Twisted Sisters

After our whirlwind trip through Berlin last weekend, Jeremy and I made a pit stop on the way home in Dresden. It was our fourth time in the small former East Germany city and each time I fall a bit more in love.

It’s been a few years since I fell this hard for a city, (don’t worry Vancouver, I still have the hots for you, too), but there is something special about Dresden – it’s the feeling, the vibe, the freshness and openness. I tend to leave a bit of myself with every visit, but it wasn’t until this last trip, as short as it was, that I realized why.

Dresden is a more concentrated Euro-version of my hometown – St. Louis.

I love St Louis, I always will. And even though I left her more than 5 years ago, we remain close. St. Louis continues to impress me with each visit at the amazing amount of raw talent that exists there. The music, the creative vibe, mom and pop businesses, art organizations and collaborations, the music …  St. Louis will always be my home.  

But as we travel Europe, exploring our new continent, we subconsciously search for our next home. We envision ourselves settled into a new world, a world outside of our natural element. Dresden always comes up.

Walking through the streets of the new town in Dresden is similar to cruising South Grand in St. Louis. Hip bars line the strip and eateries keep the late night crowd going. Turn the corner and you are in the Loop. Fire spinners, musicians and artisans busk for the mere entertainment of it all, while hipsters and hippies cruise the vintage clothing stores. The authentic (and amazingly tasty) Mexican restaurants of Cherokee St. are replaced with authentic (and amazingly tasty) Turkish doner kebab joints, both sandwiched between plenty of antique shops. The Friday night Art Walk is not unlike First Fridays downtown, and the Sunday brunch we found rivaled Mokabes. But most of all, it’s the people. Everyone is as unique as they are crazy – that good kind of crazy. That crazy that makes you long to be a part of it. It’s a mixed crowd of age, ethnicity and experience that blend seamlessly. It’s home – or what a home should be.

So the next time I’m feeling nostalgic or longing for the place where I grew up, the place that helped mold me into the woman I am today, I’ll just drive two hours north and soak up some sister love. 

From St. Louis to Dresden, with love.

All along the water tower

The day before a trip begins is one of my favorite parts of the trip.

The list making (yeah, I make lists), last-minute packing, pre-staging, anticipation … man, I love it all.

But something happened last week, on that golden last day before the trip started, which was definitely not on my to-do list: a cancellation from our airbnb host – less than 12 hours before we were supposed to leave.

Apparently she was stuck in Tuscany and wouldn’t be home for a few days … and didn’t have a back-up plan (like spare keys with a friend), so we were pretty much screwed for accommodations.

Besides the ridiculous cost associated with finding accommodations last minute, we discovered Berlin was unusually besieged this past weekend because of the one-two punch of Fashion Week and a massive international trade show called Bread & Butter.

Hotels that were normally 60-70 euros were more like 250. And though they tried to hook us up, airbnb’s staff was little help as most folks have 24 hours to approve you.

Enter Facebook.

 

I have considered killing my F-book account on several occasions (more on that at a later date) but somehow always come back around; this was one such occasion. 

While she was on the phone with airbnb, Molly asked on F-book if anyone had a rich uncle in Berlin who could put us up.

Within less than an hour, our friends Bianca & Eric hooked us up with their friend Martin, who was so hospitable we had to remind ourselves we had just met him.

Oh yeah, he lives in a refurbished, totally pimped out 19^th century water tower.

Martin took us to meet some of his old school friends, got us in the backdoor to a Bjoern Borg Fashion Week party in a cathedral, and helped us nurse our hangovers the next day.

While in Berlin we checked off some spots we’d been meaning to see on our last few jaunts through the city (namely the Reichstag, top photo), got our thrift on at a place that sells clothes by the kilo, and caught a Pearl Jam show, which was the original reason for the trip.

I’ve probably seen Pearl Jam five or six times since I first saw them at the second Lalapalooza in 1992. It’s crazy to think they’re still around and their shows still rock.

Although they played the night before in Berlin as well, our show was definitely different (sorry, Becky, they played an incredible version of “Betterman” the second night), and they always seem to insert subtle, poignant bits into the set list.

Like in Honolulu, Dec. 2006, when Eddie sang “Hawaii ’78,” which was made famous by Bruddah Iz. I still get goose bumps when I hear that version.

This time, they played versions of Pink Floyd’s “Mother” and Edwin Starr’s “War,” which along with other songs had the audience singing so loud it was hard to hear Eddie.

And although the concert was a highlight and even the impetus for our trip, we both agreed our favorite experience was the one we didn’t plan for.

So after five days in Berlin & Dresden, we’d like to say vielen dank to Martin (below, bellying up to the bar with a prehistoric friend he couldn't convince to come home with him), who reminded us that the best part of traveling is staying with friends.

A boy named Dorothy

The buddymollys were recently given the small task of taking care of a fish named Dorothy – an odd choice for a name as Dorothy was quite manly; in fact he was a man. He was the largest and oldest goldfish either of us had ever seen, with gray painted fins and a body that engulfed his over-sized tank.

He was a beautiful fish. Then he died.

Now I don’t think we killed Dorothy, I think Dorothy just happened to die on our time. But just in case, don’t ever let us goldfish sit for you. Just in case.

During this time we were also given the small task of watering plants. All of the plants are currently still alive.

While we managed to come through on one complete task, there was still this business of a dead fish who was too large to flush, according to his owner.

So, to honor Dorothy, we gave him a ceremonial burying in the backyard, complete with military honors.

That fish was one helluva soldier. 

Istanbul: still a Turkish delight

Last weekend we took a monumental trip to Istanbul.

However, this adventure was historic, not because of the centuries-old mosques or that we were mingling in the heart of what was once the center of the world; this trip was remarkable for one reason:

Rick let us down.

Ok, maybe that’s a little harsh – we still thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and benefited greatly from Mr. Steves’ vast repository of advice and insights, but his three-triangle rating for the Bosphorus cruise was a little high (more like Bore-phorus cruise).

The northern leg toward the Black Sea was stellar and we did have the opportunity to wander around the Asia side for a bit, but the return leg rocked most of the ferry travelers to sleep, which is not always a bad thing (although it did bring back memories of my days in the Navy ...).

Different from our last trip here, which was a 24-hour whirlwind layover that included randomly scoring tickets to a Dylan concert, this weekend we made time to discover new back alleys, get intimate with Byzantine mosaics and experience more Turkish delights (only some of which are euphemisms).

Chief on my list was the Hagia Sophia, a 1,500 year-old church that later served as a mosque (and now a museum). After Muslims conquered Constantinople in 1453, they whitewashed over all the Christian art, which actually helped to preserve it over the years.

Despite wars and the many times control has changed hands, the art and structures around town are indicative of the way Istanbul's people have embraced diversity, with all those layers revealing its intricate beauty.

We ventured north and wandered streets looking for a random flea market (becoming more familiar with the work-a-day public transportation and practicing our Turkish along the way); haggled for scarves outside the Grand Bazaar; caught a show with various forms of folk dance from around the country, and later were scrubbed squeaky clean at the same bath house Süleyman the Magnificent frequented in the 1500s.

In all, this trip was filled with the excitement of getting to know a new friend, better. 

Top 5 travel woes

Everyone likes to get away, but sometimes when people travel they forget to pack a little common courtesy. As the summer travel season heats up, we’ve begun stockpiling patience to deal with what have become our top 5 travel annoyances.

5. Clapping when the plane lands.

Seriously? It’s a pilot’s job to fly the plane – landing is included. My co-workers don’t give me a standing ovation every time I turn in an article – it’s my job. People are especially prone to clap when the plane lands on an island – it’s an island, people, not an aircraft carrier. 

4. The doors in airport bathroom stalls.

Dear airport bathroom architect: When you design the stall door to open inward, you’ve created one helluva life-sized puzzle. People who are traveling carry bags. It’s almost impossible to get into the stall without squeezing into that little space between the toilet and the wall. Then you’re stuck trying to finagle your bag through the gap just enough so you can close the door … and heaven forbid if you’re wearing a large backpack, forcing you to break into an awkward turtle dance. Switch the hinges and you might just earn an ovation.

3. People who crowd the baggage conveyor belt.

If everyone just took a few steps back, the entire group could readily identify their bags and retrieve them efficiently; they wouldn’t have to peer through the spaces between the people and force their way through to grab their bag before it sails past.

2. People who clog the boarding gate.
Flight attendants give pretty clear instructions: “Now boarding seating group 2. If you’re not in group 2, please remain seated until your seating group is called.”

I’m pretty sure they’ve never said, “Please block the area so everyone behind you thinks you’re in line,” but that’s what most people hear. Excuse me, ma’am, are you in line?

1. People who bum-rush the aisles as soon as the plane parks.

We boarded in an orderly fashion, why should exiting be any different? As everyone exits to the front – why would you, impatient guy behind me, think you should be in the front of the line right now?

This is especially annoying when you’re exiting the plane to board a bus that will take you to the terminal. There’s no prize for being the first on the bus.

Lately, Molly and I have resorted to the ol’ pick-and-roll technique: whoever is in the aisle seat gets up quickly to keep the impatient hordes in the seats behind us at bay while the other person takes their time to get all the bags. Ah, sweet, sweet traveling serenity.

Buongiorno Venezia

Last weekend, as I moved into my 34^th year, Jeremy and I celebrated Italian-style with a long weekend in Venice, Italy.

Although we’ve explored Italy a bit since arriving in Europe, this was our first trip to the Veneto region. Venice is made up of 100 small, intertwined islands, connected with a dizzying amount of canals and bridges that rival Amsterdam. It’s completely man-made with brightly colored buildings that are a dim reflection of what they were at the turn of the twentieth century. Not to mention they rise out of the sea with no visible support or structure. The city itself would seem like a dream if it weren’t for hordes of tourists vying for striped Gondolier shirts and Carnivale masks.

But through the hustle and bustle, it’s easy to slow down and let that facet of the city pass you by, for Venice is and will always be romantic. Strolling the narrow walkways to get lost in the inner city is a must. Kitsch restaurants, family-owned bakeries, dogs playing in the park and freshly washed clothes hanging on lines show the everyday life of the few residents who still reside in here. Gondolas and small boats pass through under low bridges and the waterbus (yep, it’s a bus that’s a boat) provides viable transportation along the Grand Canal. 

Venice is a photographer's dream with picture-perfect settings at every turn. While camera in hand monopolized much our trip – we also managed to see some sights and learn some fun facts about the city.

The original gangsta: Venice is home to the very first known ghetto. The name comes from an area restricted to Jews in the 1500s near the former foundry which translates to geto. The word ghetto was then coined to refer to a segregated community. Italian Jews are, therefore, the original ganstas. Respect.

Passing the torch: It’s apparently pretty tough to get a gondola license as there are currently only a few thousand. But there is no waiting list – for when a Gondolier dies, the license is passed on to his widow or children. Gondoliering is in the blood, and a unique family tradition.

Jesus rides on a rainbow: On the ceiling of the famous St. Mark’s Basilica, a mural depicts the Son of God riding a rainbow in exquisite detail. No unicorns were spotted, however.

Big Pimpin: Peggy Guggenheim. Her art collection is impressive. Her list of lovers is even more impressive. The number of furry friend Lhasa Apsos she owned is the most impressive.

One for the tummy, two for the show: The best eggplant parmesan you will every taste resides in a restaurant tucked away in the back streets of Venice. It’ll make you throw your fork down and scream, “holy shit that’s good!” True story.

And a trip to Venice isn’t complete without an overpriced gondola ride. Overpriced, yes, but some of the best minutes we’ve shared. Take a ride yourself in the video below.

 

The Earl of Pork

Pulled pork is 90% mental, 23% physical. 

Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always had a soft spot for a good pulled pork sandwich. 

I don’t specifically remember eating it that much growing up, but I know it was always there, not far from the smoked mullet and hot-boiled peanut stands.

When I moved to San Francisco, a place called Brothers BBQ on Divisadero reignited my taste buds for pulled pork – each order even came with two slices of Wonder Bread on the side in a folded-over plastic baggie (so you know it was authentic).

In Hawaii, kalua pork blew my socks off, too, but it wasn’t until a few months ago when it finally hit me – why have I never tried to make my favorite food?

The first time I made it I couldn’t believe how good it tasted – and the simplicity of its preparation made me like it even more.

Here’s a quick run-down:

This little piggy stayed home. 

1. Place pork on top of onions & garlic in a crock pot.* Put spices, more onions & garlic on top and add 1.5 cups of water.
2. Cook for 8 hours on low (or 4-5 on high).
3. Remove water, pull/chop pork into bits and remove the fat (mail fat to Grandma Brown).
4. Add more onions and seasoning and cook for another 8 hours on low.
5. Sample the sweet, sweet nectar of satisfaction.

I’ve probably made it 3-4 times in the past two months, each time tweaking the recipe. Last time, on a recommendation from fellow pulled pork connoisseur Jeb, I used a local Bavarian smoked beer. 

Now that’s what I call a successful international exchange program.

*I know it’s probably better smoked versus in the crock pot, but you have to use what you’ve got.