See her there? Mrs. Thatcher, hanging on the stone cellar walls of a pub in Prague, watching students drink beer and listen to post-punk live music. She’s frozen pale in her pop art picture frame; like a vampire encased in an eternal tomb, forced to ever-after gaze down upon behaviour she would most certainly have frowned upon, hungry for blood.

I’ve read a lot of interesting reflections on Margaret Thatcher over the past few days. Yesterday, the day of her funeral, I accidentally wore my duo of Union Jack and Big Ben bracelets, making me keen to declare the coincidence to co-workers. “I am not a Thatcherite!” Well, and of course I’m not – whether or not I support the idea of Thatcher is really irrelevant. I lived only through the last few years of her time as Prime Minister, and I am Canadian, anyhow.

It is almost two years since I left England, after a year living in the UK, and it is still a time I reflect upon a lot. It was a time I not only explored various cities around Europe, but I lived in a different culture from my own. You might not think there’s such a difference between Canada, but journeying from a liberal arts graduate program in combination steel-and-student-city in Southwestern Ontario to a corporate business in the City of London was a shock to my system I did not expect.

In London, I was one of two “lefties” in my office, and we were the butt of fond(ish) jokes. At least we sat across from each other, enabling a great deal of good-natured(ish) eye-rolling between one another. When our team took a survey of our political leanings, we found ourselves nearly anarchists (we prefer the term “Left-Wing Libertarians”), while most of the rest of our team members proudly showed off their little red dot cozying up to Maggie. I admit it’s not just a Canada thing – after all, Stephan Harper ’nuff said – but being raised in a rather liberal environment made this all rather confusing to me.

When we visited Prague, now over two years ago, one of our favourite parts was a guided pub crawl, complete with a healthy serving of Czech history. The tour ended in a Communism-themed bar, rife with books and letters and busts of Stalin; artefacts from a terrifying and, to say the least, unpleasant part of Czech history. The pub was a rambling underground affair, wonderfully decorated and, it seems appropriate to say as it was quite museum-like, curated. The bar shone eerily blue under a plexiglass map of the world that lit up countries around the world once and currently under Communism.

I’ll be honest, even after the tour, I don’t know that much about Czech history. But I remember reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being in highschool and being so moved, so intrigued. I read Ginsberg poetry and brief history books, and most of it leaked out of my skull but I remember feeling so inspired by the idea that a small country could free itself from the iron grip of communism through protest, placing blossoms in the barrels of guns. I know there was probably much more to it, but it was the spirit of it all that was contagious, the fact that Praguians could go for a fun night out right under the reminders of such a history, have a sense of humour and humility about it, and yet a deep respect and pride.

Our tour guide was actually originally from Argentina, but he had clearly caught the spirit too. He was absolutely gushing with adoration for Prague and the Czech people.

And so, when we turned the final corner into the final chamber of the pub’s maze of hallways and anterooms, I couldn’t help but feel a jarring shock at the sight of Thatcher and Reagan as the rewards at the end of our long journey.

Of course, Thatcher and Reagan are the antithesis of Communism – but I was still confused. If this pub, and the Czech Republic itself, had repelled and reviled Communism, then must Threagan’s (or, perhaps, Ratcher’s?) presence here be positive? Did Praguians revere Thatcher and Reagan as their saviours?

I asked our tour guide, who smiled and explained that the young people of Prague could be just as ironic about the right wingers as they were about the extreme left. The world isn’t either/or.

And, as an Argentinian, he of course had a few choice words for Thatcher, and over smooth pints of pilsner, he gave me an Argentinian’s eye view of the Falklands War.

My point isn’t necessary to write an anti-or-pro-Thatcher post. I’ll leave that up to the actual Brits, the people who were alive and conscious during her time as Prime Minister.

My point is that travel can shape our perceptions, challenge them, and add new ones. The experience of discussing the Falklands with an expat Argentinian in a formerly Communist-occupied country, and then returning to work on Monday to the home of the Iron Lady where co-workers argued in their civilized way over whether to canonize or damn her, isn’t one I could have had if I’d never left my hometown.

And so, upon the death of Thatcher, we all think of something different. Some of us, of nothing at all. Some of us, of economic prosperity, others of strain. Some of victory, others of violence. Some of a great politician, some of a bad one, some of a mother and wife.

I think of the taste of pilsner and the rattle of rock music in Prague and the view of the Tower of London from my office window, Canary Wharf a blinking light in the foggy distance.

I imagine our new tour guide told us where we were headed after our morning in the historical, mystical Monte Albán, and why; if so, the information escaped my ears or was lost in translation. So, as before, we followed our new leader mutely, slightly befuddled, hoping this was indeed the original adventure we were supposed to be undertaking, not knowing when or where we would return. We loaded onto our rollercoaster van and swung downward into the villages of the valley to see and touch and taste the daily work of the people of Oaxaca.

This journey is often called the Crafts Route, or similar; a treasure hunt of villages laying claim to black clay, neon wood, rusty cochineal.

We arrived first at what I would later – after tracing our journey on a map back at our hotel – learn was called San Antonio Arrazola, a village famed for its colourfully painted wood carvings – alebrijes. You probably know the kind – dogs and dragons and hybrids and unidentifiable magical creatures painted in brights, colourful, carefully-placed dots forming patterns across the wooden thighs of predatory cats, giraffe necks and the webbed wings of nightmareish beings.

Men sat in a row in the dappled shade of trees, shaving away slices of wood to release armadillos and chupacabras from within the stiff blocks of copal wood. Women crowded around a table in Coca-Cola chairs, hunched over smooth, sanded sculptures, turning beige and brown elephants into pointillized psychedelia from fever dreams – and indeed, the father of alebrijes, Pedro Linares, was ill when he dreamt up the creatures in his sleep. The store was crammed pink, blue, green, and yellow. I extracted a comparatively tame beaded bracelet for my sister.

Nearly every family in town has some connection to the alebrijes trade, and I wondered how all the whimsical creatures could possibly find homes. I felt almost guilty skipping over the miniature turtles, crouching jaguars, spindly skeletons, round-eyed iguanas, and all manner of winged and fire-breathing things. But the tourist demand is there, earning the average carver in Arrazola and similar villages more than the typical Oaxacan. Whether the historical heart of the craft has been replaced for the colder, modern (though likely more profitable) one of novelty and tourism was a question on my mind. But perhaps it can be both: a beautiful cultural celebration and – I thought as my eye caught a startled-looking hot pink dolphin – a little bit silly.

Then the most glorious juxtaposition of the divine and the daily: food. The grumbling of our stomach is an animal need, but the craving of our tastebuds and our creativity is something else altogether.

We stopped for lunch , the driver suggesting it as if food were an afterthought. We pulled up to a beautiful villa with a courtyard overflowing with pottery, hanging lights, colourful paper garlands, and wild-looking plants.

An open kitchen displayed trays of hot coals heating bubbling clay plots of the seven moles, soups, rice, fried snacks, and lots more. I felt overwhelmed by all the options and I don’t even eat meat.

Nom nom nom.

To be continued…

The morning started out sketchily. Our drivers were friendly enough, but being shuffled from unmarked van to unmarked van, surrounded by people speaking a language we didn’t understand, was slightly worrisome. We clutched onto recognized phrases – “Monte Albán” – like lifesavers to assure ourselves we were in the right place, with the right people.

We were placed conspicuously in a dated hotel lobby, where we waited. For what? Two touristy tramps carried along through a narrative that had no discernable beginning, middle, or end. We were thrust into a machine, oiled and operated in a different culture, a different tongue; a ride we had bought tickets to but had no voice in. Like two stray cattle. Vladimir and Estragon. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, flipping coins to pass the time, awaiting our fate.

Finally we were ushered into another vehicle and introduced to our captains. I cannot remember their names, but they chatted to each other as we rattled up the steep slope to Monte Albán, picking up a withered couple that made their living selling jewelry outside the archaeological site. They showed us multi-faced glittering beads, round balls of bright blue plastic hung on string, clinking and clanking and rapid Spanish (or something like it) no doubt explaining why we needed such things. No, we said. No, gracias. Sorry, but no, no thank you. Gracias. No.

The van rattled and swayed. B ate something composed of ginger. I thought about WB and his stomach. Mine may not have an easy time with dairy, but it can handle a roller coaster.

We were spat out of the van into the dusty parking lot and the heat. A flurry of introductions – new guides, new faces, a new group of pink English-speaking tourists like us, with silly hats and hulking cameras, reeking of sunscreen. Together, we stood squinting in the sun among the foliage as our guide pointed at things with a stick – furry fingers of cacti reaching for the bright sky, spiked sheaths of agave clawing up from the ground, trees purplish, green, and grey. He explained their medicinal uses, their cultural relevance, their hallucination-inducing properties. Mist clung to the hills, valleys, and wrinkles of Oaxaca spreading eternally below us. A tomb with an ancient vaulted ceiling, sturdy enough to withstand earthquakes, was discovered under a house’s foundation.

In a ballcourt, Zapotec or Mixtec or Olmec played holy games for their gods. Its relation to ritual sacrifice is, at least at this site, unfounded. Was it just me, or did a shrug of disappointment whisper through the crowd? I marvelled at the impressive green of the lush carpet of grass. Surely that wasn’t accurate.

We snaked around the perimeter of the ballcourt like a tour guide’s tail, descended a boardwalk into the Main Plaza where stone slab buildings baked in the sun. It is the site of postcard pictures and the 20 peso note. The tour guide lifted the blue polymer pesos up for us to see; the modern money flapped into the wind, tiny against its enormous archaeological inspiration.

Monte Albán was the dominant city in the area for 1200 years, from about 500 BC to AD 750. Throughout that time it’d been home to Zapotec, Mixtec, and Olmec peoples, changing hands through battles and wars. At its peak, the plaza would hold tens of thousands of citizens and the acoustics allowed important voices to carry across the landscape.

It is a place of legend and mystery, brimming with puzzles archaeologists, scientists, historians, and anthropologists are still trying to solve. There are 300 stones carved with “Danzantes” or dancers, later imagined to be carvings of men and women writhing in pain from serious medical ailments or breech births. The strange, arrow-shaped Building J jolts out of the plaza’s precise alignment and vertical lines, pointing eastward. Its bricks are inscribed with place names and upside-down faces. It’s suspected these names are places conquered by Monte Albán’s warriors, and the building’s uncharacteristic shape has something to do with astronomy and the solstice. But it’s almost better not to know; it leaves room for magic and fairy tales and aliens (yes, some theories claim Building J is a spaceship).

Not to know. It’s strange how old humanity is, but also how young compared to the earth, the universe. Monte Albán and sites like it make you keenly aware of your insignificance, with its old buildings and even older surrounding hills. Hills who saw the Zapotec rise and fall, and people trickle out and abandon Monte Albán, and watched it like a movie – to them, to the hills, it was short, gritty, and entertaining. The hills now watch us filtering back into the site, in our khaki shorts, flapping plastic money at the sky, admiring the long history humans have created. We’re probably just a pathetic comedy in comparison. A brief series of poorly-written sitcoms.

But thousands of years ago we built temples to ideas and stories that, while they may seem silly to us now, demonstrate intelligence and abstract thought. Just realizing there are gaps in our understanding of the nature of things and filling those spaces with highly complex faiths that inspire the creation of buildings and ballcourts and wars…it’s amazing, even if it has often caused the world to suffer. We crave answers whatever the cost, and it becomes not only the foundation for so many individual lives, but for cultures and societies and humanity as a whole. Today, we visit Monte Albán and see that we still do not understand, so we fill the ballcourts and vaulted tombs and Building Js with gods and science and aliens and the movements of stars.

We’re not so different from the Zapotec with their beheaded princess and sacred games. The hills can see this, though they themselves are young. Their parents, whatever created the earth, laugh at them too. And on it goes, backwards and backwards into a dense and tiny dot of origin.

As you can see, a sweaty climb up ancient stairs and a stroll with sweeping views encourages introspection. I brought my monkey with me, and he laughed with the hills at my deep contemplation. He is made of stuff, and concerned only with stuff. The stuff is here, end of story. But he did enjoy the fresh air.

I climbed a second set of stairs and witnessed a second set of spectacular views. Also, a young American couple being informed in broken Spanish about the effectiveness of one of Monte Albán’s native plants on hemorrhoids. The guide, grasping for the correct word, pointed at his bum. The couple blushed.

It was a harsh awakening back into chaos when we couldn’t find the van to take us to our next stop. Another quest for answers, now not in the mode of deep philosopher, but of bumbling idiot whose mouth stumbles over graciases and perdons. None of the myriad of smiling guides we’d been introduced to seemed to know what we were meant for, nor who this mysterious Roberto (or was it Alberto?) we kept crying out for was. Pitying us, a new guide took us under his wing, packed us into his flock of tourists, and we headed on to San Antonio Arrazola.

To be continued…

2:33 pm

This morning we went to Tlacolula and its famous, enormous Sunday market. It was filled with new sights, new smells, new tastes…WB would have loved it! We love exploring markets, and I think Oaxaca has had my favourite markets so far. We will have to come back together some day and share the experience.

We started the morning with big bowls of coffee. B has been very kind in accomodating my caffeine addiction. Finding coffee is often the first item on the agenda, and thankfully there is no shortage of the stuff in Mexico. There’s something so wonderfully rustic about drinking it out of the large, clay bowls. It’s funny how atmosphere, the sense of something slightly new, can make something taste so much better. Not that the coffee isn’t tasty in itself. It’s not normally how I would drink my coffee – it’s strong, dark, hot and sweet. But it’s delicious.

The local church was decorated with streamers of colourful flags, and a Communion was taking place. Tourists and market shoppers sat on the brick wall in the shade, watching families gather in fancy dress, mothers smoothing out wrinkles in their children’s white clothes, fathers smiling on proudly. B and I had a brief talk about religion. It is a bit hard for us to understand. It has such a grip on the people here (and many others around the world), and I can’t help but see that as problematic in some ways. But beautiful things come out of it too.

For lunch we ate cheese and squash blossom quesadillas hot off the comal with hot chocolate. I hadn’t had hot chocolate yet. It wasn’t rich and thick and creamy like a North American expects. It was smooth and slightly bitter, with a thin blanket of foam, but still comforting and satisfying. In Canada, I always thought it was a bit of a blasphemy to make hot chocolate with water instead of milk. But it works in Mexican hot chocolate – milk might overwhelm the delicate and nuanced flavours of their chocolate. Perhaps next time I will have to try with milk and compare.

I also tried mezcal at a shop with a million different varieties and a bunch of unofficial friendly salespeople who plied me with different flavours. I tried a straightforward one to bring home to Adam (with a scorpian in it – I know, it’s kitschy and touristy, though it does apparently empart some different flavour, but it looked neat!), and B bought my mom a coffee liquer kind of mezcal that was very delicious. I tried a fruity so-called “girly” one because apparently “no, gracias” wasn’t an option. It was yummy, but not something I would generally drink. Not that I would drink the so-called “manly” mezcal either.

I also bought some deliciously smoky-smelling peppers to bring home and try my hand at mole. Hopefully the cooking class we have planned for Thursday will teach me a bit more about how to use them.

We took the bus to and from the city which was chaotic and amusing. There were live turkeys sitting docily here and there around the market for sale, and one family had brought theirs home on the bus. They left it up by the bus driver but then, I suppose, were instructed to move it, and so the father sent his young daughter to go grab it by its feet and bring it to the back of the bus. The look on her face was priceless! Clearly no kid gets used to the chore of carrying the live turkey home on the bus!

Also, there was a pretty hardcore Jesus sticker on the bus.

Some quick facts about En Vía and microfinance

(Information from website and the tour)

• In Mexico, interest rates on loans average around 70% and can soar up to more than 100%
• En Vía uses 100% of its tour fees first towards interest-free micro-loans
• One tour fee will contribute to a loan for 2.5 women
• The tours allow you to meet and learn about the women whose independent businesses will receive your donated loan
• Women must apply for a loan and take a mandatory business class to receive it, but no one is turned down
• En Vía also runs a number of classes and workshops for the recipients of loans in business, finances, marketing, and branding and runs English classes that are free to all community members
• They also work with Tierra del Sol in Tlacochahuaya to provide women in the program with education on the environment and sustainable living
• En Vía believes that by re-directing and promoting sustainable tourism to communities that need it the most, tourism can have a long-term positive effect, and promote a cultural exchange and sharing of ideas on both sides of the relationship

We met at the Instituto Cultural, which is this lovely complex with a lush courtyard where expats and volunteers convene to learn Spanish and take cultural workshops. It looked as if there was a wedding being set up with white tin buckets and watering cans overflowing with fuschia flowers and garlands hung in verticle strings from tent ceilings. I wondered if it was being prepared the wedding party from the plane. Though we hadn’t left for our tour yet, it did spark in me the kind of contrast of reasons for travel: to luxuriously celebrate, or to give back. Or often both, within the span of the same trip.

We met the other couple we would be touring with. As we were waiting, we chatted a bit, and the other couple – J and T – mentioned they had just run into a girl, who was taking Spanish lessons at the centre, who was from the Bahamas, but happened to go to university in their hometown in Canada. I asked which town it was and guess what – it was London! J even volunteers at the library. Small, small world.

So we Londoners (and B) headed out to Díaz Ordaz, a village of about 2000 near Tlacolula, the town famous for its vast Sunday market and its mezcal. Because it is so close to Tlacolula, Díaz Ordaz does not have its own market, making it particularly difficult for women to earn an income and sell their products.

Díaz Ordaz

We first visited Blanca, who makes natural salves, balms, and ointments out of her home. She took us into her yard, filled with laundry and medicinal plants. She told us how she makes her products and what they are used for, and had us smell and touch the ingredients she had growing in her yard.

As we spoke, a little old lady hobbled into the yard. She was very wrinkled and small and took turns shaking all our hands. I thought she was just a neighbour coming to drop in, but it turned out she was the next business woman we were to meet. Her name was Esperenza, and she took us to her farm, which she runs with her husband.

Their house was two rooms and one appeared to be exclusively for their year’s stock of corn. Esperenza used to handmake tortillas and sell them door-to-door throughout the village. Sitting hunched in front of the fire flattening corn masa in her hands and then carrying her wares around in the heat was hardly an easy occupation, and so her and her husband invested in some chickens, finding it not only less taxing, but more profitable. Esperenza’s husband (Gabriel, I believe), was very talkative, and both were happy to answer all of our questions and seemed eager to talk about their business and their plans. Gabriel even released the chickens for us, and the turkeys they were preparing to sell for those preparing traditional moles on the fast-approaching Día de los Muertos.

Next, we met Adelina, who took us to a house she and her family and friends had built for her out of a concrete floor and corrugated tin. Her husband had had a work-related accident, and so they had all pitched in to help her move her family into this new home. Previously, they had lived with his parents, but her income alone could not provide from them. She admitted it’s been a harder haul, but it is more tranquil and having her own business – selling sandwiches at the local school – has given her more freedom and confidence, something she aims to share with her children, especially her daughters. After a year term, the position will be passed on to another woman in the community, but Adelina spoke with excitement about how she is determined to keep working and helping to support her family, even though her husband is now back at work, so that her 13-year-old daughter can stay in school and get an education. It was inspiring to see people living with what we would perceive as so little really see clearly the important things in life – family, independence, health, education, personal growth, freedom – even while admitting it can be a difficult life.

We priveleged few often forget that for some people, these things aren’t perceived as a birth right, and that many in the world struggle day in and out for them – and see that struggle as worth the rewards. In a perfect world, no one would or should have to overcome the odds to achieve basic human needs and rights, but it is inspiring to witness their appreciation for so much that we often take for granted.

We mentioned what a great example she was setting for her daughters, and she was flattered and thanked us, but she also firmly agreed. Another funny thing about us “modern women”: we find it so difficult to take a compliment. Adelina acknowledged and was confident in her powerful role as a woman and mother, and was proud.

Teotitlán de Valle

Next, we went to Teotitlán, a village known for its weaving. Nature called, and so we first made a stop to pee at a church. For some reason this struck me as funny, particularly since there was a wedding going on. Don’t worry – we didn’t barge in on the ceremony to request a washroom. There were some toilets out back for public use at a couple of pesos. And one for the priest...

That eerie, midnight-travelling-circus song I first heard in Oaxaca Cathedral played again. I meant to ask Samantha if she knew what it was, but then it stopped and the tune left my head and so I couldn’t convey the song I was searching for.

Graciela met us with her adorable son, and we visited her weaving workshop she has run with her husband since they were newlyweds. They seemed a delightful family. The father doted on his son and appeared very supportive of his wife, piping in here and there as she explained their business and the tradition of weaving in the area. We had spoken earlier with Samantha about how the husbands reacted to the loans being obtained through their wives, or having their wives run their own businesses. We had assumed the culture in rural Mexico would promote a very machismo ideal of manhood and heap equally traditional expectations on their women. But Samantha said that though she imagines there are women who never approach them for loans because of these reasons, they have had few if any problems with husbands’ involvement. Most are supportive and encouraging, and realise that their wives’ involvement in business and earning income for their family can only be a positive thing. I felt a bit silly for automatically assuming this would be an obstacle, but even in so-called advanced areas of Canada and the United States, there are still many (men and women alike) who have strong ideas of the “proper” roles for women.

Then I tried my hand at the loom. Apparently I’ve forgotten all B taught me in my childhood, and everything learned from my brief role as a weaver in my fourth grade Medieval Fair. (Photos by J and T, our tour buddies!)

The next weaving shop we stopped at, the woman we were schedule to meet wasn’t there, which was unfortunate because it meant her and her two partners – Graciela and Martina, who we were to meet later – wouldn’t receive their loans this time around.

Here’s how it works:

• Women receiving loans are set up in a buddy system of sorts
• To get a loan, you need to refer two other women to the program; you are accountable to each other for taking the required steps for receiving the loan, and for paying back the loan
• As part of the process, each woman presents their business to the tourists funding their loan
• If one woman does not show up at the appointed date, all three women miss out on the loan this time around (of course, this is barring unforeseen circumstances – if a woman knows she cannot attend, she should let En Vía know, or have one of her parterned women pass on the message)
• All three women are also affected if one does not pay back her loan within the alloted time (of course, this is also barring unforeseen circumstances – if a woman knows she cannot pay, she can leave collateral with En Vía or work out an alternative ahead of the payment due date)
• All three women are charged fees for unpaid or overdue loan payments
• They didn’t always use this system; En Vía found that when the women were accountable to others in their community, rather than just to themselves (and En Vía), they were more motivated to participate in the program as required and to pay back loans on time

So that was a bit disappointing, as we felt a bit like we were wasting the other two women’s time. Nonetheless, Martina – the third woman and the daughter of the missing woman – took us to her house for lunch and told us about her and her husband’s weaving business.

Martina and her husband, Manuel, specialise in making woven bags. That big rug-like object is actually leather, a large sheath of animal skin. They talked about preparing it for the handles of bags, about dying and spinning wool. Their workshop was filled with interesting objects.

Our real purpose in our visit, however, was lunch. We met Martina’s mother-in-law who spoke Zapotec and greeted us to the home she shares with Martina and Manuel. They showed us the different fruits growing in the garden – large grapefruits, pomegranates used for dye, and something like a kumquat crossed with a small peach that we ate ripe right off the plant.

I’ve already written about our relaxed and delicious lunch. We chatted in a mix of Spanish and English, Samantha translating some, other comments simply being inferred or guessed at. I felt that while in Mexico I could at least understand enough of most of what people said to me, but now back in Canada I can’t. It’s amazing how rapidly immersion in a language allows you to pick it up, and how rapidly it fades once you are back in the English-speaking world.

Then it was back to Oaxaca after the, long tiring day, carrying with us natural salves, woven bags, and Samantha cradling an enormous pumpkin in her lap, courtesy of Manuel and Martina.

Not sure what we have planned for the evening, but my guess is likely some cerveza!

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You can learn more about En Vía here.

I’ll be honest, I had some trepedation about the tour to begin with, not wanting to engage in the somewhat trendy but not-necessarily-helpful concept of “poverty tourism.” But, first, these were hardly slums we were visiting, and knowing that our donation would go directly to these women, and help them build sustainable businesses, was comforting. We weren’t just going to gawk at their lifestyles – we were going to learn about the women and families that make up the communities you might not necessarily encounter on your average holiday. Though I feel grateful for the life I had been given, the lives I did witness didn’t seem impovershed or hopeless – like something they had to escape. I didn’t feel my life was better than theirs, only more comfortable. My wariness vanished when I saw clearly that this wasn’t about marvelling at poverty, it was about meeting new people.

Have you ever participated in charitable tourism? Have you ever participated in slum tourism? Thoughts?

Last year, I publically re-capped my year in bites with the best eats of 2011. It was a simultaneously easy and challenging – we had eaten so well it wasn’t difficult to think of many wonderful meals, but it was certainly hard to narrow it down and pick the number one meal.

This year, I debated creating the list. Compared to 2011 with our active travel in Prague, the UK, France, Portugal, Spain, Amsterdam, and Italy, 2012 was relatively tame. It was easy to compose a list, because it was obvious to focus on my time in Mexico and our lovely weekend in Toronto. But where to find candidates for the other spots? This year, our list not only centres around exciting new eating experiences abroad, but also calm dinners at home, wonderful new recipes, and basic ingredients that have found their way into our everyday eating. This is a travel blog, yes, but so much of what I discuss is food. And this year there was more to food than excitement and travel. Food can also mean home, comfort, health, relaxation and simplicity.

While we had some amazing experiences – me in Mexico and both WB and me in Canadian dining – this year’s list is less international and less based around new tastes and foods, and more around our experience of food at home everyday.

So without further ado, here are our Top Eats of 2012.

10. Everywhere and anywhere: KALE

Our number one “new” ingredient of 2012 was kale. We’d eaten kale before, but not often and never raw. Enter the kale salad and seriously my life has been changed. A healthy salad tastes so much more hearty and feels so much more filling. It’s just darn right delicious and has usurpsed broccoli and asparagus both as my favourite vegetable. This is a big deal.

9. At home: FOOD FROM PLENTY

You know those cookbooks you buy and never actually end up cooking anything from? Plenty isn’t one of those. The Wanderparents gave me and WB Yotam Ottolenghi’s vegetarian cookbook and we’ve already cooked a few of its recipes a few times over. Grains, yogurt, herbs, and eggplant galore, it really is my kind of cookbook. Our favourite dish so far has probably been the spicy Moroccan carrot salad, and the hummus is a great go-to recipe. It’s all pretty simple to make, but so delicious to eat.

8. London, Ontario: VEG OUT VEGAN REUBEN

2012 was our first full year in London, Ontario and as you might have noticed, we are struggling a bit with the dining options. We’ve enjoyed Addis Ababa and have found a few decent places for a bite or a pint, but it’s not terribly inspiring. It’s also the year I finally cut out fish, am re-thinking my other-seafood-things eating, and am trying to eat more vegan at home. What better time to try Veg Out, a vegan restaurant on Richmond Row we’d been eager to visit?

It did not disappoint. It’s a tiny, buzzing joint but the food was delicious and the service fast. I ordered the tempeh Reuben. I never really ate things like this when I ate meat, but some part of me that had been dormant for the past three years just really wanted to bite into a sauce-drenched, sauerkraut-stuffed, cheesy, meaty sandwich. The sandwich delivered.

Is it exactly a Reuben? No. Is it awesome? Yes. WB had the daily special – risotto balls in a really yummy sauce – and we vowed to be back for more. Especially since I forgot my camera thus rendering me unable to write a blog post about it. New Year’s Resolution!

The photo above is actually from a recipe from this blog, which I am totally going to try. Another New Year’s Resolution!

7. Toronto, Ontario: BUSKERFEST MUSTARDY CHICKPEAS

Okay, so a pile of chickpeas seems like an odd thing to make a top eats of the year list. But like I said, 2012 was no 2011. But the thing about these chickpeas was that they came just when I needed them. We had been exploring St. Lawrence Market and Buskerfest, and WB had a plethora of meaty options before him. Hot dogs, pierogies, kebabs, meat skewers, hamburgers, you name it. For vegetarians? Close to nil. And I was hangry (which, if you don’t know, is a portmanteau of hungry and angry and signifies the kind of vile grumpiness that can only arise out of hunger. When I say I’m hangry…back away slowly. Or, ideally, give me food).

From a street stall reeking of smoke and riblets came the calls “vegetarian!” and I whipped around to spot a vast wok of chickpeas sizzling away in tangy, grainy Kozliks mustard. It was seriously delicious (the mustard is fantastic!). And that’s why it makes the top ten  – because it sates an aspect of food that vegetarians miss more than the meat itself (at least I do): the culture of street food and festival fare. It was creatively simple vegetarian (actually vegan) street food that was filling, easy, cheap, delicious and doesn’t even rely on carbs or cheese to do it. Um, yum!

As I was eating on a curbside, feeling happy and satisfied, about a million (okay, maybe not quite) people gawked and asked where I had gotten it and if it was vegetarian. Clearly there is demand, people! I call for a vegetarian street food revolution!!

6. London, Ontario: FROM SCRATCH TACOS

Mexico really inspired me in the culinary realm. I’ve always loved “Mexican food” but tasting real Mexican food really altered my views on what it is and can be. I came home and I made vegan mole (another post!) and my own salsa – which, if I do say so myself, is incredible – and, get this, I made corn tortillas from scratch. Are you impressed? Good. Then I’m not going to tell you how easy it actually is.

One night I bought a massive bag of corn masa, blended up a bunch of chiles into salsa, and we ate far too many black bean tacos with house made slaw, three different salsas, smooth avocado, and tart sour cream. You might think there’s no such thing as too many tacos, but when they are made of black beans…there is. But no regrets, no regrets at all.

5. Vineland/Beamsville Wine Country, Ontario: WINE TASTING AND LUNCH AL FRESCO

You know what makes me love Ontario? Wine. Okay, so wine makes me love pretty much everything and everybody. But wine country is truly one of Ontario’s best assets.

In the summer, WB’s parents kindly took us on a little tour around Beamsville where we sipped pinots and rieslings (the region’s particular areas of expertise), learned about grape growing and varietals, and ate an elegant lunch al fresco at Vineland Estates. We passed each other bits and bites of local cheese, soft purplish walnut bread (which the waiter kindly brought us especially after WB’s mom mentioned how much she loved it last time), fresh seafood and juicy meat. With a plummy wine and a cheerful buzz, there really is not much better in life than an outdoor lunch at a vineyard. Amirite? I am.

4. Teotitlán del Valle, Oaxaca, Mexico: MARTINA’S HOMEMADE TLAYUDA

Where’s Mexico up in here? I bet you were wondering. Well you just had to wait for the top four, starting off with this super yummy tlayuda made by Martina, a weaver in Oaxaca whom we visited on our microlending tour with En Vía. You don’t think there can be much of a big difference between a thin corn tortilla with mashed beans, cheese, tomato, avocado and lettuce from a restaurant in the city and one made at home. But like all things in life, homemade is better (well, maybe not all things…). Martina and her husband told us about their business and she served us our lunches as we ate, laughed, and talked, despite the language barriers and cultural differences. Not only was this tlayuda delicious, it was to me very symbolic of all the best reasons for travelling.

Also, that drink in the background is milk blended with oat milk and sugar. Which was surprisingly enjoyable, particularly as I don’t actually like milk.

3. London, Ontario: NATE’S SHAWARMA FALAFEL

No, it’s not a shawarma falafel, although that might be amazing. It’s a vendor in little London’s Covent Garden Market called Nate’s Shawarma, but for us, it is the falafel that is the real draw. Or, to be more specific, it is the whole falafel pita experience.

A falafel just made the top ten last year, but number three? Really? Yes, really. Everyone should know the importance of finding a fast, cheap, filling, yummy convenience food close to home that isn’t just McDonald’s or pizza. And as a vegetarian who tries to sometimes be kind of sort of healthy, the not McDonald’s or pizza aspect of it is especially important. Nate’s delivers with fried-to-order falafels, various hummus flavours, tangy pickled things, and a super yummy garlic sauce. It’s a veritable mash up of flavours and your breath completely stinks after, but it is totally worth it. They also have a decent hummus pita for the kind of sort of healthy days.

I don’t have any pictures of the various times we’ve visited, but all the other menu items we’ve tried have been mediocre at best. The falafel, however, is good. And awesome hangover food. Not that we ever get those. (picture source!)

2. Oaxaca, Mexico: COOKING CLASS

Our cooking class at La Olla was one of those experiences that really epitomized the connection between travel and food that goes much deeper than just taste buds. Our instructor, Pilar, showed us the ropes of a local Oaxacan market and the sense of community between her and the women who brought their herbs and vegetables to the city was apparent and inspiring. We met a lot of wonderful people and the class and subsequent meal was filled with laughing, chatting, and learning not just about Mexico, but the different reaches of the world (okay, so mostly North America, though there was a German couple!) from which we all came. We made simple but beautiful quesadillas with Oaxacan string cheese, zucchini flowers, and fresh-tasting epazote and herbasanté, dipped in a silky smooth avocado salsa; smoky red mole on enchiladas; and a pumpkin dessert, almost like a sweet but rustic stew, with sugar cane and guava – and all enjoyed alongside seasonal Mexican beer with a shot of mezcal to whet our appetities. Delicious, fun, and memorable.

1. Toronto, Ontario: CAVA RESTAURANT

As I was just about to write about the number one meal of 2012, eaten and enjoyed to celebrate our 1st wedding anniversary, I thought “No, no – that can’t be right. We just got married this year!” Nope. Over a year has now flown by and one of the most memorable meals marked the passing of our first year of marriage, a milestone that seems absolutely crazy that we’ve already achieved. We ate it in the same city we went on one of our first dates when we were just 17, almost eight years ago to this very day, and was a far cry from the Kelsey’s we enjoyed on our actual first date. (Though WB claims that wasn’t a date – we were just “getting to know each other.” I’m not sure what he thinks dating is, but nevermind. I think he at least agrees we are officially married.)

So anyway, Cava. This was a really fun meal, as we’ve said before. Small plates flowed out alongside a bottle of red, and we had fun exploring the different flavours and interesting new items on offer. Our favourite was the surprisingly mind-blowing edamame bruschetta, which we’ve actually spent the past month busy trying to replicate for our Christmas Eve celebration with a fair amount of success (another post to look forward to for 2013). It was a long, lazy dinner, with friendly service, and by the end we were stuffed to the brim, feeling very satisfied about the meal, life, marriage, the universe, and everything.

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There you have it. Our top eats of 2012. Not quite so mind-blowing as 2011, but a lot of fun and delicious memories to look back on. And in the gastronomical realm we also have a lot to look forward to in 2013, as well as some challenges.

I am no longer eating fish. I’ve finally given up my beloved sushi and bit the bullet on giving up fish. I’m still figuring out my stance on other seafood such as molluscs, etc. but not being able to fall back on fish has already been a challenging experience. I was already off fish in Mexico, but with the plethora of beany and cheesy options it wasn’t too difficult. However, our Europe travel plans will likely prove to be far more difficult, so it will be interesting to travel as a “real” vegetarian this time around.

Europe! Again! Despite the fish-related dilemmas sure to arise, we are really looking forward to getting some more top-notch food-related travel experiences. We’re thinking cheese fondue, truffles, goulash, chocolate, muesli, and štrukli. Any guesses?

Lots more London. We’ve hardly exhausted the dining options in our home, so we’re looking forward to eating more of London’s offerings. We already have one planned for next week!

HAPPY NEW YEAR! Hope 2013 brings you all lots of amazing experiences, foodie-ish and otherwise!

Thankfully, right around the corner from our hotel was La Olla, a place beloved by expats and recommended by many. We started our trip with a breakfast there, enjoyed mid-week coffees and a dinner there, and ended our time together with a cooking class run by its chef and owner, Pilar Cabrera (which warrants its own post!).

And so, I present to you, a restaurant review by yours truly.

THE WANDERLUSTKIND (MINUS WANDERBOY) RESTAURANT REVIEW METHOD: LA OLLA

Who: Wandergirl and B

What: Mexican and Oaxacan breakfast and dinner

When: October 19 for breakfast; October 22 for dinner; October 25 for breakfast and cooking class

Where: Oaxaca city, Mexico

Why: B had enjoyed La Olla on her previous travels to Oaxaca

Ambience: La Olla is two levels, and it’s always buzzing with activity. The bottom floor is a bit noisy with on-street traffic, but it’s a bright and welcoming place to have breakfast. We had dinner on the upper level, which has a really snazzy DIY kind of style with lots of glitter and cut-outs of superheroes, a funky bar, multicoloured skull masks, and chalkboard menus. I did spot locals, but it is largely an expat-friendly establishment, and when we ate dinner there, there were several Americans watching baseball. I think if you were travelling solo it’d be a great place to meet fellow gringos.

Service: Service was friendly. It’s hard to guage good service in a different country when there is the language barrier as well as cultural differences. Both meals arrived quickly but when finished there was a bit of sitting and waiting for the bill. This, however, seems to be the general expectation in Mexico. It’s nice that they aren’t rushing you out, but it can be kind of hard to attract servers’ attention to get la cuenta. And in La Olla this was definitely less so than a lot of other places in Oaxaca. Also, at dinner the waiter was great about answering our questions about wine and what was cooked with pig fat.

Coffee and wine: There were lots of options for both, and it was nice to try some Mexican wine with dinner. Our breakfast café con leches were rich and strong. That’s what I love about Mexican coffee: it is strong. If you aren’t a huge coffee drinker café con leche is definitely mellower. If you like strong coffee, La Olla’s café de olla - black coffee sweetened with cane sugar and flavoured with cinnamon – is really delicious and packs a punch.

Food: The food was simple, straightforward, and though I’m no expert in Mexican food, the menu seemed to have authentic Oaxacan food, food from other regions of Mexico, and some of the fare more familiar to American and Canadian tourists. Their breakfast was enormous – loaf, buns, salsas, coffee, juice, and our main courses of egg tortilla with squash blossoms for B, and fried eggs with beans and cactus for me. A lot of Oaxacan food seems to be actually mild, and you add spice with the hot salsas served with everything.

For dinner, B had the quesillo a la plancha, fried cheese (think fresh mozzarella meets halloumi), served in a pool of salsa verde. I had a bite and it was very delicious – probably my favourite thing I ate at La Olla. But, I mean, it’s a plate of fried cheese. You can’t go wrong. I had more cactus – tacos con nopales served with salsa verde, dried chile, avocado and queso fresco so I could add toppings to my taste. I actually really love cactus as a vegetable – it’s sweet and mild but goes well with the hot flavours of chile and salsa.

At another time for breakfast we had yogurt, granola and fruit which was a nice break from eggs and salsa.

In conclusion, the food was good. Simple, but good. And their menu was very clear about vegetarian options, so that’s good.

Favourite dish: As I said, I think fried cheese has an unfair advantage in this. It’d be hard to make that not delicious (though actually WB and I had pretty not delicious fried cheese in Prague once. So sad). I also really liked their coffee if that counts as a dish.

Least favourite dish: I can’t really pick a least favourite – everything was pretty good! I guess the white bread they serve with everything is pretty unextraordinary. But they did serve a lovely pineapple jam type thing with their white buns at breakfast. I actually usually hate pineapple, but I kind of liked this!

Price: It’s something to wrap your brain around seeing $60 beside a plate of eggs. I didn’t realise the peso sign was the same as the dollar sign. Anyway, eggs weren’t actually 60 dollars – everything was fairly reasonable, though not the cheapest in the city.

Worth it? Yes – they have solidly good and filling food with a nice atmosphere. It’s a good regular hangout for anyone in Oaxaca longer than a few days.

Tips: Don’t get the breakfast loaf (unless you want it). They come by to offer it out of a basket, but it isn’t actually included in the price of the breakfast. You’re not going to go broke, but if you’re having a plate of eggs on top of it, it’s really not necessary and not a “must have.”

Overall: Definitely recommend and would pop in again next time I’m in Oaxaca. They also have free wireless so it’s great for coffee and e-mails.

Summarized in three words: Laid-back. Funky. Straight-forward.

Out of five stars: ****

Where it lost stars: See my explanation here. It’s not going to change your life, but it’s a really great casual eatery and fun place to chill.

LA OLLA                   website

Reforma No. 402-1

Col. Centro Oaxaca, Oax. Mexico, 68000

011 52 (951) 516 6668

$40-90 for breakfast plates (including coffee, juice, bread); $50-150 for dinner mains

****

We just came back from an ultra late dinner of tlayudas at a tiny, family run restaurant just a couple doors down. The abuela cooks on a griddle out on the street while the daughter serves and the little granddaughter sleeps soundly on a bed of chairs behind us. Honestly, it looked a bit shady, but it was the perfect bedtime snack. And straying from the guidebook to find these mom-and-pop restaurants is all part of the fun of travel.

Before dinner we had a relaxed evening of beers on the zocaló. Much like last night, but tonight was a Friday, and a slew of racecar drivers and motorcyclists were in town. The square was noisy with the rumbling of enginges, the calls of vendors, the deep baritones and twanging strings of mariachi bands, and the laughter and cheers of the drinking crowds. At the table next to us was a group of drivers enjoying towers of beer three litres tall. I hope they were done driving for the night!

Alfonso, the fellow who works the front desk at our hotel, explained that it was the Carrera Panamerica. They are in town as one stop in their seven-day race across Mexico, and should be here for a couple days. It should be fun and interesting to see the excitement over the next while!

We also stepped in on a mass in Oaxaca Cathedral. Lillies of all colours lay in rows on the tiled floors, waiting to be hung up on the church’s pillars, while the organ and female voices sang something I assume was religious, but sounded more suited to an eerie, midnight travelling circus. I wish I knew what the song was. Lines of the devout streamed to the altar to receive communion. It was a bit awkward to be there, so obviously and glaringly a tourist. But with the flowers and the strange music, it was quite a sight.

I can’t believe we arrived in Oaxaca only about 24 hours ago. I’m in a café a couple doors down from our hotel. B is back at the hotel cooling off, but I’m out here pathetically searching for a wireless network to let WB know I’ve arrived safe and alive.

4:48 pm

My café de olla has arrived. It is a strong coffee, richly spiced with cinnamon and sweetened with piloncillo, which is unrefined cane sugar sold in big caramel blocks in the markets. I should learn to recreate it at home. It makes an afternoon coffee feel much more decadent and exciting.

Last night, we visited the zocaló, which I expect will become a regular occurance. We had beers and peanuts while people-watching in what seems to be the heart of Oaxaca city. It reminded me of Las Ramblas or the many squares in Barcelona. Lots of activity, lots of vendors, balmy night air, and instrumental renditions of popular songs filling the sidewalks – except here they are played by mariachi bands and on panpipes.

There aren’t a lot of tourists, though. There are some, of course, but many of them seem to be from different parts of Mexico, or children on school excursions. Not many English-speakers though they definitely stand out when you see them, as I’m sure I do. Vendors – especially children – make a b-line for us. But we say “no, gracias,” and for the most part they go on their way.

Today we explored markets, churches, and a museum – the Cultural Centre of Oaxaca located inside the church and former monastery of Santo Domingo.

There was a lot to learn and many artefacts from Mexican life through the ages, but my favourite bit was just gazing out onto the Ethnobotanical Gardens from the monastery’s balconies. At one point, we were doing just that, and this funny, tinny music began floating over the air. I wish I could convey it in words – it wasn’t a big, profound moment. Just one of those slightly odd, dreamlike scenes that come up so often in travel but are impossible to describe in words or capture in photos. We just both started giggling.

5:30 pm

My second cuppa has arrived, this time hierbabuena, something rather similar to mint tea. Nice and refreshing.

I wish I could have taken photographs on the plane into Oaxaca. I don’t often talk about the actual transportation involved in travelling, but it’s obviously a big piece of the puzzle. Between the comfort of home and the long, lazy nights of travel, there’s a whole lot of itineraries, ticket stubs, crying babies, and attempts to navigate airports and train stations in foreign languages.

Even if it were just a colossal stress, transportation woes would be worth the joys of exploring new and faraway places. But I actually kinda sorta like the transport part. I love airports, locales most people hate. I even like airplanes though after a few hours it does get tedious. I look forward to the airplane meals – mostly just the cute trays and tiny cutlery, not the actual eating aspect. Sometimes, it’s kind of nice to just have a few hours to yourself to watch a movie (or several) or read a book – downtime before settling into long days of adventure.

Our flight into Mexico City was relatively calm, but it was when we attempted to get to Oaxaca that some mild chaos ensued. We found our way however, and boarded the tiniest of plans for our 45-minute flight to Oaxaca. Though it creaked as it flew through the air, I at least had my own seat – a window and an aisle seat. Bonus. I ignored my book and spent the journey gazing out the window and trying to ignore the ferocious snoring floating over from a nearby passenger.

Mexico City airport seems like it’s smack dab in the middle of the city, surrounded by colourful, crammed in houses with red roofs, with a thick layer of smog hovering about the entire scene. Takeoff felt a bit like we were going to sheer the tops off the buildings in our path, but soon they were mere dollhouses.

Shortly after takeoff, the plane turned, dipping itself with a disturbing creeeak so that I was gazing downhill at those to my right. But this gave me a spectacular view of the blanket of clouds above  us. So fluffy and white – well, sort of – the smog had tinged them a pinkish brown in places that, if you ignored the fact that it was pollution almost looked like a fairyland sunset. Or maybe that was just my pre-travel rosy optimism.

I love the moment of flying that you break through the blanket of clouds and rise above them. First, the clouds grow larger – and it’s only really from this perspective that you realize they are actual, physical objects, however ethereal they may be. They aren’t just painted onto a flat sky. And they are enormous – they cast huge swathes of shadow on the ground below. If they weren’t so delightfully fluffy, like big pillows you could just sink right into, they’d almost be scary. I think everyone should fly for this experience: the acknowledgement that the world is so large, that almost everything is bigger than us. And yet, we can fly around it in a day. So we’re still pretty awesome.

Then you’re inside one of them, and the creaking plan begins to shake and rattle. I’d thought we’d burst through the cloud line almost immediately, but instead, it was minutes of pure white. As if we were inside nothing, nowhere. Passing over to the other side.

Then we did just that. We came out on top of the clouds, spread like a duvet beneath us.

I always thought of  “an ocean of sky” as a bit of a lazy and clichéd metaphor. But this looked like just that – an eerily pinkish-grey ocean. Sure, it was really a film of pollution from Mexico City, half-covering the clouds, as if they were marshmallows floating in a cup of some disgusting and probably poisonous beverage. It was maybe a bit gross, maybe a bit depressing, but it was also strangely beautiful. But it’s hard not to think the world is beautiful from 40,000 feet in the air.

Then Oaxaca appeared, and above it the clouds thinned.

I believe it was in Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros, that the narrator tells of a man rolling up a ball of paper in attempt to describe the Oaxacan landscape. Staring down at it, I understood what he meant: wrinkled mountains, some with misty clouds curling up them like wild beards. Spots of small, packed-together villages, strips of agriculture, and clusters of green trees with great swathes of land sheered and bald where forests had been harvested.

Trains and buses and driving are all good means of transportation, and they give you a spectacular entry into your chosen destination. You can see the surrounding environment from down where people see it. Daily life, the human footprint, travelling along the paths many generations before also took.

But up in the sky, you get a different view. There’s still the evidence of human life, but there’s also evidence that the mountains of Oaxaca were wrinkled and crumpled long before we were here. As the land stretches out endlessly and the clouds, spreading wider and reaching higher than any factory or skyscraper, cast their shadows on it, there is evidence that the boundaries we set between nations and provinces and cities and personal properties are all arbitrary and human creations that have existed for less than a molecule’s worth of space on the long arm of time. Though we all have our own traditions, our own culture, and our own language – which is a really beautiful thing and makes travel very worthwhile – I’m not so much a foreigner intruding on someone else. I’m just visiting another part of my home, the large and tiny planet Earth.

Maybe, one day, generations after me will be thinking the same thing as they look back on Earth from dark, star-splattered outerspace on their holiday to the moon.

And then we landed, in a culture dramatically different from my own. Speaking in a beautiful language I can only awkwardly mumble a few words of. Eating foods I’ve never tasted and learning histories and stories I never before knew.

Up in the air, I might have felt that Oaxaca and Mexico and the world was enormous, but here down in the grit of the city, Oaxaca is an insular world. A city you can walk across, whose streets and landmarks soon became familiar. Whose markets are bursting with life and smells and sights, whose zocaló is always packed with music and languages and dancing and drinking. Whose people are friendly and vibrant and welcoming. Whose lovers held hands down the street, and vendors cried out for customers. Whose schoolchildren played and elderly shuffled. Whose citizens went to work, and to grocery shopping, and to the bank, and home to their families. Whose sun rose and set, and time passed.

Funny how the world can seem so big and varied, and so small and the same, all at once.

The plane once again dipped low over the houses, and I felt certain we were  going to land on the very roofs, but the strip of runway appeared suddenly to catch us as we lounded with a resounding groan.

We arrived. Nosotros llegamos.