Travel

Well, the first thought I had driving through the streets of Edinburgh (and then later by train on the Royal Scotsman) is that the most impressive thing about Scotland is the great big hairy-chested men that roam about - similar perhaps to the “We like great big hairy- chested men – we are the senior class” which we used to sing about so wistfully at Marlborough. Now I know about which I sang! Seeing these critters who do indeed roam the streets in thin tee shirts and shorts when the rest of the world around them are dressed in sweaters and jackets, only remind me that they toss trees (the Caber Toss) in contest at the Highland Games and that in Clan Fightin’ Days of Yore, they would tear off their kilts to go into battle - running naked through the heather and the thistles. Into Thistles? Naked? Who would dare pick a fight with these manly men?

So what do manly men eat? Well apparently they love dainty frothy deserts like Cranachan (a mixture of whipped cream, whisky, honey, fresh raspberries with toasted oatmeal soaked overnight in – what else - whiskey), Bread and Butter Pudding, and Edinburgh Fog with Sponge Fingers - whilst consuming a great deal of Whisky and Vanilla Fudge… together!

Sounds good to me! Also sounds kinda like Southern Cookin’ (see earlier recipe on Mary K’s Pig Pickin’ Cake). Surely if Texans (Scots Irish to the bone) like their bacon baked in brown sugar until crisp) we can down our whisky with vanilla fudge. (Interesting factoid, the most delicately tinted whisky is distilled in used Tennessee Bourbon kegs)

Can we talk about how strange a yoga class in London is?  Stretch out your kidneys, she kept saying.  Elongate your kidneys.  Her British accent easing me from one pose to another…but…kidneys?  Really?  I don’t even know where my kidneys are.  Honestly, I know they’re somewhere in my torso region but to the point where I could isolate them into a stretch.  It was really strange. 

And it got me thinking about other body parts that in my opinion have nothing to do with yoga.  Like my esophagus.  And my appendix.  And, well, my stomach.  Was it grumbling?  Or was I distracted?  By the time we got out and started wandering around Primrose Hill, the gray sky somehow bright and exciting like I wouldn’t mind if it started raining, by that time my stomach definitely was growling.  I’m still not sure what my kidneys were doing but I was hungry.  And it had to be breakfast

Like my ancestors before me and their great ancestors before them, I like love food. The members of the Santiago clan aren’t known for being particularly picky about their cuisine. Eat first, ask later (or ask while eating). But eating anything in China is like a blindfolded taste test. The labels are written in Chinese, so I sit and I poke and I prod.

While I come from a long line of low maintenance eaters (and pride myself for it) I still must inspect the mystery meat that is tossed onto my personal safe haven of choice, white rice. Just because it looks like beef, photographs like beef, and is doused with similar sauce does not guarantee beef.

However, there comes a point in every young adult’s life, where you realize your budget restraints, stop questioning and start eating. I’m not saying I gave in to eating turtle or even chicken claws for that matter, but like the Donner party would have said, “When I’m starving, I will eat almost anything”.

Lunch is promptly at 12pm every day. Like any daily activity, it is a large, public game of charades in which I act out what I’m thinking, the Chinese guess, and occasionally someone bilingual steps in to finish the job. 2 words! Hot? Cold? Hot Tea? Two Sakis? Hot Water? Ice Water? Ding ding!

Unfortunately, this isn’t foolproof, but, in general, I've discovered that China has great food. Especially, if you trust a native Chinese foodie to lead your American taste buds in the right direction. Here is a mini-guide to my food adventures thus far:

Who says you can’t go home again? I just did and am here to testify that though it was a bit strange, it was more than wonderful to return to the place I lived in 41 years ago. Planning my recent trip back east where I would be staying with family and two of my oldest and dearest girlfriends, I decided to start off my trip by staying in a hotel for a few nights. After checking the rates in our two favorite New York hotels, The Regency and The Surrey and catching my breath I decided to look at a few other options.

My husband and I have become huge fans of VRBO and through it we’ve rented great vacation houses in Hawaii, London and San Francisco to name a few. The house in Kauai we rented several summers ago was spectacular. Seriously we lucked out big time. But getting back to NYC, I combed the VRBO listings and didn’t find anyplace I felt like staying in. Those that looked good were either too big or in neighborhoods I didn’t know, or just looked like what it was: someone else’s nice apt but not mine! Then I remembered that a friend had once mentioned that she’d stayed in a lovely Bed and Breakfast in NYC. What the heck, with nothing to lose, and possibly hundreds to save, I googled B and B’s in Manhattan. Quell Surprise! Welcome to a whole new way to go! I had plenty of options to scroll through and scroll I did!

With renewed enthusiasm, scrolling, smiling, practically drooling, something caught my eye. Wait! I know that room! I know those windows! Backing up for a closer inspection, my enthusiasm turned into awe. I stopped and enlarged the picture of the room. That was my apartment! Decades ago, four to be exact! I read the name of The B and B, the 1871 House. The name confused me, but knowing those windows, I clicked onto the 1871 website.