Reykjavik, Iceland

Apartment-living, Icelandic style

It was still pitch dark at 9am on Wednesday when I got to the hotel. I left Seattle in the late afternoon on Tuesday, and 3 movies and 7 hours later, landed in Northern European sleety cold blackness around 7am. Short line at passport control then onto the shuttle bus for a drive through what appeared to nothingness punctuated by pelting rain to the Hilton. My plan had been to keep moving upon arrival, but that came with an assumption that I would sleep on the plane, which I did not, not even for a minute, didn't even try. So I got into bed around 9:30am, set an alarm for 1:30 (which I slept right through) and finally got up at 3:30 and walked into town. It's cold but not unbearable. Jeans and long-underwear, couple of shirts, sweater, parka, mittens, scarf, hat - pretty usual winter wardrobe for me. I hit just the main street of downtown Reykjavik which is lined with shops and not much else. I stopped into a few but they were either super-designery or tourist-kitchy so since I didn't need any troll dolls or $50-socks, I didn't buy anything. Wandered around for a few hours, got a tiny bit lost since suddenly it was dark out again, then back to the hotel for dinner. Trying local food is really important to me but I couldn't bring myself to stop for minke whale which seemed to be on a lot of the local menus so I ended up with a lovely open-faced roast beef sandwich at the Hilton. I told myself it was authentically European because it lacked a top slice of bread.

New Yorker Festival - October 2011

That time of year again. Jenine and Peter; a hovel in the Bowery; hanging out with Roz Chast, Amy Poehler, and Malcolm Gladwell; John's Pizza in the West Village (who knew the best pizza is "coal fired"?); Eataly with [Uncle] Steven; and a spa day in the Hamptons. Note: If you're walking in Riverside Park and it's lousy with rats (both dead and alive), smells like death, and is "dank-ass" (quote from Jenine), you might be in the wrong place. We found the right place, went for a walk, did some shopping, ate plantain chips and salsa at a latin place, hung out at Liquor Bar (a.k.a., Schiller's but we preferred calling it "Liquor Bar"), and found Sri Lankan food on the lower East Side before heading home.

The Hamptons



at Eataly



artwork in the Bowery



Giant Squirrles in Whistler, B.C.

Whistler Village

Last Weekend: Whistler. John, Huey, Josh, and Jenine. My super-cool cruiser-bike, no downhilling this time, and no mud, just sunshine and blue skies. Monday morning I trotted down to the information booth in the village to ask for what I've been looking for since last summer when I got the bike - a long, flat, paved, scenic trail. I got exactly that. Through the woods, to a park, by the river, behind the golf course, across the boardwalk, under the bridge, past the seaplanes... and so it went, spectacularly, along part of the Valley Trail loop for about 7 miles (I think).

Although it did not start well. Ten minutes into my ride I stopped to adjust my bike basket which was hitting my brake cable when I heard a snuffling in the bushes near me. Huh, I thought, is someone in the bushes? Didn't think so. Continued fiddling with my basket while wondering if a bird flapping around could make that much ruckus. Didn't think so. Just as I was wondering if it could be a bear, a bear walked out of the woods and onto the trail. Panic almost tied with my instinct to reach for my camera but panic won. I decided to peddle off in the other direction but then wondered if, a) one is not supposed to turn one's back on a bear, b) it was lumbering after me in an attempt to knock me to the ground, rip off a limb, maul me mercilessly, and ride off on my bike. I decided to turn around to see what was going on and it was standing in the path, dead-center, staring right at me, definitely coveting my bike. I'm still annoyed that I was too shakey to immediately get my camera. The bear eventually wandered across the street and into the bushes on the other

giant squirrel

side. However, I was paralyzed in my spot and didn't want to cross by the place where it came out of the brush (much like a superstitious sort wouldn't cross the path of a black cat; I'm not afraid of cats of any color, but it made perfect sense at the time to not cross the bear-path). So I just stood there with my bike, seriously considering going back to my room to spend the afternoon watching TV. Luckily (as it was a beautiful day), I saw a gentleman coming up the trail toward me. When he got to the spot where I was rendered imobile, I said hello and asked if he knew this particular trail well; he said he did, so I asked if I should be particularly freaked out that a bear had just come out of the woods a mere twenty feet from me. He laughed and said "absolutely not, they're like giant squirrels around here!" He said he'd been walking on that trail for twenty years and that the bears don't bother anyone. "You don't have any raw meat on you, do you?" he asked; luckily, I did not, so I thanked him for his reassurance and peddled on. Great ride; I did it again sans bear the next day with Jenine.

All the photos below (except the last one) are from the bike trail loop.

maybe next time

Day 3: Goats on the Roof

Jenine said it would be silly for us to go home. I concurred but we checked out of the hotel anyway (but first we watched a couple from Oklahoma shop for a vacation home in Panama). We drove south toward the ferry making a stop in Coombs on the recommendation of a chap in one of the shops in Cumberland whom we talked to on our first day out. He told us there was a farmers' market there with goats on the roof. He didn't really elaborate on the concept which of course made us want to investigate. The Coombs Country Market is a year-round market but it didn't appear to be a year-round farm stand in that there was no fresh produce to be seen anywhere (although there was some very nice fake produce, see picture below). It was more of a tourist gourmet shopping zone with cool gifty-souvenir-type things, a cafe, a bakery, a deli, and goats on the roof. We bought snacks for the 45 minute drive to the ferry and lunch to eat on the boat, and then had to high-tail it out of there in order to get to the dock on time. We made it there before the boat left but when we asked the lady in the ticket booth if we'd make it on, "it doesn't look good" was all she said. When pressed for a more definitive answer, she repeated her catch-phrase and she was right. There were two hours between the ferry we missed and the next one so we sat outside and got to [finally] enjoy some fabulous weather. Jenine studied while I read, we both eavesdropped on a group of fishermen who were also finishing up a long weekend on Vancouver Island. There were about 15 gents ranging in age from late teens (I heard one talk about his mom not letting him do something) to a mustachioed 60+ (men who fish seem to be the last bastian of mustache supporters). Halibut and ling cod were their prey and judging from their talk and the giant coolers I saw in one of their trucks, they were bringing home quite a haul. The boat ride back to Tsawwassen was spectacular and the entire weekend escapade was a smashing success.

fake produce

A Night out in Courtenay or, Always Listen to the Bartender

We capped off Sunday night by first tearing ourselves away from the Home Shopping Network (as in, watching people shop for homes; I think it was actually the HGTV), then traipsing down to the lobby to quiz the young lady there about dining options in the area. “Casual,” we said, “someplace you’d go, not someplace you’d send tourists.” She understood what we were after and pulled out a book of menus and steered us toward the pubs. We ended up in a pub in the tiny village of Comox about 20 minutes away where the bartender greeted us with a smile and asked us what we were drinking. We said we were eating, and he looked genuinely sorry to have to tell us that the kitchen had just closed, this being 9pm on a Sunday in the tiny village of Comox. We asked him to recommend another place and he rattled off three, the first of which was The Flying Canoe in the Best Western Hotel back in Courtenay, adding “that’s where I’d go.” We got back into the car, both torn by the exact same conflicting thoughts: always take a recommendation on where to eat from a local bartender/why the hell would we go to the restaurant in a Best Western? We decided to just be our practical selves – the Best Western was closest and on the way to the other options so we would check out the vibe and menu then decide whether to move along or stay. We got to the Flying Canoe just as the karaoke was starting. Ten seconds later, Dan, who belted out several “young country” songs that night, was kicking things off with impeccable tone and inflection, hitting every note with confidence, his paunch straining his golf shirt. There was no way we were leaving. We found a booth in the back from which we could hear each other and still have a good view of people who were clearly regulars, singing everything from Kenny Rogers to the Killers, Linda Ronstadt to the Kings of Leon. And with rare exception, these people could sing. Some were just good but a handful, all of whom sang several times, were fantastic. Dan hit every note of songs we didn’t know and didn’t particularly like (new country radio hits) in his golf shirt; Kevin who had a very pronounced limp and nursed a single beer the entire time we were there, knocked his numbers out of the park then slunk back to his table where he sat alone; and Kristie rocked the Linda Ronstadt number, her voice so full of natural projection that she seemed to be holding back a little in the small restaurant lest she blow us all backward. Of course, none were as awesome as Jenine who rocked the room with “Dancing in the Dark” to everyone’s delight, especially mine. After a long afternoon of lazing around our room recuperating from our downhill adventures, it was just the right thing to end the day. Additionally, it reinforced our belief that when you need a recommendation for food or drink, always trust the bartender.

clearly regulars at the Flying Canoe

Jenine singing Bruce

Day 2: Bikes and Mud. Lots and Lots of Mud

Today we got up early, relaxed in our room, ate breakfast in the Kingfisher restaurant (skipping the 100-item Sunday Brunch) and headed to Mt. Washington for our mountain biking lesson. First we met up with Max who outfitted us in full body armor, a fashion situation I had not anticipated, then we met Cory and Derek who were our lead-guide and helper-guide, respectively. Cory gave us a briefing on the full-suspension bikes we were riding and we rode them around a paved courtyard for a few minutes getting a feel for the handling and brakes, then we rode down a path to a chair lift which took us up the mountain. There were snow banks all over the ground and everything was muddy. And when I say "muddy," I mean MUDDY. Shoe sucking, thick, quick-sand-like, deep, wet, sloppy, slick, soft, soupy, bogs of mud. Which we were about to ride through. The nearly constant rain the previous day, plus the wet, wet summer they were also having on the island made for ridiculously sloppy conditions on the trail, but there we were, two ladies who are mostly game for anything, suited up and ready to go. And the trail was steep. And when I say "steep," I mean STEEP. Death-defying, gravity-challenging, feel-like-you're-falling-forward, double-black-diamond-seeming, winding, narrow paths which cut through the woods (and snowbanks), over ruts and rocks and wooden bridges, which we rode on through the deep and squishy mud. Our boy-guides were champs, offering tips and encouragement as we careened down the trail -- stand up, keep your cranks level to the ground, keep your butt behind the seat on the super-steep parts, look about 20 feet ahead, don't grab a handful of brakes, YOU'RE DOING GREAT!!!... and down we rode. I fell twice, into the mud, bike on top of me, squashed like a bug by that ridiculously heavy bike which Derek had to lift off me, but since I wasn't traveling at any great speed and ahem, was wearing that full body-armor, I was totally unhurt. The steep parts didn't faze me too much (just a little), it was the mud... have I mentioned the mud? The steep parts were hard, but as soon as I got the hang of looking ahead (after the first fall and upon Jenine's insistent advice), that made it easier to figure out the physics of navigating the steep terrain by just trying to keep my body positioned on the pedals (excuse me, "cranks") in a way that kept me upright while the bike was pitching forward. The key was to focus on balance and not the seemingly perilous obstacles on the track which the bike effortlessly rolled over. I had a hard time with the mud though, and if it was super muddy on a really steep part, I would psych myself out a little and end up walking the bike through the bog. My shoes will never be the same. After the first ride down the hill which took about 45 minutes, I knew I was done so I announced to our little crew that one of my greatest strengths in life is a) being willing to try almost anything, and 2) knowing when to quit. So the boys took Jenine up for one more run down the same trail - stud that she is, and they rode the entire way down without stopping once - while I grabbed a New Yorker from the car and waited for their return. The boys were only concerned that we'd had fun, which we absolutely did, and from the comfort of where I type this several hours after our adventure -- in a cozy bed, in a cozy robe, with a glass of wine on the nightstand, J9 mirroring my position in her bed while we watch real estate shows on HGTV, I definitely hope to try it again. Less mud would be awesome.

This really gives NO indication of just how muddy it was.

Vancouver Island - Day 1

Jenine and I got up at the crack of very early on Saturday and made for the Canadian border. We got on the ferry just south of Vancouver and made the two hour crossing from Tsawwassen to Duke's Point on Vancouver Island. After settling into our room at the Kingfisher Resort and Spa, we headed for the rocky beach to inspect our surroundings given that we were experiencing a brief pause in the relentless rain.

 

After beach combing for a while, we drove into the booming metropolis of Cumberland where we wandered through the business district (approx. 6 storefronts) in the rain which had resumed, then made our way back to the Kingfisher in time for our spa appointments.