Hating on House Hunters International

I've never liked House Hunters International much, but more because of philosophical reasons than anything else. It pains me to see some small-minded Americans acting like ... well, small-minded Americans and all that the stereotype implies. They expect things their way, constantly comparing things to how things are in the US.

Wake up call: You're not in Kansas anymore, asshole, let alone the US! You don't go to Morocco looking for a riad with modern amenities for a cheap price. You don't go to metropolitan Asian city and complain how there's no backyard space. You don't complain about how small rooms are in urban European cities. And you don't find areas full of other ex-pat Americans to live because you're afraid of mingling with the locals! You are lucky enough to have the experience of traveling and living abroad but you're narrow-minded and full of yourself to try to experience life as a local.

And now to top if all off, the show is completely fake. I think a lot of people already were aware of this, but it was news to me. Apparently, the whole "take me to three or four different locations and I'll choose one at the end" is all a set-up. The clients have already chosen the house and are already in escrow. They get paid $500 for the filming, and only have to go through the motions of being taken from one place to another. $500 is still $500 so good for the home purchaser, but for HGTV to build the show on the premise that it's real, that kind of makes it the opposite.

Petit pays je t'aime beaucoup ...

Cesaria Evora, the barefoot diva, passed away today. She is one of my favorite singers, with a deep, soulful voice. It didn't matter that she sang in creole--despite whatever language you speak, her voice can stir your emotions and rumble the foundation of your soul. Au revoir, Cesaria. May I one day watch you sing Petit Pays in that French cafe in the clouds.

The anti-Santa

Check out this pretty cool news story from NPR about a little known fact about Christmas celebrations: the anti-Saint Nicholas. Introducing the Krampus, the bad cop to Saint Nick's good cop, the Yang to Santa's Yin. Whereas Santa gives gifts to the good kids, Krampus punishes the bad ones ... by snatching them up in a basket and bringing them back home to devour for Christmas dinner. Nice.

St. Nicholas and Krampus
(Picture from Wikipedia.org)

This unique folkloric tradition takes hold among the Alpine countries in Europe--parts of Italy, France, Germany, Austria, Liechtenstein, Slovenia, and Switzerland. Looking from the expression of the kids in the picture to the left, this is waaay more effective than threatening little Timmy that Santa won't give him a toy firetruck if he's bad. "The Krampus will come by and snatch your whiny ass if you don't shut the hell up!" I have to remember this when we have kids.

Urban planning around the world

Urban planning and development is the merging point of transportation policy, artistic design, political economy and sociology. We all hear the generalization that Europe (and some Asian nations) is more "walkable" or "pedestrian friendly," that its transit system is so much better than the US'. But what does that mean, how and why is it like that? What in a people's history, economy, politics and social thinking that differs from the general US population's that allows this? A new blog by a buddy of mine looks at travel and urban planning.

My friend, Winnie, is a global thinker and a world traveler, like me. She's also an urban planning nut, which I'm sorta. She's also an amateur photographer, like me. (Yeah, she's pretty cool.) Her new blog/portfolio that merges all three of these passions of hers--very interesting and academically stimulating stuff. Check it out: http://winniewfong.wordpress.com/.

On that same note, take a peek at http://www.theatlanticcities.com/, a website that examines many of the same issues by the Atlantic Monthly, thanks to Richard Florida of "creative class" fame.

"The Layover", Singapore

Coincidentally, Anthony Bourdain had a recent episode of his new show the Layover taking place in Singapore. He makes some good points about the wondrous city planning, the fantastic eating culture there (there are only two things to do in Singapore--eat and shop), and that only Westerners drink the disgusting Singapore Sling.

The famous asam laksa,
Penang style. Oh yeah ...

But let's get something straight, Bourdain--the food in Singapore ain't all that, man! Stop leading people on that Singapore is an eater's paradise. It's good stuff, sure, but it's all a bastardized version of Malaysian food! Hong Kong dim sum there is the same as Hong Kong dim sum anywhere, but if a person wants real chicken rice, real asam laksa (none of that Singaporean curry laksa, please), real fish head curry, real nasi lemak, don't lead him or her on to go to Singapore. The real eating is in Malaysia.

The food in Singapore has been adapted and devolved to fit tourists' taste. (As my brother-in-law puts it, all of Singapore is a tourist trap, albeit a nice one.) And seriously, how can hawker centers that are that clean be any good? Singapore may be cleaner, safer, more modern, more organized, more democratic than its northern neighbor, but when it comes to food, Malaysia wins hands down.

Bourdain, you need to head back to Malaysia for another swing through the hawker centers. My mother-in-law can show you around.

Utopia, Leviathan, or the ultimate rat-race?

We went to Singapore for three days right before our trip to Pulau Bidong. The blog posts are a bit out of order (inspiration doesn't follow chronological order). But here goes.

Welcome to Singapore,
said the Merlion

The city-state of Singapore is a unique case study of what a people can do when they are unified in thought and process. And in the example of Singapore, it’s to create a society and economy wrapped around human capital and capitalism. In the five decades (give or take a few years) that Singapore has existed as a country, it has become one of the most dynamic and modern nations in the world, vastly outpacing Malaysia (with which it has a shared history) and all of South East Asia. All the while, the island-nation has no natural resources and covers only 268 square miles and with a population of only 5.184 million.

Is Singapore indeed a utopia: a democratic, vibrant, diverse society, with little crime and a great eating culture? Or is it a nation with a federal government that is so deeply ingrained in all aspects of life there, going to what in the US we would consider extreme measures to impose capitalism, civility, cleanliness, and order: the true embodiment of Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan? Or is Singapore the ultimate rat-race, where people are put under immense pressure to perform at work and school, logging long hours to jump up in the corporate ladder; where people walk fast and even the escalators similarly move at a rapid pace?

To be honest, Singapore is all of that. It’s a small population unified by a single goal--the drive to succeed. This includes all aspects of life. The country seems to be under constant construction—or reconstruction—keeping it modern. But at the same time, there is respect for its history—the old Chinese cantons are kept and updated and the former British colonial buildings are preserved. And this is perhaps the cleanest city I have ever seen.

Blending the old with
the new in Chinatown

Singaporeans have decided that for this to happen, there has to be a strong government presence involved, imposing its will through regulations. Singapore is often described as a “fine” city. And by that, the city would fine the crap out of you for minor infractions—littering, simply possessing chewing gum, jaywalking, whatever. And I mean fines in the thousands of dollars. (Oddly, I’ve been told the fine for public nudity is only in the few hundreds—go figure!) And illegal drugs? You’re risking your life there. And all this effort is to keep the city-nation clean, orderly, modern, and safe. Want to gamble at the new Marina Bay Sands as a Singaporean citizen? Pony up a hundred bucks first. This is the government’s attempt to keep its citizens from getting addicted to gambling.

Being an American, I find this type of morality regulation and excessive government intrusion a bit much, but hey, it works for Singaporeans: the city/country is clean, orderly, wonderfully planned; their subway runs on time; and the economy is strong--which is more than I can say about the US. Who am I to say that they're doing it wrong?

The Marina Bay Sands, an
indulgence in grandiosity

Is the pace of life in Singapore, then, necessarily fast with an exceedingly strong push to succeed in order to keep this mythos of "Singapore"? With my laid-back California pace, I nearly tripped when getting on the escalator the first time in the MRT station. But perhaps that says more about Californians--and Americans in general--than about Singaporeans. Perhaps we've lost our drive, become too comfy, forgotten what it takes to excel because we've lived the good-life for too long, and our economy is struggling to recover as a consequence.

Something to ponder as we struggle to maintain our roads and highways and bleed manufacturing jobs out of our noses.

A boatride to my history

The open sea

Most people take their birth certificate for granted. They know exactly which hospital they were born in, which doctor delivered them, how much they weighed when they popped out, and the exact time the popping out occurred. For me, this type of information has always eluded me—I mean, I have a birth certificate, but it just doesn’t have all that info, a metaphor, maybe, for a missing part of my life. The time spent at the refugee camps seemed like a stolen time in life for many people. For too many, the escape by boat from Vietnam for unknown lands through unknown seas to an unknown future stole their entire life. I won’t ever know what time exactly I was born, or how much I weighed when I was delivered. But at least a visit to my birthplace, the refugee camps on Pulau Bidong, where my family lived in for nearly 1 ½ years, to which they had escaped to by boat from their home in Vietnam, would bring my life full circle 32 years later.

Full steam ahead

The open water seemed like liquid sapphire with shades of obsidian as the boat sped across the South China Sea. The sunshine glittered on undulating waves like diamonds against blue-stained glass. It was about a ½ hour boat ride from Merang to our destination of Pulau Bidong—the time passed quickly as we watched the mainland disappear into the horizon just as the island began to take form before us. The sea was only a bit choppy and the boat bounced whenever it crested a wave; for a landlubber like me, it was a rare opportunity. As a land mass formed before us and a streak of white sand began to appear, I pondered whether this was similar to what my parents and so many other Vietnamese boat people saw as they approached Pulau Bidong.

A memorial to those lost at sea,
depicting a father pulling his
dead daughter out of the water

This boatride to Bidong was the culmination of a six-hour drive from KL to the main city in the area, Kuala Terengganu, and from there a 45-minute drive to the departing port in Merang. But it was also 32 years in the making, a “coming home” of sorts to the place I was born and lived the first few months of my life. The trip fulfilled a long-held curiosity of mine about my birthplace. Deeply intertwined with that is a desire to more closely understand the experience my parents and brothers, my extended family, and—on a broader scope—the Vietnamese diaspora, including some of my friends, went through living in refugee camps at the island.

I won’t repeat the story of the Vietnamese boatpeople, other than to say that my family was one of the first few batches to arrive at Pulau Bidong. They—all Vietnamese refugees—risked getting lost at sea, running out of food and water, capsizing, being attacked by pirates—endless threats—in an effort to escape a country that was their home to a difficult life in a refugee camp. The Vietnamese are known for their resiliency, to say the least.

White-sand beaches at
Zone C of the island

Beauty with a history
of pain and sacrifice

For all intents and purposes, the island is deserted. A few fishermen hang out of the relatively new wharf, hiding from the relentless sun to fix their nets. The jungle and the undergrowth had taken over the island, though the four beaches remain pristine and breathtaking. We disembarked from the boat and made our way from the wharf onto the beach. The iron husk of a refugee boat remains (reputedly haunted), just the nose jutting from the sand. We saw black-tipped reef shark wading near the shoreline to hunt a school of fish that were attempting to find refuge among the rocks, an allegory perhaps of the Vietnamese refugees. This was the beach the refugees would've first seen when they arrived, and the beach they would leave from for the mainland if they were taken in by a third country. This beach was sandy, with dead coral and shellfish collecting. Other beaches were beautiful, with white sand as fine as powder and breathtaking scenery.

Rosli and his one-man effort
to keep history alive

Our guide, Rosli Mohamad, is a former Red Cross worker at the camp (after my family left) and has started a museum in Kuala Terengganu. He stated that as part of the effort to close the camp, all the buildings were burned to prevent pirates from using them. All that is left are several monuments, the remains of a Buddhist temple and Christian church, a couple of burnt-out structures, a car that refugees used to learn automobile repair, and the iron remains of the aforementioned boat. Rosli himself is a nice guy and speaks Vietnamese. He genuinely seems affected by the several years he spent at the camps as a social worker, and has some ideas on how to preserve and respect the history on the island.

If you are interested in going to Pulau Bidong, supporting Rosli’s effort to establish a museum, or joining the Pulau Bidong Ex-Workers Association (there really is an association for everything!) contact Rosli at lie3827@yahoo.com. Here are some tips:

• Bring appropriate footwear. You’ll be trekking through some tough undergrowth and jungle.
  
  
• Bring lots of water. It’s hot and humid and you need to stay hydrated.
  
  
• Bring bug spray. I was violated repeatedly by mosquitoes.
  
  
• Your starting off point would be Kuala Terengganu. You can fly there from KL or drive ( six hours). Unless you're going with a local, I recommend flying.
  
  
• We stayed at Seri Malaysia Hotel, which is strategically located near Chinatown. But be wary—the hotel is going through some renovations but I don’t know how extensive the changes will be. It’s old, worn, and just plain nasty. Double-check the conditions before committing. At least the breakfast was good.

Selling away the past

On Monday, we took a daytrip to Malacca, a historical city that has a long history of colonization by first the Portuguese in 1511, the Dutch in 1641 and the British in 1826. I didn't realize it until now, but to go to Malacca and then Singapore makes a lot of sense. A person can really draw the contrasts and comparisons between the two cities (well, city and city-state).

The riverfront in Singapore

The riverfront in Malacca

The two are very similar on one hand, and yet have headed in two different directions on the opposing hand. Both have old Chinese buildings that hug their respective rivers that course through the cities. Yet, Malacca is what Singapore was only a handful of decades ago. While Malacca is selling off its history as quickly as possible and leaving a shell of what it was, remnants of its once beautiful history, Singapore revitalizes, redesigns, and redevelops, keeping but refurbishing the old buildings while maintaining respect for what it once was--a British colony.  Let's consider Malacca first.

Welcome to antique avenue

Malacca is the name of both the state and the capital city of the state. The city center of the city of Malacca was registered as an UNESCO World Heritage same at the same time as Georgetown in Penang (in 2008). The city is well known as one of the best places to buy Chinese and Peranakan antiques--furniture, carvings adorning beds, intricate tiles that once trimmed the facade of buildings, statues, vases, etc. My mother-in-law's home is filled with items from Malacca, as are her siblings', collected over decades, long before shop-hopping there became popular. Jonker Street--the main avenue through the old city--is a narrow, cobblestone street that is lined with similarly narrow shops. Expats, students and tourists abound, exploring the river and the old colonial structures and the cheesy replica of a Portuguese galleon, poking their heads into the ancient storefronts and buying souvenirs and overpriced "antiques" that they think are antiques. The floors creak and groan under footsteps and the weight of hundreds--thousands--of objects old and new. Like Georgetown, the old city in Malacca is a throwback in time.

Peering to the entrance
of a tea house

But at what cost is it to the city and the aura of antique shopping in Malacca? Is Malacca selling its soul, its history? In a city known for vintage items that date back to the 1800s, it is getting more difficult to find true antiques. There are more and more instances of shop owners trying to play off newer items as "antiques." Tiles that once trimmed homes and storefronts in the old city have been chipped away and sold off, leaving a bland, naked facade. Many items--true antiques and those that aren't--are now brought in from China. Not that this makes it any better: Even Chinese temples were vandalized for their intricate trimmings of dragons and phoenixes on the roofs.

The moral of the story? Buyer beware. There's nothing wrong with buying non-antiques as long as you know what you are buying. It's a bit depressing that such an ancient city like Malacca is selling itself away without any control or bother to maintain its dilapidated buildings.

Relaxing for the first time

I haven't posted in a few days, a result of constant traveling and refusal to pay S$25 a night for Internet access. But I'm back in KL now, relaxing a couple of days before we head back to the States. We made it back from Pulau Bidong tonight, ending what has been a whirlwind two weeks in Malaysia and Singapore. I had a small break this previous Sunday (see previous post) but Monday saw a daytrip to Malacca to look for antiques; Tuesday started a three-day trek through utopian Singapore; and Friday we headed eastward across the country, culminating in a boat ride to the island on which I was born, Pulau Bidong.

But this is it! No more long trips across Malaysia, just local ones around town and dips in the pool. We've been from the far west of the country to the far eastern coast, from nearly the north of the country to way past south into Singapore.

I'll post more as soon as I wake up--it's about 2 in the morning right now in KL, and I've been up since 6 a.m. the previous day.

A lazy Sunday in Malaysia

View from the in-laws' balcony

It's Sunday afternoon here in KL, and the rain has started again. The thunder in the background complements the pitter-patter of raindrops, the occasional downpour heightening the intensity. I love lazy Sundays be it in London, Barcelona, Sacramento or KL, especially rainy lazy Sundays, when there's nothing to do but to relax from the travels and watch the raindrops. Life seems to slow down--even in chaotic KL--and the tropical birds hide away, leaving only the sounds of the rain cascading in the background.

The rain and thunderstorm highlights the one-week mark that we've been in Kuala Lumpur, a week marked with exploration of the city and traveling around Malaysia. It's also an opportunity to relax and reflect before the second (and last) half of our vacation. This past week: Explore in and around KL, go to Jelebu, go to Penang, dinner celebration on Saturday. In line for next week: Malacca, three-day trip to Singapore, and if we have nice weather, a trip to my birthplace, Pulau Bidong.

Bubur pulut hitam

As I wrote before in a previous entry, Malaysia is a foodie's paradise. There are so many different ethnic groups and subgroups and the inevitable mixing of them makes for some of the best eating experiences in the world. Some are so familiar in taste and appearance--if you're a fan of Chinese, Indian, and various Southeast Asian cuisines, you'll find many of the flavors familiar, if served or prepared slightly differently. Others I have utterly no reference points to draw upon. Perhaps the most different dish I had was cendol, a sweet chickpea-derived dessert from the Mamak, the southern Indian Tamil Muslims. Another is bubur pulut hitam, a glutinous black rice dessert by the Nyonya.

Cendol

Also, for a complete gallery of each and every dish I had in Malaysia, follow this link. I've yet to repeat a dish, so we'll see how long I can do that.

A country(side) for old men

One of the pools at the fish farm,
this one for tilapia

Before our two-day trek to Penang, we took a daytrip to Jelebu. Well, more precisely Pertang, which is on the outskirts of the main city of Jelebu.  And when I mean outskirts, I mean out in the middle-of-the-goddamn-rainforest outskirts. My father-in-law is originally from Pertang and his siblings operate various businesses there, including fish farms. The large ponds (see the picture on the left) where the fish are kept were hand-dug by his grandmother when she came to Malaysia from China. Talk about hardcore.

One of the fish farms we visited had coconut trees, mango trees, durian trees, and other exotic fruits like rambutan and mangosteen. Had it been the right season, I could literally walk up (or climb up) and pluck whatever I wanted from the tree. (I did, however, enjoy young coconut water, right from a scalped coconut.)

Chin Ching Ching restaurant, where
old men come to mingle.

The business district area where we went for lunch reminded me of the small town I was at in 2003 in southern China, near the village my family (on my dad's side) was originally from. The restaurant was grimy on the inside, and grimy on the outside, but the food was delicious. But no matter how different various places might be from what we are familiar with, one thing remains the same: Old retired guys will always hang out at the same joints, not eating a thing but eager to drink strong tea or sweetened coffee, swapping stories. No different at Chin Ching Ching.

Not much to pontificate on, just that the area is beautiful and idyllic, and is as far removed from the hustle and bustle of the large cities as you can get. Serenity now. Enjoy the pics below.

Sleepless in Penang

The speakers on the nearby mosque wailed with the undulating tones of Arabic chanting. It was about 5:30 a.m., and I was woken by the Fajr, the morning Muslim call to prayer. I opened my eyes to the wood beams that comprised the ceiling of the hotel room, listening to the melodic rise and fall of the imam’s voice permeating through the dense, muggy air. This isn’t a country in the Middle East, I remembered; I was in Pulau Pinang (or Penang Island in English).

On Penang Hill, looking down
onto Georgetown and the
mainland in the distance

Penang is off the coast of mainland Malaysia and is one of the states. It is a four-hour drive north from Kuala Lumpur, fairly near the border with Thailand. Specifically, I was in Georgetown, the capital city of Penang. A predominantly Chinese town in a predominantly Chinese province, and governed by a Chinese governor, Georgetown begs to be compared to KL. It is a symbol of what KL was and what KL should have been.

In the heart of Old Georgetown is a complete maze of Chinese cantons, homes large and small, and storefronts with names in Chinese, Tamil, Malay and English squeezed onto a single board. Georgetown was founded in 1786 and the cantons date back to about then. This entire area received recognition by UNESCO as a World Heritage site in 2008, basically meaning that the old section would be protected from further redevelopment.

A rickshaw in front of the historic
Cheong Fatt Tze mansion

And this is where Georgetown and all of Penang differs from KL—the strong desire to maintain its history instead of bulldozing over everything and rebuilding in the name of progress. The colonial buildings from British domination still stand and the Chinese mansions and storefronts are preserved at the same time that modern buildings are raised and Penang turns itself into the hi-tech center of Malaysia. Public art abounds in the city. In KL, in stark contrast, nary a colonial building still stand and old communities are razed for the next gleaming mall or housing development.

Looking down Chulia Street
in old Georgetown

There is a balance in Penang of maintaining the old and accepting the new. The hotel we stayed in—Yeng Keng Hotel—seemed to exemplify this delicate ying and yang, with classical Chinese décor but with modern features. Old men of Chinese, Indian and Malay descent sit and talk amiably while Western tourists duck their heads into stores that sell hand-made chairs with woven bamboo seats or a camera that dates back to the 1800s. A modern Air Asia storefront stands beside a stall that is seemingly busy fixing engines for all sorts of ancient things.

When I visit a city, I ponder whether I can see myself living there. Though hectic compared to most American cities, Georgetown is a calm oasis compared to the typhoon that is Kuala Lumpur. The old town provides an endless supply of interesting things to explore. And the food—similar to that offered in the mainland—is a cornucopia of Chinese, Malay, and south Indian cuisines and mixing thereof. Of the many cities I’ve been to around the world, Georgetown is surprisingly one of those cities that—yes—I really can imagine myself building a life there. These are the things I thought about as I lay awake in Penang, listening to the haunting call to prayer.

Been spending most our lives living in a Foodie’s Paradise

The Petronas Towers

The crisscrossing, twisting, interlocking web of streets of Kuala Lumpur is emblematic of the convoluted race relations in Malaysia. In this country of over 28 million, you have ethnic Malays, southern Chinese of various stripes (Cantonese, Hokkien, Haka, for example), southern Indians, Punjabi Indians, Muslim Indians, Hindu Indians, Peranakan (which are ethnic Chinese that have lived around the Straits countries—including what is now known as Malaysia—for a long time), and a smattering of Vietnamese, Koreans, Thais, and expats from the West. Add to this pot some four million illegals from Burma, Bangladesh, and other places. (Politicians—being politicians—take advantage of divisions, using race and religion to create a sense of Malay nationalism and riding it to power. But that’s another post for another day.)

Jalan Petaling, the heart of
Chinatown in KL

With this diversity in ethnic groups comes the blessed diversity of food and “cross pollination” of flavors. The result? Really damn good grub. Malaysia is literally a foodie’s paradise, a cross-cultural experience for the mind and taste buds, where Hokkien Chinese speak Malay to southern Indians, and Malays speak Cantonese to southern Chinese; where Indian curries mingle with Malay dishes and Portuguese flavors grace Chinese noodles.

My first day and half in Kuala Lumpur was spent eating, sightseeing a bit, and eating some more, from hawker centers and food stands, to an Indian restaurant open 24 hours. On the menu today: chili crab. No chicken rice or fish head curry yet, but soon. Check out some of the food pictures.



I hate to tell you this, Anthony Bourdain, but I’m eating better than you from when you were last here!

Ode to coffee

Any one that knows me knows that I'm a coffee nut. I love the earthy smell and taste of fresh brewed coffee, the atmosphere of a nice coffeehouse with Norah Jones singing overhead or the scratchy tunes of a 1920s French chanson playing in the background, the slight hint of sweetness of the foam in a cappuccino ... I want to share this article from the Atlantic Monthly, by Giorgio Milos, about the five senses of coffee. Do a search of the author's name on the website and glance through some more of this articles on all things coffee beans.

A bit extreme and excessive? Maybe, but you can say the same thing about the pretentious people that say they can catch all the different aromas and flavors in wine. "Oh, I taste ... hints of oak, wild berries, and summer breeze, mingled with snottiness."

And yes, I am writing this as I'm drinking a cup of coffee. But not Starbucks. I'm too pretentious for that.

Big event on my birthday, Part 2

The second event that happened on my birthday was us finally hiking along the Black Diamond Mines park in Antioch. I saw an article in the Sacramento Bee on the mines back in November 2010 and have been aching to go since then. This area was once California's largest coal mining operation, with some estimated four million tons of coal (or black diamonds) extracted from the earth between the 1860s and the early 1900s. Since the 1970s, the East Bay Regional Park District started to acquire land to establish the Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve which now comprises about 5,375 acres.

Something out of the Wild West

For sure, the Black Diamond Mines area looks like something stuck in the Wild West period, straight out of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly (see here and here). A creaky windmill and vintage water tower greets visitors as they drive into the park. Rolling hills, golden in color and spotted with clusters of trees, against a clear blue sky provide for a majestic backdrop. One wonders if Blondie would have felt right at home here.

View from the highest point at
Rose Hill Cemetery

Five small towns once existed around the mines; they have all been torn down. What still stands are the grave markers at the Rose Hill Cemetery. It's about a 15 minute hike uphill from the main area of the park to the cemetery. Sparse trees provide limited shade from the sun along the trail. The cemetery is positioned atop the hill and overlooks the hiking trails snaking below, a monument to the lives of the former residents. (Interestingly, many of them were originally from Wales, UK.) There is a sense of serenity and calmness there, an overwhelming silence save creak of the tree trunks and the rustle of leaves and branches. Sitting under the shade of a tree, the Rose Hill Cemetery is a welcome respite from hiking in the sun.

The Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve is definitely worth a visit. The trails are easy, so they can be taken gingerly. Entry into the park is free on the weekdays, but only $5 on the weekends. Mine tours are usually available but some are closed for maintenance until March 2012. Despite that, it's a beautiful area and a casual hike that leads you back through time.

Here are more pictures for your perusal:

Entrance into one of the coal mines

Across from the visitors center

A scenic view from the cemetery

Big event on my birthday, Part 1

Two things happened on my birthday last week.

Firstly, ETA declared that they would lay down their arms and cease violent activities in pursuit of a separate Basque nation, apart from Spain. Thus ends ETA's violent 43 year reign of terrorism through Spain and parts of France, which resulted in over 800 deaths. There was no apology of course, no reference to the victims, and no clear delineation of how the disarmament process would proceed.

So much bravado
(image from online.wsj.com)

At the end of the clip, they raised their fists defiantly and demanded independence for the Basque region. Big words for an organization whose senior members have been getting arrested for the last several years. For all their bluster, white hoods and black berets, let's get one thing straight--for the last several years they've been getting pounded by both the French and Spanish, and have been significantly weakened. In the post-9/11 world there is no patience or sympathy for the romantic notion of "freedom fighters" (at least in the West), even among their own people, whether it's the Real IRA, ETA, ELF, or what have you. And this was the reality that ETA faced, as they were losing support in the Basque region across Spain and France.

ETA was formed in 1959 as a response to Franco's effort to quash all independent cultures and languages in Spain, including Catalan. Though it might seem extreme to Americans, many of the regions in Spain are autonomous, much like (but not as extreme as) Quebec. They have their own language, own cultures, own system of regional government, own tax structure. These are important to maintain, no doubt. (Especially Catalan! What a beautiful language; it sounds a mixture of Spanish and French.) But in light of Spain's World Cup win in 2010, can someone from San Sebastian that rooted for the national team still say, "No, I'm not Spaniard, I'm Basque," or someone from Barcelona say, "I'm Catalan first, Spanish second?" For one glorious moment, everyone was a Spaniard; can he or she now go back (metaphorically) and truly claim only his or her regional citizenship?

Meat you behind the apple tree

We fought our way to Apple Hill over the weekend, pushing through throngs of people in search for--what else?--apple pie, apple cider, and other things malus. Amid the apple orchards, vineyards, pumpkin patches and Christmas tree farms, we found a location that doesn't sell apples, wines, pumpkins or Yule trees. Oh no, this stands sells good ol' meat. More specifically, it sells high quality prepared meats--that is, the heavenly morsels of charcuterie.

A scenic view from behind
Apple Hill stop #133

Smokey Ridge Charcuterie is a small stand along Carson Road (stop #133, if you're looking at the Apple Hill map), the main avenue through the Apple Hill area. The stop is very humble looking and can be passed by if you're driving quickly along Carson. Behind the stand are picnic tables and a pond--when we were there, a gaggle of geese (Canadian, according to my wife) were floating on the water. Overall the location was very scenic, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of area.

As expected, the meats are high quality and California-sourced, while the produce and herbs are from their farm. Premium sausages, hams, pates, duck confit, and more--enough to make any foodie drool. We indulged with their country pate, which--as opposed to duck liver--is made with ground pork shoulders with a hint of liver and brandy. Yes. Brandy. Awesome. And it does taste as good as it sounds.

Next time you make a trip to Apple Hill, keep in mind that there's more than just apples orchards and wineries and stop by Smokey Ridge.

The unavoidable trip to Napa

For years now, I've avoided going to Napa. Instead, I've opted for other wine regions in California, the "up-and-coming" locales that, ironically, have been around for a while, but have only been overshawdowed by the Napa Valley wineries. This past weekend, we went for the first time to one of the Napa wineries.

View of Napa from the patio

Sterling Vineyards has, perhaps, some of the most stunning views in Napa Valley. The winery is a beautiful, expansive structure that is set atop a hill that overlooks the vineyard surrounding it and the entire Napa Valley below, a white jewel against a lush, green velvet bed. To get there, guests take a 3 1/2 minute ride up the hill on an aerial tram. The complex is large and guided tours are offered, though we opted to show ourselves around. The patio areas were strategically built to offer fantastic views of the area.

It all seems like a bit grandiose, no? To me, Sterling encapsulates my (and some other people's) long-held stereotype of Napa Valley: It's too trendy, too snotty, and too pretentious, and filled by too many people of those same descriptions. A $25 gondola ride--an entrance fee, really--up a hill to the winery? Guided tours of the facility? Seriously, what is this--a winery or an amusement park? The libations are good, sure, but not great--definitely not up to the level you'd expect a sun-bleached, commercially refined winery on top of a hill to be, especially since they upped expectations by having the beautiful and elegant (and host of Top Chef) Padma Lakshmi as their spokesperson.

St. Francis Winery in Sonoma

The reason I've held off from trekking to Napa for so long was to avoid the trappings of traffic along the St. Helena Highway, and the ostentatious people with their fake tans and sense of self-entitlement trying to be all snooty and sophisticated. And to pay for wine tastings! The gall of it! I've yet to pay for a wine tasting at any of the wineries in Sonoma Valley, the foothills, or even little old Clarksburg. And honestly, I enjoy the more rustic, cozier, and down-to-earth atmosphere at these locations so much more.

Are the Napa Valley wineries worth a visit? Certainly, it's worth a trip or two. But there are other places that are just as good and much more accessible, without the pompous attitude. Save the amusement park ride; pass me the vino.

Please mind the gap

Here is a link to an interesting article on the Atlantic Cities, by Mark Byrnes. Check it out.

It's not entirely clear what makes some subway maps the "best" in the world, but they are fun to look at. The writer states that each map has a certain "feel," with their curvy lines (Lisbon's has a romantic feel, supposedly) or balance between use of white space and color (like DC's). 

Subway map of Mexico City
(from theatlanticcities.com)

Eh--that's thinking about it a bit much, and forcing too much meaning onto what is simply a map. After all, feelings are dependent on the particular person. With any map, what a person looks for is ease of use and understandability. Many of the cities are cosmopolitan and international. The subway maps should be easily understood and used by travelers, both guests and citizens. It puts them in relation to where they are not only with other stops but with the rest of the city as a whole. Amsterdam and Buenos Aires are nice in this regard.

Perhaps another way to look at the maps is how emblematic they are of the personality of the city they operate it (or under, literally). Look at the expansive jumble that is New York City. Look at the order of Berlin. Look at the controlled chaos of Tokyo. Look at the, well, just plain chaos of Mexico City.

The most iconic--not necessarily the best--subway map is probably London's Underground, or the Tube. The map is proudly displayed on the walls of dorm rooms and British-style pubs around the globe, coffee mugs, boxer shorts and t-shirts. Even people who haven't been to London know it at a glance. And who doesn't know to mind the gap?

London's tube map
(from theatlanticcities.com)

I remember my first day in London in 2004, trying to make my way to the dorms.  I took the Piccadilly line from Heathrow into central London and transferred to the Central line. After exiting at the Chancery Lane stop, I wandered around lost for about an hour before I was finally able to find the LSE res halls on Rosebery Avenue. And I got rained on. Twice. In June. In order to reach for the umbrella that was in my suitcase, I had to stop in a liquor store to borrow a pair of scissors to cut the plastic tie the airport people had put on the zippers of the suitcase to keep it closed. But, it's OK--I still love you, London.

The weight of heavenly peace

We are currently reading a book called Sounds of the River, by Da Chen. It's the second of the author's memoirs (the first one is Colors of the Mountain), a coming of age story arc about growing up in Cultural Revolution China as the son of a landowner and his path to university. In this book, Chen is studying in Beijing at what was then known as the Beijing Languages Institute.

Looking north to Tiananmen Gate and
the Forbidden City

Every time I read the book, particularly about his treks through Beijing, I think about my own experience in the capital of China and my travels through the country in September 2003. One of my most vivid memories was standing in the middle of Tiananmen Square, looking around a vast and barren landscape. OK, OK--it's not like the square is in the middle of the Gobi Desert or something, but it is flat. And it's big. And there are absolutely no trees around. Just 440,000 square meters of concrete.

Let me establish the orientation of the square. Tiananmen is roughly translated as "gate of heavenly peace." On the southern edge of the square is Mao Zedong's mausoleum and an obelisk, the Monument to the People's Heroes. On the northern side is Tiananmen Gate--passing through the gate leads to the always impressive and overwhelming Forbidden City and its Imperial Palace. Between the square and the gate is Chang'an Avenue, which is commonly used for military parades. (Imagine Mao standing at the top of the gate, peering down as tanks and troops roll down the street.) On the west is the Great Hall of the People and on the east is National Museum of China.

It was still hot and humid in Beijing during September, without any shade save the long shadow cast by the Monument to the People's Heroes. The sun beat down relentlessly, though it seemed--counter intuitively--hazy and cloudy outside. I realized that it wasn't cloudy or misty--the sky looked hazy because of the air pollution. The air felt heavy and enveloping due to the humidity and gunk around me.

South view, looking at the obelisk
and Mao's mausoleum

Beyond the uncomfortable heat and the sensation of inhaling in a pack of cigarettes with each breath, I felt an eeriness standing in Tiananmen Square. It was hard to not think about the protests in 1989, knowing that I was standing right where it took place, where student protestors were so close to turning China toward democracy, only to be crushed under the thumb of communism and the tracks of tanks. This was where the tanks rolled in. This was where hundreds--maybe even more than a thousand--people were mercilessly massacred. To know that I was there--to witness history and tragedy on TV and then to actually be at that location--was chilling.

The square is, as you can imagine, under continuous surveillance. Video cameras are set on tall lampposts. A woman's soft voice through loudspeakers remind tourists not to take flyers or pamphlets that might be handed out. Uniformed and non-uniformed police wander around. There is no doubt that the Chinese government still feels a tad sensitive about the 1989 pro-democracy protests.

Perhaps, then, the sense of barrenness, pollution and desolation that weighed so heavily on me is perfectly apt for a location that has seen so much death and violence, and perverted the heavenly peace it is named after.

The best Vietnamese cultural export ...

... (besides Paris by Night, of course (note sarcasm)) is Vietnamese iced coffee, or ca phe sua da. It's a dessert unto itself, I think--velvety smooth, sweet, with a kick of caffeine. Unlike regular coffee, it's hard to imagine eating a sweet dessert in addition to this. Any way, I wanted to share this recipe.

What you'll need to have:

• Ground coffee, coarsely ground. Anything less, and the grains would fall through the holes of the coffee press. You can't go wrong with something classic like Cafe du Monde.
  
• A Vietnamese coffee press set (see picture on the right).
  
• Sweetened condensed milk.
  
• Couple of glasses or mugs.

What you'll need to do:

1. Put two tablespoons of the condensed milk into one mug. (I estimate one tablespoon of condensed milk for each tablespoon of coffee, but I wouldn't go above three.)
   
2. Pack two tablespoons of the coffee into the base of the press, and screw the press down, making sure it's tight. You want the coffee to be fairly dense.
   
3. Place the coffee press set over the mug with the condensed milk in it and pour hot water into the press to the brim. You'll see that the coffee will drip slowly--very slowly--into the mug. The slower it is, stronger the punch of the coffee. A spoon can always be used to loosen the press a bit to let the water flow through faster, but admittedly, the process does take some time and patience.
   
4. While you're waiting, take the second glass or mug and fill it with ice. Take your time, young one! There's no rush. Nom on a gio chao quay and read Nguoi Viet while you wait.
   
5. When no more water is dripping through the press (a handful of minutes), stir the coffee and condensed milk well.
   
6. Pour the sweet, heavenly concoction over the ice and enjoy!

Versus, Series 1: North Tahoe versus South Tahoe

North versus South. No this isn't an analysis of the the Emancipation Proclamation, studying the course of Sherman's march, or rote memorization of the Gettysburg Address. This is a heated debate that many Californians go through when they plan a trip to the Lake Tahoe: Go to North Tahoe or South Tahoe?

Though the two towns straddle the same lake, they can't be more different than one another in terms of personality. How you, as a traveler to Tahoe, would choose depends mainly on one trait: Are you a misanthrope?

View from the north shore of Lake
Tahoe in November 2010.

If the answer is "yes," then chances are North Tahoe will be the pick. The communities comprising North Tahoe are bit more remote and have more of that sylvan charm that is associated with the lake's surroundings. North Lake Tahoe Boulevard edges the northern of the lake, through the tiny communities of Kings Beach, Tahoe Vista, Carnelian Bay and others--the lakeview in front and the forest and mountains behind. Perfectly serene, with less tourists breaching your personal space.

Restaurants are independent and local, which I appreciate, and exist to serve the population living there rather than the hordes of tourists looking for a quick bite before their next trip up to the slopes. When we were there in November for a daytrip, we stopped by a place called CB's Pizza and Grill on a whim. Granted, it's no pizzeria in Rome or even Hot Italian in SacTown, but the food was quite tasty and the location was nice--cross the street and you reach the lake. Hell, it's better than CPK, and that's good enough for me.

South Lake Tahoe, on the other hand, is for those that like crowds. (Interact and be around other people? God forbid!) Unlike the north shore where there are a number of communities that comprise "North Tahoe" there is actually a city called South Lake Tahoe. (The city is about 40 miles south from Kings Beach, the community at the northern-most tip of the lake. The drive, though long, is beautiful, at times on the edge of the deep blue lake, other times through thick forest.) South Tahoe always seems to be busy any time of year, with cars filling the streets, zooming around; hikers during the spring and summer, skiers during the autumn and winter; expensive tourist traps, chain restaurants, and hotels and motels.

View from the south shore on a warm,
early September day (2011).

And the casinos. I didn't mention the casinos? South Lake Tahoe butts up against the state line. Literally step across to the other side of the street from the Embassy Suites, and you're in Nevada and gambling heaven, where the clanging and beeps of the slot machines fill the air, with wisps of cigarettes brush across your nose. Yeah ... not so much my thing.

It's pretty obvious what I prefer. Give me peace and quietness anytime over hustle and bustle. But what do you prefer? Take the survey just below and we'll see which Tahoe community more people prefer--South Lake Tahoe, with its larger crowds, more lively atmosphere, or North Lake Tahoe, with its fewer tourists and serenity?

Which Tahoe do you prefer?

Don't judge a book by its cover (or a restaurant by its menu)

West Sacramento isn't exactly known for its "hip" restaurant scene. Perhaps the one place people outside of West Sac are most familiar with is Club Pheasant. There's also a mix of small independently-owned burger joints like Whitey's and the new Squeeze Inn, and ethnically diverse offerings that range from British, Chinese, Russian, Japanese, Laotian, Thai, Indian, Mexican (lot's of Mexican) and Pakistani. The food is good--very good, in fact. But let's be frank: People in Sacramento consider West Sac to almost be a foreign country, if it registers in their consciousness at all, and wouldn't think about crossing Tower Bridge to try out these places.

That's fine. The restaurants are meant to cater to West Sac residents, and Sac has many of the same ethnically-diverse restaurants and has the original Squeeze Inn to boot. But there is one new place that is just different enough and scrumptious enough for Sac residents to make the effort across the river: the newly opened Eatery.

The Eatery has been open for about a month now in a fairly nondescript location and offers what initially seems like a nondescript menu. The cafe is located in the Town Center Plaza, otherwise known to most people as "The Shopping Area Where the Nugget is At" and seemingly blends into the typical "strip-mall" storefronts of Starbucks, Supercuts, mobile phone services, Roundtable, etc.

The menu is concise (a good thing) and offers what--at first glance--looks fairly standard. There's the burger, soup du jour, fish entree, steak, dessert, blah, blah. But, what did your mom say about not judging a book by its cover? Or should I say, not judging a restaurant by its menu? Don't do it! And the Eatery is the best example of that. Of course, I am guilty of that. When my wife and I first walked by, we peeked at the menu and shrugged our shoulders. We were pleasantly surprised, though, when we did go in.

While the items on the menu seem standard American fare, the food itself is fantastic:

• The burger was well-seasoned, a fine balance between introducing interesting flavors into the meat but at the same time maintaining the natural taste of the beef. The patty was perfectly cooked and juicy (formed in-house), sandwiched between artisan bread. The fries were seasoned as well, with a kick, much like Hamburger Patties but not as overwhelming.  
• The soup du jour was an elegant carrot-ginger soup, light and delicate with a slight zing from the ginger.
• Dessert was a very tasty lemon cheesecake, house-made. It wasn't dense like typical cheesecakes, a plus in my book.

The decor was a bit on the non-exciting side, a bland, modern design that looked typical. It reminded me of those designs you find on that Food Network show 24 Hour Restaurant Battle. And the tables can be nicer, or at least covered with white table cloths.

But you don't come to a restaurant for the decor--you go for the food. And the food here is worth the effort, especially if you're already in the area for a River Cats game or shopping at Ikea or Nugget.  The offerings are at the same time elegant, delicious, and accessible. Just don't let the fact that it's in a West Sac shopping area and not a hipster Midtown Sac location prejudice your tastebuds.

The streets of Andalusia

This previous week was very busy, but now that the California Legislature has recessed for the year, I'll have more time to post. But until then, here is another travel article from the Atlantic Monthly, by Conor Friedersdorf, about the Andalusia region in southern Spain, in particular Cordoba.

(Random factoid: Cordovan leather originally comes from Cordoba. The hides of horses are used, as opposed to cow hide--specifically, the hide from the horse's ass. The leather is expensive, then, because 1) the quality is good, and 2) you only get two pieces per horse!)

Andalusia has always been one of the top areas in Spain that I've wanted to see (the other being Barcelona, to which I've already paid homage). Cordoba, Sevilla, Granada, Malaga, Cadiz. Permeating the historic auras of these Andalusian cities is the Islamic call to prayer of Moorish Spain intermingled with the Gregorian chants of medieval Christian Spain; the waft of tapas mixed with the spices of Morocco; and the click-clack of the flamenco dancer's heels and the accompanying strums of the Spanish guitar.

One day ... one day.

James Fallows: How I Know I'm Traveling Outside the United States

A short but insightful post by James Fallows of the Atlantic Monthly, one of my favorite journalists that writes for one of my favorite news magazines. The best quote about enjoying the small things when traveling: "This is part of the surprising joy of life on the road."

Help--I'm stuck in Purgatory!

Dante's La Divina Comedia is really just a medieval travel book, isn't it? The Poet wanders through Inferno (Hell), Purgatorio (Purgatory), and Paradiso (Heaven), noting the exotic locales, the curious natives, and the hole-in-the-wall places that residents like to spend their time. As any traveler knows, you go to the joints where the locals congregate to see how they really live and get the authentic food. (I have to say, a vacation to go ice skating in Cocytus sounds pretty fun ... minus the three-faced Lusipher.)

In a way, travel-obsessed people go through their own divine comedy and face three levels of pre-travel anxiety. Here's my summation.

1. Hell: You want--no, you yearn--to travel, but for whatever reason, you can't. No money, no vacation time or PTO saved up, whatever. There is nothing worse.

2. Purgatory: You've made your plans, the flights are ready, the hotels are booked ... and now you have to wait. In desperate anticipation, you wait. You're stuck in limbo, between trips, remembering fondly your last one, but can't do a damn thing to make time go faster. You look forlornly at your calendar with a big, red circle around the day when you will be released from Purgatory to make your ascension to Heaven.

3. Heaven: *Cue heavenly music, singing angels, and halo of godly light* This is it, the big day! All the pining and sighing, reading the same travel guide over and over has finally given way. You're on your way to wherever you've been telling your coworkers about for months on end. And all is right in the world. So say we all.

Right now I feel like I'm stuck in Purgatory, between the fond memories of Cazadero and the anticipation of Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. Plane tickets, bought. Hotels, booked. Eye Witness Top 10 Singapore, read over multiple times. Only thing between us and our trip now is eight remaining days of the legislative year and time. Damn iPhone clock won't tick away faster!

Cazadero, between wine and nature

We took our trip to Cazadero a week after our first anniversary, and we still reminisce fondly about the three days/two nights we spent there. Pardon? You haven't heard of Cazadero? Well, no, it's not in Mexico. But don't feel bad; I hadn't heard of Cazadero until April, when we booked a B&B on Living Social. Whatever the case, it's definitely worth a long weekend trip, especially if you enjoy the great outdoors. Hell, even I had a nice time and I don't even like nature!

Sign above the general store

Cazadero is an unincorporated town and has a population of 354 (2010 census) and has a downtown of about three storefronts. OK, so it's not a particularly bustling place, but if you're looking for a quiet, secluded get-away from life, you can't ask for too much more. Cazadero has three things going for it:

1. It's tucked away in the middle of the redwood forests in Sonoma County. Towering redwood trees dwarf the town while the Austin Creek meanders through. Perfectly idyllic.

2. It's situated in the middle of everything. To get to Cazadero (going west on 116), you drive past several wineries, including Korbel. Keep going west, past Cazadero, and you hit the majestic Sonoma Coast. From there, continue north on 1 to the town of Jenner and--further north still--Fort Ross. Go south on the 1 and you reach Bodega Bay.

Raymond's Bakery--note the loft
and the orange Fit

3. Raymond's Bakery/Elim Grove Cottages. We stayed at the cottages, which surrounds the bakery on a four-acre plot. Specifically, we stayed in the loft on top of the bakery. (Nothing beats waking up to the smell of fresh-baked breads and pastries ... )

Mark--the owner, boulanger, and operator of the B&B--is both a wonderful baker and a generous human being. The bakery is named after his father, whose last words inspired Mark to pursue his passion for baking. In addition to a myriad of different pastries and breads, Mark makes pizzas (all natural products, of course) and serves free-trade certified coffee and regional wines and beers.

Mark works (and talks) at a 100 mph--he fixed up the bakery and cottages by himself some 10 years ago when he and his wife, Elizabeth, bought the location. But he always gives his guests personal attention, getting to know each and every person. He invites all his guests to mingle around a fire pit at night, where he offers free bites of his baked goods and pizzas. Overall, Mark and Elizabeth are perfect hosts and the B&B is a great place to relax, breathe in fresh air, and take a walk through the forest, flanked by a glittering stream.

Mark and Hamlet, the first hamster to
stay at Elim Grove

Next time you're in Sonoma County to do wine tasting, consider spending a few nights in Cazadero and the Elim Grove Cottages to take in nature as well as wine.

Welcome!

Welcome to my travel blog! I'll be pondering about my travels, probably make some comments into something political (because I just can't resist) and share random thoughts about family and cars. And food. You can't have travel without food.

Ultimately, I want to share my travel experience with you, learn about your travel thoughts, and inspire one another to eat, drink, and be merry around this city, this state, this country, and this world.