Travel

We knew nothing about Fado other than that our friend, Mark Miller, who had lived in Lisbon for a year and basically planned our recent trip to the city, said it is "a must". He promised great food from a host and hostess who will treat us as family and sing traditional Fado songs. "It will be a long night," he warned, "but still you must go to Sr. Fado." He then added, with a touch of a smile, that he should make the reservations. Sr. Fado is hard to get into but over Mark's year living in Lisbon, he and the owners had become close. He called. We were in.

Sr. Fado is owned by Duarte and Marina Santos, though "owner" hardly describes everything they do. It might be better to say that Duarte and Marina Santos are Sr. Fado. Duarte is the front man, meeting the guests, serving the food and bussing the plates. Marina is the cook. Eating at Sr. Fado is like spending a perfect night in what could be a modest Portuguese home, while eating traditional Portuguese foods and hearing its traditional music.

When we entered the restaurant we were greeted with both warmth and a touch of skepticism. "Do you have a reservation? The restaurant is fully booked," was the first thing we were asked by Duarte. (As the night progressed we more than understood his cautious approach as we saw Duarte turn away at least a dozen walk-ins before the last reserved tabled filled, at which point he simply locked the door.) Yes, we had a reservation, we assured Duarte. In fact we were the friends of Mark's. "Mark's friends!!" he beamed. "Marina, Mark's friends are here" he called into the kitchen. Then the hugs.

When I landed in Israel I had no idea what to expect. I was there on a Birthright-Taglit trip through Israel Outdoors, an organization that sends Jewish youth to Israel to study the history of the land and the Jewish people.

I set no expectations for my adventure. I simply wanted to take this leap of faith, take advantage of this truly once in a lifetime experience, and see what the opportunity had to offer.

Simply put, I was floored by my experience. The people, the food, the hikes, our group. Everything and everyone inspired me to push myself, soak in as much as I could, and appreciate this beautiful land.

Our first meal was breakfast at a kibbutz. Tables were laden with platters of vegetables, hummus, labne, baba ganoush, eggs, and Turkish coffee. I couldn’t believe my luck! What flavors! What generosity! I filled my plate up with a sampling of every dish they had to offer. And, I do believe I helped myself to two fragrant cups of Turkish coffee. 

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)

My husband and I were approaching a big anniversary and wanted to celebrate. As we considered lovely and exotic locales, we realized what we really wanted was a touch of wilderness and fresh air that involved no time changes from our California home. The Wickaninnish Inn, a straight shot north to British Columbia, bills itself as “rustic elegance on nature’s edge.” One look at the hotel’s web site, and we both sighed. It was perfect.

Wickaninnish was the name of an 18^th century chief of the Tla-o-qui-aht band of First Nation people. First Nation band is in Canadian parlance what we Americans call a Native American tribe. Wickanninish means, “He who no one sits in front of in the canoe.” Based on our experience, the Wick, as it is called by the locals, clearly deserves the front seat among hotels. From our room, the windows looked out on one side to the Clayoquot Sound and Chesterman Beach and on the other side to volcanic rocks and rain forest. We woke to bald eagles flying by with prey in their talons. One sunny morning, a family of sea otters made their way down the rocks and flipped into the Pacific. A little brown marten emerged from the woods, looked all around and scooted among the rocks and disappeared. At breakfast, a gray whale on its annual migration to Mexico puffed out a big spout of water from its blowhole.