Site Change

It came to my attention, nearly a year after I made the switch to Wordpress (sorry, Blogger!), that I never mentioned it on this site. My apologies. You have my permission to hate me. But hopefully you don't hate my blog.

I've since moved to Shanghai, China, and will be here for at least two years. I'll be traveling, soaking up the culture, and of course, eating. Feel free to follow what I'm doing: http://adventurousappetite.com/.

I hope you enjoy the "new" site as much as I do.

Israeli Comfort Food

Rainy weather makes me want to curl up in bed, watch cheesy romantic comedies, and eat a big bowl of something laden with butter—somewhat good for my overworked brain and underworked heart, but not so great for the hips.

Americans are infamous for this. Our idea of comfort food, depending on what state you’re from, consists of macaroni and cheese, lasagna with ricotta, mozzarella, and parmesan cheese between every layer of doughy noodle, meats simmered for hours in red wine and butter, and casseroles with so much cream it makes your heart stop just looking at the recipe.

This type of soul-soothing cuisine has made the likes of Ina Garten and Paula Dean household names.

And we wonder why half the country is obese.

Lucky for me, I live in Colombia, where finding all the ingredients for my favorite comfort foods is challenging. However, I recently discovered that Bogotá is experiencing its two-month-long rainy season, and needed something to transport me somewhere warm, dry, and, alas, comforting.

In December, I met an Israeli man named Shahar. We were staying at the same hostel in Patagonia and became instant friends. After a few days together in El Chaltén, we met up again in Buenos Aires. I told him if he was heading to Colombia, I had a couch with his name on it.

A month later, Shahar had taken up residence in my living room. And as payment for my generosity, he paid me in food.

Here’s his recipe for his take on comfort food, Shakshuka (שקשוקה). It’s become my go-to dish for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And fortunately for me, it doesn’t contain an ounce of butter. 

Shahar’s Shakshuka:

(Serves 3-4 People)

Ingredients:

1 TBSP oil

1 onion

4 tomatoes

1 red pepper

5-6 eggs

2 TBSP tomato paste

½ tsp sugar

Salt and pepper to taste

Lots of cumin

Method:

1.     Cut onions, tomatoes and pepper into cubes

2.     Put the pan on medium heat, add oil and put in the onions

3.     Cook onions until caramelized (4-5 min), add salt

4.     Add red pepper and tomatoes

5.     Mix and wait for vegetables to soften

6.     Add tomato paste, sugar, cumin, salt and pepper, then break the eggs on top of the mixture. The eggs should be evenly distributed over the vegetables without the yolk breaking.

7.     Cover the pan and keep it covered until the egg yolks are hard. Check with a fork

8.     Serve with your favorite bread and enjoy!

Suesca Rocks

 I've started writing for The City Paper in Bogotá. Here's my latest story:

My friends below looked like miniature action figures as I tightened my grip on a sharp, protruding rock.

“That's it, you're almost there!” shouted my climbing instructor, Hugo Rocha.

Almost there? Is he kidding?

“I think I'm fine to come down now!” I yelled. But Hugo ignored me. “Focus on your feet and push with your legs. You have this, Jennifer!”

Grunting a string of obscenities, I looked for the next groove to place my right foot. Then my left. My fingers trembled as I reached toward the sky. 

I thought I'd be better at this. I had scaled the man-made rock-climbing wall at the gym in record time. I had hiked Cerro Fitz Roy over Christmas vacation. I was even halfway through the aptly named Insanity workout DVDs. 

But nothing prepared me for the emotion and eventual exhilaration I felt climbing straight up 125 meters, relying on a rope for survival.

Hugo Rocha thrives on that feeling. He does it every day.

“To be in nature,” he says, “with a wall in front of you…to get to the top without falling…it's nice in the end.”

He's right, although you couldn't have convinced me of that half way up the rock. But after finally reaching the top, I understood the reward as I scanned the green landscape and listened to the cheers from below.

I found Hugo's name while reading in the Lonely Planet about Suesca, a sleepy town about an hour from Bogotá. The short blurb said Hugo was reliable to conduct inexpensive half-day and full-day rock climbing excursions. 

It ought to be easy to round up some fellow adventurers, I figured. Wrong. Fellow workers ignored my email, so I posted a Facebook status. Only one person responded, and I had only met her once. She said she would bring two friends. They had all grown up near Bogotá but had never been to the village, never been rock-climbing.

Hugo, in contrast, spent his youth in Bogotá and scaled trees and roofs routinely before moving to Suesca 12 years ago. He had been an industrial design major in college, but left the city life to explore the 400 different climbing routes. He even met his girlfriend while climbing. 

“If a climber is traveling in Colombia, they're going to pass through Suesca,” he said.

For the novice looking for a weekend adventure, making it to the top is the obvious goal. But for me, the experience offered so much more - a bonding friendship. After three climbs, we headed to a nearby tienda and celebrated over beers. Filled with a sense of accomplishment, we drank, danced and cartwheeled in the sun while Hugo packed up the equipment.

Our bodies sore, our hands scratched, we made the quick trip back to Bogotá, satisfied that from a sky-high vantage point, we had broadened our horizon.

Some Suesca facts: Rock climbing costs $60,000 pesos per person for a half day or $120,000 for a full day. Buses to Suesca depart from the TransMilenio Portal Norte on the Autopista. A one-way ticket costs 7,000 pesos. To join Hugo Rocho on the ropes, contact him: deaventuraporcolombia@yahoo.com

A New Year, A New Outlook

I arrived to Buenos Aires late at night December 30^th.  The air was thick and my backpack weighed heavy on my shoulders as I waited for a cab.

On the way to my apartment, illuminated European-like buildings and monuments decorated my view. Teenagers dressed in skinny jeans paraded through the streets. An old couple shared a pizza at an outdoor café. At a stoplight, I nervously smiled as my eyes met those of a handsome man in the taxi next to me. He was singing “Isn’t She Lovely.”

It was all so magical—like something out of a movie. And everything I was hoping for after spending the last couple of weeks in Patagonia.

Sure, Patagonia had been nice. I had pedaled through national parks in the Lake District, traveled two days on Argentina’s famous Ruta 40, and even hiked a glacier. But something had been missing.

I knew there was a chance I’d get homesick over the holidays, but I reassured myself that I’d make friends. I apologized to my family for missing yet another Christmas at home. They understood my need for adventure.

At Cerro Fitz Roy on Christmas

I ended up spending Christmas in the small town of El Chaltén with a couple from Australia. They had just gotten engaged and were doing a little stint around the world before tying the knot. We spent the day hiking to the Fitz Roy Mountain, then joined a British couple, a German girl, a French guy and a Dutch woman for dinner at a local parilla.

Over Patagonian lamb and liters of wine, we told stories of our travels and offered advice for future excursions. Everyone spoke in different accents, but we all shared the same love for adventure.

Normally, this would’ve been just the sort of holiday experience I would've hoped for. But even after countless glasses of wine and lots of laughter, I crawled into my bunk bed that night and dreamt of my friends and family in Florida.

***

A couple dancing tango in San Telmo

I’ve wanted to visit Buenos Aires ever since my parents went in 2004. They had come back from their trip with beautiful pictures of crumbling buildings, cobblestone streets and couples dancing tango. They had described the beef and wine in such detail that my mouth still waters nearly 10 years later just thinking about it.

I had a similar experience (although for about twice as much as they spent, due to inflation). I was charmed by the sidewalk cafes, the grandiose cemeteries, San Telmo’s Sunday antique market. The live music playing on street corners begged me to spend afternoons dancing and drinking beer instead of sightseeing. Even catcalls from men, usually vulgar and offensive, seemed endearing.

But it wasn’t just being in the city that turned me from a lonely woman in Patagonia to a thriving romantic in Buenos Aires. The day after I arrived was New Years Eve, and I had been invited to spend it with an Argentinean family.

I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t actually know any member of the family, and had met the organizer of the event, Laura, over email. But since we shared a mutual friend, Laura said I was already a friend. She said she would pick me up at my apartment at 10 pm and we would have dinner at her uncle’s house.

When we met in person, Laura threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. She introduced me to her brother Sergio, who was driving, then started firing questions. “How was Patagonia? Did you love it? Did you see the Perito Moreno Glacier? Do you speak any Spanish?” She was like a little Energizer bunny—so energetic and full of life. I loved her immediately.

When we got to Laura’s uncle’s house, I was greeted with kisses from about 20 family members. They all introduced themselves and told me how beautiful I was in Spanish. They were happy I could join them for such an important holiday.

With Laura, Sergio and a few other family members on New Years

The night was spent eating, dancing, drinking and singing karaoke. I watched Laura’s grandparents dance tango, and her brother Sergio belt out tunes by Swedish pop band ABBA. When the clock struck twelve, we rushed outside to watch fireworks. Everyone hugged, kissed, and toasted to a great new year.

At 5am, when it was finally time to say goodbye, I did my best to convey, in Spanish, how lucky I felt to be a part of the family celebration. Each of them took turns embracing me before Laura said, on behalf of everyone, “Don’t thank us. You’re family now.”

I got home that morning and emailed my parents. I told them about my night and about the new friendships I made. I also told them that, at 30, I finally got it: I can travel the world and see amazing things, but it doesn’t mean anything if I’m not sharing it with people I love. 

Day of the Candles

Fake Christmas trees, life-sized reindeer, and ornate nativity scenes have stocked the aisles at Homecenter since October. The parks in Bogota have been decorated with giant snowflakes and disco balls for more than a month. There’s even a fake bunny slope in the mall where children can zip line to the bottom.

But, according to my Colombian friends, the past couple months have only been preparation for the real Christmas season, which didn’t officially start until this past Friday, on Día de las velitas.

Translating to “Day of the Candles,” Día de las velitas is one of the most observed holidays in Colombia. It’s the eve of the Immaculate Conception, which is the day Catholics believe the Virgin Mary was conceived and kept free of original sin. To honor Mary, people place candles and paper lanterns on their balconies, windowsills, and in parks and squares.

Here are some pictures from what was going on in Parque Virrey and Parque 93:

Like most Colombian holidays, it was a family celebration, full of warmth and happiness. And despite not being Catholic, the day of candles brought a smile to my face, and made it feel like Christmas.

Everybody's Working for the Weekend

I have a variation of the same conversation every day with my doorman. We exchange hellos, then we say how we’re feeling. Given I usually see him at 6:25 am and then again when I return from work, my response is usually “Estoy muy cansada.” I am tired.

Depending on the day of the week, he replies with (in Spanish), “Yes, very tired, of course. It’s Monday.” Or, “Yes, very tired, but it’s almost Friday.”

Today, he responded, “It’s okay because it’s Juernes!”

Juernes is a combination of the words Thursday (Jueves) and Friday (Viernes). At first I thought it was a Colombian saying similar to our “TGIF,” but after living here for two months, I’ve realized it’s just another excuse to party.

It starts on Wednesday. Every hump day, my upstairs neighbor has her girlfriends over. At 8pm the salsa music begins. At 8:30, I hear the clacking of heels on my ceiling. And from about 9pm to one in the morning, I hear them “woooooing” out on the terrace.

Thursday, before class starts, I hear my students talking about all the parties that are happening over the weekend. The boys talk about who they want to make out with and how drunk they’re going to get, and the girls talk about how they’re going to get their hair done and what they’re going to wear. Teaching is difficult.

Then there’s Friday. Reggaeton music pounds through outdoor speakers at lunch time and kids from all grades swarm the cafeteria, shoveling food into their mouths as quickly as possible so they can go dance with friends. The music continues to blast until school lets out at 3:10. If you have class after lunch, you’re screwed.

When I get home at 3:45, my doorman already has the door open, and is salsa dancing with an imaginary woman. A smile takes over his face as he shouts, “Señorita Jennifer! Es Viernes! Que rumba?” He tells me he hopes I’m going out dancing and drinking lots of beer. He also tells me I’ll have a hangover on Saturday and Sunday.

This Friday (tomorrow) will be extra crazy—student council is throwing an “end of the summer picnic party,” complete with hotdogs and hamburgers for lunch. Students won’t have to wear uniforms, and there’s even a mango stand outside the cafeteria (think snow cones but with shredded mango instead of ice).

At the beginning of the school year, I would have fought the kids and tried to teach them something. But tomorrow I plan on showing funny YouTube videos.

I also plan on dancing with my doorman at 3:45, and living my weekend like the Colombians do.

Then Monday will come, and the dialogue with my portero will start all over again. 

Let's Talk About the Weather

The weather in Bogotá is as unpredictable as my 14-year-old students. One minute everything’s great, and the next, it seems the world is coming to an end.

Unfortunately, in both situations, things are usually a bit gloomy. So it’s critical to always be prepared: lots of layers, an umbrella, and most importantly, a positive attitude. 

When I woke up this morning, rays of sunshine peaked through the window. My usual nighttime uniform of flannel pajamas and thermal socks felt unnecessary. (Side note: apartments here don’t come with heat or air conditioning. The average temperature of 55 degrees doesn’t require either.)

Knowing I only had an hour or two to enjoy the balmy weather, I quickly changed into running clothes and headed for a park about a 20-minute walk from my apartment.

I tilted my head towards the sun and soaked up the vitamin D. I smiled at the man on my block selling avocados. I greeted the women on the streets frying eggs and arepas (corn griddle cakes usually filled with cheese). The flowers being sold at stands throughout the city somehow masked the odor of car exhaust. I stopped and breathed in their sweet scent.

Parque El Virrey 

When I got to Parque El Virrey, I stopped into Juan Valdez, Colombia’s answer to Starbucks. The next hour was spent watching parents treat their kids to balloons, dogs playing fetch, and women, with full hair and makeup, rollerblading. I sipped my cappuccino and took in my surroundings.

When asked how I like Bogotá, sometimes it’s hard to answer. The language barrier has been difficult. The city is polluted and crowded with buses and taxis. The gap between rich and poor in painfully apparent. But on a day like today, when the sun in shining and I have nothing to do but drink coffee, it’s nice.

As I walked back to my apartment, the sky darkened. The wind picked up and it started drizzling. My teeth chattered and I reached in my purse for a rain jacket.

My pace quickened, but several blocks later I found myself at a traffic light, next to a woman selling fragrant tiger lilies. She held out a bouquet for me to smell and smiled. She was missing most of her teeth.

I bought the flowers and continued walking. The woman yelled after me in a strained, hoarse voice, and told me to have a wonderful day. I stopped and waved to her, telling her to do the same.

Her hair was already soaked and so were her clothes. But she was still wearing that beautiful, toothless smile.