Longqing Gorge

Champagne Weekend

Champagne Weekend


Nate turned 29 on June 29th! Being his champagne birthday, I was sweating a little bit to come up with something special for us to do. Knowing how much he loves the public bathhouses here, I thought, what better than an outdoor pool and sauna? I found the perfect place.... I thought.

Ah yes, couple's hot tubs, a cold pool, a bamboo trail and a talking well. I was sold at the talking well. I should know by now, after many slight but insightful disappointments, that my Canadian expectations of experiences here in Korea are a far cry from the real thing.

Take for example, the time when we went on a class trip with our kindergarten class to a strawberry field. So being the privileged Canadian that I am, I naively pictured fields, beautiful open fields, strawberries tumbling out of wooden boxes, stained hands, blue skies and happy bellies. When we drove down a dumpy dirt road surrounded by hundreds of plastic greenhouses, littered with garbage and various unwanted tools I was confused. Then the kids had just ten minutes to pick (excuse my pretentiousness but) relatively flavourless strawberries with pesticide residue all over them, while baking under a  plastic roof.

Add to that 'camping' in parking lots, school 'picnics' in large noisy dining tents...

I'm getting ahead of myself here.

The point is I shouldn't have been surprised when Nate and I rolled up to a mob of screaming children in floaties, tubes and life jackets with parents dressed... relatively in the same way, actually. Many Koreans can't swim so this is a potentially deadly situation. We looked over the balcony to the "sauna and water park" below, which was really a large storage container for watered-down urine. Kids and parents were swarming like around the pizza sample at Costco.

So we asked around and heard about a water park called California Beach. We hopped in a cab and five minutes later found ourselves at a water and amusement park called Gyeongju world. We saw water slides, roller coasters and the spinny rotating arm ride and quickly transformed into small children. Next thing I knew we were splashing around in the wave pool, threatening to run over children or knock them out with our excited frollicking. We hopped on a tube slide that was truly terrifying. I happened to be on the leading edge (the downhill side) of a four person tube, and I wondered -as we started our momentum down the steep slope - if the large, jolly Korean man directly across from me would be my last image before the weight imbalance folded our tube in half and I was crushed in a Korean plastic sandwich.  We dropped down a mathematically impossible slope into a giant funnel where we got whipped around and then spit out the bottom, more or less like a turd in a toilet. I'd also like to add that the life 'guards' ... ie. glorified tube positioners ... have the same strange inflated egos as they do back home. Which seemed quite a paradox given they were all wearing very small speedos with colourful cartoon animals on them.

At one point I actually found myself running to the next ride. The most terrifying of the day was a covered one-person slide. You stand upright in a tube, pray to your gods and then the bottom falls out from beneath you, sending you down a brief freefall followed by a series of whiplashing corners and the whole darn thing's over in 4 seconds. I came out sputtering and in shock, maybe because my bathing suit bottoms were lodged in my brain, and it took me quite some time to find words to tell Nate what had just transpired. It was awesome.

That evening we made our way out to the coast where I somehow managed to find a back-alley gem of a restaurant called 'Grappa.' Nate loves pizza so I wanted to find the best possible pizza in Ulsan. That's quite a feat actually, considering the Korean version of pizza often includes corn, potato, or sweet cream cheese filled crust. Not only did it turn out to be the best pizza in Ulsan, but actually the best pizza I've ever had. They have a wood-fired oven and the owner studied culinary arts in Italy for some time. Nate almost cried with joy.

The next day we had a lovely picnic up on a forested ridge that I had hiked a few months earlier. Only Canadians would hike 30 minutes, with 15 pound backpacks, uphill both ways,  in mid summer heat just to eat food and do nothing....with a view. We decorated a little pagoda overlooking the Taehwa river, cracked some champagne, lit some unnecessary candles and ate our faces off. Passerbys found it quite charming and stopped to admire the view (us.. not the actual view). Some people just clapped for us. It was a lovely weekend and totally our style; random, relaxing and organized entirely around food.

"I shall stay until the wind changes"

Great line from Mary Poppins.

Well it was time to leave Buenos Aires. I could feel it in my bones....

The skies turned the cold steely grey they get in the winter, we ran completely out of natural peanut butter and my bar of soap receded to a paper-thin soap shaving.

So I opened my umbrella and took to the skies with the first Westerly wind.

Or I just walked my self and big ass backpack to the train station and received approximately 42 dirty looks while I took up the place of three people on the morning rush hour train downtown. From there I grabbed a bus.  The good news is, I saved 65 pesos doing it. About $15 dollars. Man I'm my father's daughter....

Had a beautiful flight into La Paz, Bolivia. I woke up to the tips of the Andes breaking though the hazy afternoon clouds. They are so majestic... sacred spires and gaping canyons with seemingly endless bottoms, smooth and sanded-down curves and sharp serrated cliffs.They seemed so unknowable and vast until upon further inspection, I realized there were footpaths and small buildings spaced out between what might be tens or hundreds of kilometers.

I had a happy cry at the sight. Then again when we passed this beautiful, hanging marshmallow cloud that seemed to contain all the dreams and unicorns and everything perfect inside of it.

I think the Andes are the laugh lines of the world. Deep and telling, aged and wise but content.

From La Paz it was onto Santa Cruz in the south. But not before taking out the local currency, Bolivianos, and buying chocolate. I just need to describe this:

77% dark organic chocolate with cocao nibs and salt from Salar de Uyuni salt flats in Bolivia
60%  chocolate with organic high Andean coffee beans

Both from an organic, ethical co-op run by Bolivians. If the perfect life was a chocolate bar it would be this. And I would eat it. I would eat life. Then I would melt it and bathe in life and then eat the bathwater.

For anyone who appreciates chocolate, you see where I'm coming from. So without even knowing what the exchange rate was I handed over 70 Bolivianos. Could have been 400 Canadian dollars and it would have been worth it. From La Paz it was onto Santa Cruz.

This sweet guy named Carlos picked me up at the airport. Luckily it was easy to spot him with a sign saying ALISON VERCAKE. I'm so used to improper spelling of my last name, I don't know if I'd recognize the real thing. When we got to the hostal this lovely elderly man came stumbling out of the darkness explaining that he was sorry but he didn't feel well...

We had quite a long chat about his health until I realized he was the owner and was apologizing that he couldn't come to the airport to get me because he had intense muscle cramping in his leg that has caused him to fall several times. We decided it might be stress. So that's Tom, the German man who fell in love with Bolivia and never left. He's a doll. He say's things like this:

"OK... a little bit about Santa Cruz..... Well now, let's see.... there really isn't much to do here."
"Well of course you can walk around at night, this isn't Pakistan"
"It's a lovely little willage"  - I love how Germans use W's unstead of V's.

He also presses ENTER with great enthusiasm after every click on his ancient computer. Browsing internet, clicks on the link and giant-arm-raising-button-striking ENTER. SO very satisfying. I couldn't bring myself to explain the futility of this action, he just enjoyed it so very much.

No interesting pictures of the above events so I'm doing a final Buenos Aires wrap up here. One picture, one story.

No story here.I  just like this picture. 

Lost in Translation: We THOUGHT we ordered one glass each of Sangria. We ACTUALLY ordered  one pitcher each of it. Love that 3PM buzz. 

Just teaching this nice young man how to do the tango. He was a quick learner. 

Finally found bubble tea! First time in years. Reminds me of when the boys blew the tapioca balls through their straws at innocent bystanders as we cruised by in downtown Hamilton. Man I miss those days sometimes. This picture is honour of Dorothy, queen of the peace sign and lover of bubble tea. 

Double dog poop day. This is a DIY shoe cleaning with a stick, post-dog poop step. The walk TO the train, and the walk HOME from the train resulted in Brooke stepping in dog poop. Same day, I couldn't help but laugh mercilessly without sympathy at her cries of disgust "aww maannn! AWWW MAN! ..... aw... ah MAANNN!"

Glorious glorious ice cream and intestinal chaos. Not only does BA offer the best ice cream I have ever tried in my life, but they also deliver it to your house, at ANY time of the day or night. Thank goodness this service is not offered in Canada. It would be like the night I snuck away from our neighbour's party to eat a whole tub of ice cream, watching television in the dark, alone. This is what my life would become if we had ice cream delivery. 

SO happy to find fresh squeezed orange juice at the market. First time since Peru!  This lady was frightened by my extreme enthusiasm and intense run towards her stand. 

Everything is funnier after a pitcher of Sangria. Like this man who dresses up like a red any. He calls himself "the little ant man." He walks around selling memorabilia of himself . Like magnets with his picture. I  obviously had to buy his magnet. What a guy.

Doing tree by the tree of life. The T-rex/wolly mammoth of all trees. Not only was the trunk big enough to live comfortably in, but the branches stretched out so wide and far away that they were held up by posts and other supporting structures.

Pablo Penguino

Ah yes - here we are in Buenos Aires, living the Suburban dream. Not quite my typical style - the fenced-in yards, tinted windows, local plastic surgery shops  and array of fake boobs- but undeniably enjoyable for the time being. I've switched into first gear, neutral actually, to save on gas, and I'm enjoying the ride.

First let me introduce my roommate, life coach, fitness instructor and host of the last month - the beautiful Brooke. She's from The US of A but lives here in BA. Brooke and I met in Ecuador at a salsa class. After the 60+ crowd gathered their things - namely canes and walkers - I found myself next to a gal who, like myself, was asking Francisco, the adorable instructor about trying something "slightly more advanced." In other words, moving beyond the "forward step, backward step" component we had practiced for an hour with kind older men who were, to their credit, eager to learn but looked like drunken teenage giraffes and panicked ostriches.

Next thing I knew we had arranged ourselves a private lesson at his house for the following evening. We looked at each other both quietly wondering if this was an insanely dumb move, but we felt better about it after a few caprinahs. At the bar fifteen minutes later, we quickly planned the next four days together like school children on summer vacation and at one point Brooke looked at me and said ....

"Hey wait... we don't even know if we like each other."

"Oh trust me. We do"

There are times in life when you don't need to question these things. Some things just feel right. Those are good moments.

A lovely night of dancing and dinner with Brooke and the sweetheart Francisco. 

And the rest is history. Except it isn't. Nothing ever is. Because here I am, at her place in Buenos Aires for my fourth week, playing housewife with great enthusiasm. I've picked up running again which feels great. There is an awesome trail along the train tracks right next to the river. 

I learned the aforementioned "river" was just that, a river between Uruguay and Argentina last week. After THREE weeks of running beside it. I'm VERY relieved to hear it. There was something very creepy about that brown ocean. Brown rivers are more acceptable. 

We had Brooke's extra bike fixed for some excellent rides and exploratory suburban tours. I also signed up for pilates and have been practicing my vocabulary of body parts in spanish. Never thought I'd need to know meta-tarsals,  quads, abs or "this is really hurting me, can I stop?" Now I know.

Buenos Aires rocks the night life and weekend goodness. They weekend well. "To weekend" is a verb... it means the activities you generally take part in on the weekend. 

We've frequented the weekend markets in Palermo, San Telmo, Recolleta and Tigre, all barrios or zone in the city. In Palermo, bars and clubs open their doors on the weekends for local artisans to sell their crafts. We caught an afternoon raggaeton show on hippy hill where all ages spilled across the grass with their mates and joints ablazin'. I loved the little old man who maneuvered through the crowd selling beer from his lunchbox cooler. With streetside tango shows set under the trees of European-feel suburbs, the hustle of running across the world's supposedly widest street (it took us three light-changes to make it), cafes where friends and family share espressos and an ungodly quantity of pastries, there's little NOT to like about Buenos Aires. 

Some of my highlights were an electronic music festival, a hip-hop dance club where live break dancers work their magic on the main floor and we try to not to stand out, and two of Brooke's work functions where we undoubtedly made an impression. Likely with our in-exhaustive series of dance moves. We hit up a wicked percussion show... just 12 drummers that improv the whole time based solely on the conductors movements...

While practicing "the art of my dance" I turned to see this girl staring at me. I know her. How do I know her? Too many faces and places flying through my head like a Fischer Price Picture Viewer.

"How do we know each other?"

Turns out she served me beer at the Grad House on Dal campus a little too regularly. And now she is here in BA, at this drum show. Dancing beside me. Obviously.

Dancing to Rhianna from inside a child's playhouse to our sheer enjoyment (not sure it was funny to anyone other than us, but that didn't matter). Yes this was at a work party. Not only did we make quite the entrance the first time, but after leaving the party, I climbed on Brooke's shoulders and danced over the high security wall to a backyard full of confused guests until we convinced ourselves to return for more dancing shananigans.

Yes there is no shortage of silliness. Last week, one evening up late, I ran with my imagination which decided there was someone lurking on the bathroom roof. As any good citizen would do, I decided to run and hide in my room. I figure it would be wise to lock my bedroom door with this ancient, metal key that looked like it belonged to a Scholastic-order fuzzy diary for a grade 6er, and not a real door.

We should listen to those moments of intuition. 

That decision led to a 8 hour bedroom arrest. All the windows have bars around these parts, so climbing out the window was not an option. Luckily the bars were wide enough to pass through some peanut butter, rice cakes and a large tupperware for urinating. 

I'd say we bring out the best, and young, in each other. We're frequently asked if we're related, which we take to kindly. That is - until our taxi driver inquired, quite genuinely, if we we're mother-daughter. That's like the equivalent of asking someone if they are pregnant, experiencing hair loss and have been recently dumped ... all at once. That didn't go well.

Even the palm-reader said we had the same palms. 

For a creative/love-inspired/inside joke project that will not be explained here, Brooke rented a large mascot costume to dress up in and take pictures. I would be the perfect accomplice/agent. Turns out the large "blue bird" was actually "Pablo Penguino" an extremely famous Argentine cartoon for kids.

He's like Woody the Woodpecker. Let's just say, kids and old people alike were delighted when we wandered through the market, went grocery shopping (and then got escorted out) waited at the bus stop and RODE the bus. Children attacked, cars honked and I laughed until I cried. One family pulled over to ask us "if we do birthday parties?" Why didn't I say yes? I could use a little coin. 

Most memorable - Brooke couldn't get off the bus in the mascot suit, because she was unable to see the pole in the middle of the stairs to go down. After repeatedly head butting the pole in complete penguino-confusion, (and I was too weak with laughing to assist her), the bus driver was fed up and then closed the door on us, but we finally made it home. 

So all in all, I think we gave Buenos Aires a run for its money.