented amount of facial hair), and was working up the courage (or level of intoxication) to offer her a full-time job cooking for us in Geneva. Lunch was followed by our second winery visit at Marques de Riscal, where yep, you guessed it, more wine-tasting. And now we’re taking a short break before the last of the day’s wine and tapas. Now that I think about it, the fact that I’m writing at this moment is a true testament to my dedication to this blog.

These first days in Rioja have also rendered a major breakthrough. After 25 years of being completely certain that I had no sense of smell, I’ve discovered that when it comes to wine, my sense of smell is pretty amazing (go figure). During last night’s six-wine degustation, my sniffing was spot-on! From vanilla to balsamic to cherries, pepper, and chamomile, I could smell everything with unexpected accuracy. I now know that there is hope that someday, I can dedicate myself entirely to professional wine and food tasting and lead an overall blissful life.

And speaking of bliss, here comes my next glass of wine. Stay posted for more from La Madre Patria.

Geneva, a moody city

2008-06-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

After living here a month, I’ve concluded that Geneva suffers from a multiple personality disorder.

During our first week we had amazing spring weather and the city was full of life. The streets buzzed with people walking to work (e.g. Carlos), while others enjoyed the wonderful weather by reading, strolling, or bike riding by the side of the lake (this is me), while still others chatted and drank wine in crowded outdoor cafes (this will be me once I have friends here). Sunny, vibrant, jovial Geneva.

We traveled to Zurich that first weekend and came back on a Saturday. I woke up Sunday morning thinking it was just like any other, and decided to go to the gym while Carlos slept. When I stepped outside, it was a ghost town. You couldn’t hear a sound. Every single store was closed. There wasn’t a human in sight.

I learned my lesson quickly: in Geneva, there is absolutely no reason to be anywhere but home on a Sunday morning. It’s just like Thanksgiving, I reassured myself…except 52 times a year and without the smell of pumpkin pie baking in the oven.

This weekend a friend from NYC came to visit us; he was on vacation in Paris and generously came up to see us. Up until this point we hadn’t spent many weekends in Geneva, maybe due in part to that eerie Sunday morning. Carlos immediately proposed renting a car and driving to Gruyère, a nearby town where all you do is eat fondue and merengues. Given my most recent obsession with merengues (which I can best describe as wonderful little puffs of sugar and egg whites), I shouldn’t have thought about it twice. Instead, I proposed staying in Geneva. The truth is I was starting to feel guilty that we hadn’t made an effort to explore other parts of the city, and having Michael here was the perfect excuse to do so.

Our plan was to visit Carouge, a hip, eclectic neighborhood that according to everyone is all the rage. I swear you’d think it was Soho from what people tell you. I’m not sure if it was the rain, the fact that it was before 2pm on a weekend, or just because, but we soon found ourselves back on the set of I am Legend. We walked the entire neighborhood in 15 minutes without seeing a soul. All the stores were closed. The cafes were open but empty. It was time for a change of plans.

Once we got back to centre city, it was all hustle and bustle again. Reassured by what appeared to be the return of civilization, we decided to grab something to eat and then take Michael to the Terrases de Paquis, a bar in front of the lake that’s usually filled with people drinking and talking and music blasting. It’s as close as Geneva gets to Café Noir (without the intoxicating mojitos and caihiprinas), you can’t miss it and you really can’t go wrong. Or so we thought…Carlos passed right by it without seeing it. “This is it”, I told him matter-of-factly. Carlos was so taken aback that he could only mutter incredulously, “Where is everyone?”

It’s pretty amazing (and a bit baffling) how people in this city appear and disappear again like magic. But I’m sure that soon enough, like true Genevois, we’ll start getting the timing right.

House hunting with Sandra Bloch

2008-05-31T23:54:00.000-07:00

Finding housing in New York isn’t an easy task. Anyone fresh out of college quickly learns that the term “one bedroom apartment” isn’t to be taken literally in New York City. The option of living in Manhattan without being entirely broke requires converting a one-bedroom apartment into two with a fake wall. All you can do is pray that the result is a somewhat livable second room, while your roommate prays for the opposite; that the living room will still be large enough to fit a couch and a tv. If the luxuries of elevators, doormen, and mailrooms are of any importance to you, then the possibility of living in a hip or cool location is immediately eliminated. And so, it’s no surprise that every summer thousands of eager 20-somethings cram themselves into tiny spaces in massive, unattractive high-rise buildings located in not-so-hot neighborhoods. Take my old apartment, for example, in what I consider the “outskirts” of Murray Hill. The corridors had a strange lingering odor of Chinese take-out, beer, and cigarette smoke. There were so many people living in the building that it took ten minutes for an elevator to arrive on your floor. The East River was so close to us that we had to walk 20 minutes to get to the nearest subway, and going anywhere during the winter months usually involved frostbite or a nice soak of sleet and rain.

Ah, the days when we were young and willing to sacrifice comfort for a little piece of the island of Manhattan. As we grew older, most people begin to venture out to places like Brooklyn, Long Island, and that drab state called New Jersey. For those of us who refused to move out of the city, it was time to fork over some major dough, either on expensive rent or on the purchase of an apartment.

I had the wonderful fortune of getting married just around this time when my tolerance for post-college NYC housing had ended. After six months renovating our spacious one-bedroom apartment in midtown, I felt like I could live there forever. It was a major upgrade. As you can imagine, when we decided to move to Geneva just six months after that, the thought of leaving this little cocoon was somewhat of a small tragedy for me. And after all the negative things we heard about apartments in Geneva, finding housing became issue #1, as CNN would call it.

Sandra Bloch was literally the first person we met in Geneva. She came to pick us up at our wonderful Hotel-Residence the same day of our arrival. If you can imagine all the stereotypes that there are about Swiss people (ok, let me help you out here – boring, aloof, cold – you get the idea), the only one she fulfilled was being on time. We were shocked by her liveliness – she was friendly, talkative, and quick on her feet. She understood Carlos’ humor. We weren't sure what we had done to deserve this godsend.

Based on housing preferences we’d given her over the phone, today Sandra would show us all the apartments in Geneva that she thought we might like – a whopping four of them. That’s right folks. There were only four one to two-bedroom apartments available this month, she warned, and if we didn’t move quickly enough, there wouldn’t be any left by tomorrow. The panic settled in quickly.

As we drove to our first destination, I noticed that the city was disappearing behind us. “I want to show you the one outside of the city first. So we can get that over with”. And get that over with we did. The place was pretty big, had new appliances, and decent living space…but I felt like I was in the middle of nowhere. Probably because I was. We were in a small town called Mies, so named for being in-between Geneva and Nyon (another large town). It was basically a gas station and some stores. There was no way we were going to live there.

The second apartment that we saw was back in civilization, but it was utterly depressing. Everything about it was old, ugly, and sad. “Do you like it? Would you like to submit an application?” chirped Sandra eagerly. I didn’t really have to say much. “You’re not convinced, are you?” Really, could you tell? Was I that transparent?

By the time we reached the centre of the city to see the third apartment, I had lost all hope. I wasn’t really sure I wanted to see anything else and it was really starting to feel like a long day. But when we stepped into the 2 bedroom, recently remodeled duplex (and this one had a washer/dryer!), we immediately told Sandra (in unison), “this is it”. Somehow, in the midst of all the awfulness, we had found the perfect apartment.

Those three words lit a fire in Sandra, as we watched her jump into action. “I must go to the office now and submit the application immediately. There is probably a large waiting list for this apartment and if we don’t request it today, we won’t have a chance.” And with that, she was gone. We were overjoyed with the place, but our enthusiasm was premature. This was only the beginning.

We spent the next few days in agony, begging Sandra to do everything she possibly could for the one and only place in all of Geneva that we could consider home. She warned us that the tenants might not accept us, especially if a more desirable couple applied (a.k.a. wealthier, European, with kids). After days of paperwork, prayers, and what Carlos and I suspect had to have been some bribing on her part, we finally got the ok. But it didn't end there. We then had to lock in three months' worth of rent for 18 months into a bank account that we hadn't yet been able to open. I'll spare you the details of the complications involved in opening this account, but let's just say I've never spent so many endless hours at a bank.

Only now that we are officially moved in can I claim victory. I will forever be grateful to you Sandra Bloch, for finding us a home, and to you, Mme. Angèle Tamman, for considering us worthy of renting your apartment.

Jet lag redefined

2008-05-06T13:18:00.000-07:00

When traveling across time zones, I’ve always thought that there are two kinds of people. There are those who seem to love to complain about jet lag. This type is easily identifiable; they neglect to adjust their watches for days and you often hear them saying things like: “its 2am in New York right now…I’m SO tired…let’s take a nap.” You know who you are.

Then there are those people who think they are too good for jet lag; they’ve convinced themselves that the term is most likely a myth, and that if it does really exist then their bodies are too resilient to be affected by such a thing.

I have to admit that up until a week ago, I thought myself superior to jet lag. Not only that, but when I traveled with people who didn’t, the first days were always unexpectedly frustrating. I’ll admit it, more than once I’ve scoffed at my sleepy companions and wanted to stick toothpicks in-between their eyes to keep them awake and active after a long, tiresome flight. Even when I traveled to Bangladesh I convinced myself that I was fully adjusted upon arrival, despite a 10-hour time difference.

Things change when your destination is permanent (see, now I’m blaming it on the move!). The day of our arrival I felt perfectly normal, if anything a bit mystified by Carlos’ intense jet lag with only a 6-hour time difference. But my first night was entirely miserable. I woke at 1am, tossed and turned for hours, dreaded the passing of each second, minute, hour, thinking ”how much less sleep am I getting now? And how has my body suddenly become so weak as to be affected by time?”

A few hours later Carlos woke and I was unexpectedly slammed by a wave of relief. All I could think was “Thank god for jet lag!”; now I could actually share this night of insomnia with someone. We talked for about an hour, the two of us. My recollection of this exchange may be affected by the fact that I was bordering on desperate and delusional at this point in the night, but it was one of the best talks we’d had in days. I was the one doing most of the talking, as usual, but I think we both felt relieved to share thoughts on our move, our first day in Geneva, the funny things that had already happened, the characters we’d met, how itchy these corporate housing pillows were and would we ever find a decent apartment? It wasn’t too long before I slumbered back to sleep.

The restlessness lasted a whole week for me. Every night I guiltily hoped that the jet lag I had once been so impatient about was still alive and kicking in Carlos’ body. If I had known that one day I’d be at the mercy of jet lag for this long, I really would have been much more considerate about it all these years.

Chicken, anyone?

2008-05-06T06:21:00.000-07:00

Last night we had our first dinner in Geneva. As with everything, we had been adamantly warned against dining out – bad food, bad service, steep tabs. Seeing as though we refused to even acknowledge the presence of what our corporate housing termed a “kitchenette”, we really had no choice but to venture out into the wild.

As we perused the menus of a half dozen or so restaurants in the area (and here I must insert a note of gratitude to whoever established the tradition of posting menus outside of restaurants – lord knows I was neither mentally nor emotionally ready to hand over $47 in return for a fist-sized portion of “filet du beouf”), my tummy began to grumble loudly, as if losing hope (I swear my stomach has a life of its own).

And then, there it was: “Chez ma cousine” – a.k.a chicken lover’s delight.The sign outside the quaint little restaurant read “1/2 poulet a la broche – CHF 14.90.” To translate: half a roasted chicken for $14.90. With the dread of an ill-fated $200 dinner looming over us like a fog, all we could think was…could it really be true? There really is no way of screwing up rotisserie chicken, is there? Was there something we were missing here?

Well, ladies and gents, it just so turns out that we did indeed find, on our first night here, one of the few “bargain” meals in Geneva, and most likely the only one in our neighborhood. And this I am extremely proud to report is my accomplishment of the day. No joke! And Chez ma cousine isn’t joking about their chicken either. Other than bread, potatoes, and lettuce, chicken is quite literally the only thing on the three-item menu. Half roasted chicken (it was fabulous – I happily gobbled mine up and half of Carlos’, who was too jet lagged to eat), chicken thai style, chicken curry style…you name it, its chicken.

In this new home where everything is different and few things are predictable, I’ve managed to establish an undeniable certainty– there will be many a chicken dinner in store for us in the coming months.