here's why | tofo, mozambique

I sent my brother a handwritten letter from Mozambique. He didn't find it in his mailbox. The envelope had no address, no writing, except "Chris" with a quick underline beneath the name. He got my letter one night at work, when a woman named Aly walked in. She walked right up to him - didn't need to ask for someone to point him out to her. Later, she'd tell me, I knew right away. You two look just alike. She smiled warmly, and said, Cyndi says hi from Mozambique. And he read my letter.

Aly says he welled up as he read it, and that once he finished his face broke into a giant grin and he hugged her like they were old friends. He sat her and the friend she'd come with at a table with no regard to the wait list. He was the general manager at a popular restaurant in Atlanta. Their tab was on him, for the price of learning how my letter found its way into his hands from Africa.

The first time I traveled alone was to Mozambique. I didn't intend to travel alone. My closest girlfriend in my study abroad program in South Africa and I planned the trip together. Two days before our flight would take off, she backed out. My friends balked. Assumed I wouldn't go. It's Africa. It's dangerous.

I went anyway. 

I booked a room at Fatima's, a hostel with branches in Maputo and Tofo, my next destination, with plenty of beer and staff to kept the party going. On the taxi ride to Fatima's, young kids, really young, 5-6-7 years old, beat on the windows.

I crouched down, embarrassed to be white, embarrassed to have the money to afford a taxi. Traffic was so slow the kids followed us. Some begged for money, and others offered to sell homemade goods. I chastised myself and sat up straight. I waved hello. Eventually, they waved back, their broken English, Hellos ringing in my ears for days.

I barely set my things down on my mosquito-netted bed before two backpackers - an Australian guy and a European man, invited me to dinner at a local bar. Don't get in cars with strangers. Africa is dangerous.

I went anyway.

I had pizza, at this raucous Maputo bar. I drank Savannah Dry, my favorite beer/cider in southern Africa. The three of us watched futbol, talked of our travel plans (wherever the road takes me was theirs, in summary), and of travels past. These guys had been everywhere. Two hours into the night, I asked when they'd first met and where. They looked at each other and me, Really? and laughed. They'd met right before they asked me if I wanted to join them for dinner. I told them this was my first time traveling alone.

You're never alone when you travel, they said.

The next morning, I boarded a van. I waited outside like a kid ready for the first day of school, my bags neatly packed, expecting a bus to arrive at the scheduled time. An hour later, the van showed up. A hubcap was missing, I had a chicken for a seat mate, and the smell of body odor threatened to make me ill. Locals jumped on and off the van at varying points with no seeming rhyme or reason. Half the time, the van was still moving.

I moved to the closest seat I could find to the front and stuck my head out a window.

You'll get used to it, a friendly voice said.

Aly worked for the CDC in Atlanta. She had gone to Emory. She spent an extensive amount of time in Africa as part of her job, usually in the DRC. After this last trip to the Congo, she planned to meet her English boyfriend in Tofo for a scuba diving vacation. Being from Atlanta, we jumped into familiar places and restaurants, how things have changed, and, of course, we talked of our travels. 

Mozambique is a poor country with rich natural resources. Ruled by the Portuguese from the 1500s until 1975, the country is still finding its own independent feet. Maputo is an average African city - busy, cramped and fairly developed while still growing. Inland, the country is agricultural, rural and beautiful. It's desolate. And it's very poor. As you move towards the coast on the Indian ocean, tourism plays an increasingly bigger role. The water is pristine, and the land is coveted.

I'm so glad I got to see Mozambique now, before tourism takes hold.

In Tofo, Aly and I met Tim, a fellow American. I don't remember our meeting, where it was exactly, or when it happened. But I do know that within a blink of an eye, or it seems, the three of us were inseparable. Tim was working in Swaziland in HIV-stricken communities. He wore his work in his eyes, and we talked endlessly about the need for sustainable development, pre-natal healthcare and the power of communicating through language barriers.

The nearest town to Tofu is Inhambane, about 30 minutes inland. The small town is mostly empty streets, quickly deserted once the work day ends. Crime is high and police officers are stationed on most corners, on streets and near banks. Inhambane houses the closest ATM. It held my debit card, and Tim and I frantically called over one of those officers, trying desperately to communicate the problem. The bank was closed, they said. But they could call someone.

Crime is high in Mozambique, and the intense presence of the police make it feel criminal to walk around, but the people are friendly. The officers are people, and they can be friendly, too.

I read for days in Tofo. I bought ankle bracelets from a local boy who called himself, "Johnny Cash." I sipped Savannah Dry with Aly and Tim. We ate the local food at the only restaurant anywhere around. We walked the beach every night at sunset. Tim and I went diving with whale sharks, and we both puked our whole insides up over the side of the small boat on our way out to sea. We took deep breaths and dove in the water, anyway, once we got to where we were tortuously going, and for the few minutes we could last in the rolling waves, felt great swimming alongside the biggest sea creatures I've ever seen.

Before we all parted, I handed Aly a hand-written letter addressed to simply "Chris."

Your brother's restaurant is one of my favorites.

Tim is getting married. Aly and I had drinks in Atlanta a few years after we came back from Mozambique.

You're never alone when you travel.

Here's why you should visit Mozambique:

1. Burgeoning country - prices continue to rise by the year as tourism grows and industry spreads (and problems with inflation continue), but get there before resorts dot the pristine coastline 
2. Beaches
3. Scuba diving - It's cheaper to get certified here than many other countries. There's also incredible diving. (From hearsay & research - I don't dive.)
4. History - such a storied, complicated reign of Portuguese control has left the country in shambles, but the mixture of the Portuguese influence with native African roots, is fascinating - in architecture, culture, language and everything. 
5. TIA. This is Africa. It's complicated, and I have complicated feelings about this country. But this is Africa. And Africa asks you to grow and change and rid yourself of preconceived ideas. You'll be a better person and traveler for coming here.

san antonio | K9 puppies in training

2012 really was a great year. Even the parts that were "bad" afforded me great times. Case in point - leaving TV Asahi for another job was a true highlight, but some of the experiences I had as a producer were memorable and incredibly enjoyable. In the spring (I think it was spring, who remembers that far back?), I produced a segment in San Antonio, Texas on the K9 military dog training facility at Lackland Air Force Base (TSA's puppy program). The dogs are increasingly bred there (as opposed to being shipped from Europe), raised and trained. The pups go through rigorous nose, obedience, attention and agility aptitude tests and are weeded out starting at a young age. Fun fact - the dogs who don't quite make the cut are put up for adoption. The waiting list is years.

While on the AFB, we got the unique opportunity of meeting a brand new litter of pups. Today, I found myself watching a video I took of them. ....on repeat. It has been that kind of week, you know?

It also got me thinking about Texas. I'd love to go back sometime soon. Even if it's just a random, long weekend, and I fly solo. I'd love more time to explore the storied Alamo, more time to devour homemade chips and salsa at every hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant I can find, more time to peruse the scenic boardwalk, and more time to take in the sights, sounds and smells of Texas. There are cities and towns and places and moments that tie us to somewhere and leave us wanting more. Something about San Antonio did it for me. My guess is these pups had something to do with it. 

Is there a seemingly arbitrary city you'd like to visit or visit again? Why does it speak to you?

here's why | rehoboth beach, delaware

I love the drive from D.C. out to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. It takes you through a panoply of settings - urban as you exit DC, suburban through the towns with Targets and shopping malls, scenic and awe-inspiring over the grand Chesapeake Bay, rural through cow pastures and farmhouses and property with acres that stretch endlessly, and finally, beach town.

Nine months ago, I'd never been there, though I'd heard plenty about the (in)famous summer parties at neighboring Dewey Beach. When Zander and I started dating, I knew his parents lived in Rehoboth because he often referenced summer fishing trips and weekend getaways (that I now know is a euphemism for "place to do my laundry"). In the last nine months, I've gone from a stranger to the area to familiar and comfortable with it to a Rehoboth enthusiast. 

A big reason why I love the drive out to Rehoboth is the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The nearly 4.5 mile shore-to-shore behemoth is one of the longest of its kind in the world, shakes (like a salt shaker) when there's a modicum of wind, and generously offers up incredible views of the bay. Once, we spotted an un-submerged submarine. That has to be one of the coolest things I've ever seen, and it was a mere hour outside the District. We've crossed it on bright, sunshiny days, when the rain is coming down like pellets, when the wind has us gripping the steering wheel and door handles for dear life, and at sunset, my favorite.

Of course, the reason most people visit Rehoboth is for the beach. It's pretty gorgeous, right? This is Zan's dad, walking ahead of us Christmas Eve morning, the cold biting through our multiple layers. The dogs barely noticed it. Beach culture in Rehoboth is just like any other beach town - beer and laughter-filled during the summers and isolated in winter. Winter is my favorite. The mile long boardwalk (a great, easy, pretty run!) is empty, the ice cream and french fry stands boarded up, and the only other people you'll see are locals, who share a connected love of the forlorn boards and still amusement park rides. There's a certain, I don't know, je ne sais quoi, about a heavily touristed area that's silent, but for the rolling waves. It's beautiful.

Rehoboth has its secrets. Lordy, I love a place that holds its secrets close and tight. Most visitors eat pizza at Grotto's, when they should be having it served fresh and hot from Nicola. They shop at the Outlets on Route 1, when there are life-changing finds to be had at Hula Sue, boutique extraordinaire. The tourists grab a few groceries here and there where they find them, when a short jaunt takes you to Hickman's Meat Market, home to America's most incredible homemade chorizo, that I have to get every single visit. There's also "the farm," the best place for milk and honey and dairy galore, but I couldn't tell you where it is because it's off a side street I can never remember, and it's only open when it's open.

Beneath the sand-filled nooks and crannies exterior, Rehoboth is a foodie town, at its core. Take Shorebreak Lodge, a locals joint off the main strip, that serves some of the best wings I've ever had, has a killer wine list, and makes homemade edamame hummus that is to die for. Henlopen is one of Zan's parents' favorites for good reason. With a fresh oyster bar, and another incredible wine list, a bustling atmosphere and bartenders that remember your name from six months ago, it's the place to see and be seen. For low key nights that don't require much effort, I like Casa DiLeo, where the homemade tiramisu is the best thing on the menu.

Travel doesn't have to be costly or international. Travel can be at a new restaurant, a city you've never seen, the site of raindrops falling on a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, or a beach where the only prints in the sand are your own. Rehoboth is good travel. 

Here's why you should visit Rehoboth Beach, Delaware... 

1. crossing the Chesapeake Bay
2. fresh seafood, local markets, oenophile's dream
3. the beach, of course 
4. shopping (outlets + local boutiques)
5. you might just run into me some time! say hi ;)

sugarloaf mountain northern peaks trail (blue)

I've been thinking about the woods behind my childhood home. Newnan, Georgia is one of the biggest metro-Atlanta suburban areas now. When my family moved there, way back in 1990, it wasn't like that. It was downright rural then. My subdivision was sprawling, the nooks and crannies filled with uncharted nature that seemed endless to a kid. They were eventually filled in with houses, and the woods became short paths to visit our neighbors. But for most of my childhood, the woods were the woods, and there was a lot of them back there. 

Directly behind my house, the woods went back and back and back for as far as I could imagine. I explored them by day, and tip-toed a step or two into them at night, before running back to my house scared. My brother and I, and my friends and I, bushwhacked through them, creating our own trails we remembered by the broken limbs and eventually well worn paths. I learned to suck on honeysuckle and spot poison ivy, and we built forts out of tree covers and played hide-and-seek and foxes and hounds in the bush.

When we first moved to Newnan, we lived with my uncle down the street for a few months, while my mom closed on what would be our home. My Uncle Mike lived only 7 houses down from where we would live for the next 15 years, but the woods behind his house were a whole other world. His woods were even vaster. There were rolling hills and large rocks that seemed like boulders to my little eyes. There was a stream that ran who knows how far. My brother trekked the length of it more than once. I thought he was the strongest and bravest. I was maybe six or seven years old.

I jumped from rock to rock, and in the creek played leap frog on the pebbles, trying to never let my toes get wet, else I lose the game. I balanced with my arms outstretched on fallen trees, walking on my tip-toes the entire length of them, pretending I was an Olympic gymnast like Shannon Miller. 

In 1993, Atlanta had a blizzard - the "storm of the century!" Really, they called it that. Even wikipedia remembers. I'd never seen snow, and my mom woke my brother and me up early, so so early, as the wet, white stuff came down in sheets. It covered our lawn, probably only inches at most, but I swear it went up to our waists. 

Of course, all of metro Atlanta shut down, and that meant no school. We bundled up as best we could - there's a shortage of winter coats when you live way down south, and we convinced our black lab puppy, Shadow, to come play with us. We threw the first snowballs of our lives, wrestled in it, sledded down the sloping hills of our neighborhood streets, and tried to find the trails we'd blazed in the in the snow-covered woods. 

All of these childhood memories came flooding back to me this weekend when Zander, Theo and I went hiking at Sugarloaf Mountain in Dickerson, Maryland. It was a quiet day, cold and icy. The first quarter mile of the Northern Peaks blue-blazed trail we attempted was iced over and treacherous. Fortunately the trail cleared up after that, the snow provided a beautiful back drop, and we were able to finish the 5.5 mile loop. 

After passing the White Rock Overlook, about 2.5 miles in, we descended until we passed a unique tree formation. One tree arched over like the top of a swing set, and another intersected it like a jungle gym. I had to stop (for the millionth time) to take a picture. Growing up in the woods hit me so hard, and I had this thought that if I were ever a playground contractor, visionary - this is what would inspire me. Then I thought I wouldn't have a job for very long, because I'd tell kids to come play in the woods. They're the real playgrounds. 

Don't you want to swing from that arch, and climb and jump off and hang upside down? 

At White Rock Overlook, the view itself didn't take my breath away - it was the little red farmhouse, so proud and distinct in the distance, that did it. What is it about that iconic image that takes me somewhere I've never been, every single time I see it?

 

Hiking makes me feel young again, like we can all stop time for those miles we're breathing hard and sweating in the woods, convincing ourselves we can make it to the top. The peaks I summit and the trails I meander are longer and higher and tougher than the woods behind my childhood house, but my love for them started at 365 Freestone Drive, in the subdivision without a sign. You can spot it by the three giant boulders on the right-hand side of the road. 

Want to hike Sugarloaf? I recommend the blue-blazed Northern Peaks Trail. It's a less-traversed trail on the busy mountain. You'll be stunned by the green-moss covered rocks, giant oaks that shade your way, and views that include a certain little red farmhouse. Read more about it on LocalHikes.

oh hey, PS - I ran about a mile of this trail, too, just like I did after Old Rag. This is becoming a habit. I'm thinking of trying out trail running. Do you have any suggestions on routes, running trails, shoes, etc? Want to run with me? I'd love to hear from you!

russian dessert blinis

My roommate Matt, who blogs over at 27aday, moved to D.C. from L.A. last June. He and his former roommates in L.A. started a weekly tradition of homemade "family" dinners - each meal inspired by different countries drawn out of a hat. An appetizer from Poland, an entree from Namibia and a dessert from New Zealand, for example. A few weeks ago he pitched the idea for our house, and I jumped right up on the culinary tour bandwagon. Instead of each course from a different country, we're doing one meal per. Matt's doing most of the cooking, as he's using it for a new blog project of his that I won't reveal until he unveils it, but I'm more than pleased to be a tasting guinea pig.

We drew Russia for week one. Matt chose to make the popular dish Beef Straganoff. The traditional version of this dish is very different than what we see in American kitchens and restaurants. My first thought when he chose it was, "meh." It brought to mind images of canned mushroom soup, limp mushrooms, egg noodles, and that soppy creamy texture that needs a lot of work to be considered even edible, in my book. The real version, as he found out, involves no canned soup, arguably no mushrooms (there's a serious culinary debate over that one!), is served with pan fried potatoes, and the beef tenderloin is sauteed or flash fried. The real version? It's great.

Matt opted to serve our beef stroganoff with Russian blinis. Blinis, not bellinis - which got me really excited (mmm prosecco!), are flat pancake-like dough fried with onion. They're served with savory items - like stroganoff! or caviar, beef strips, etc. They've also been traditionally served with honey or jam.

I'm glad I had my narrow opinion on beef stroganoff challenged. You'll never find egg noodles on my dinner table in this dish again. Side note: we also made fried potatoes to try them, as well, and unanimously voted the beef better with them than the blinis.

Many cultures have these pancake-like dishes. I imagine they come from peasant roots, don't you? They're simple, cheap and can feed quite a few people. And for Russia's purposes, they're warm and filling. 

As I ate them with the warm beef, I immediately thought of crêpes and imagined ways to make them sweet, instead of savory (of course I did...). Luckily, we had quite a bit of batter left - enough for 4-5 more blinis, and two ended up being more than enough.

We were out of Nutella - my first choice for a quick dessert blini, so I scavenged some more. I skipped the onion on the skillet and used a pat of butter instead to fry the batter. After letting it brown on one side, I flipped it to brown on the other. I dusted brown sugar on top, added a few drops of vanilla, and sprinkled on a small handful of chocolate chips. I folded over a third of the blini on top of itself, then rolled it the rest of the way. Voila! An American-Russian-French inspired dessert. That's what America's all about, right?

Russian Blinis

you'll need...

• 1 cup flour (be prepared! these will be runny. for a heartier blini, add more flour, up to an addl cup)
• 3 cups milk
• 2-3 eggs, mixed in one at a time
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil (for frying) *you can substitute cooking spray or butter
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• half an onion, peeled

here's how...

• beat eggs with milk. 
• add salt & flour and stir, stir, stir (mix well)! 
• beat out the lumps or drain, if lumps persist. 
• spear your onion with a fork and dip it in oil (or skip this step and use cooking spray/butter). rub the onion along the pan to grease it every time you make a new blini. 
• pour a thin layer of batter into the pan (we used a little less than 1/2 cup for each blini). 
• cook until lightly browned - about 2 minutes, flip & brown the other side.

dessert blini...

• skip the onion & use butter instead to grease the pan 
• brown on one side & flip
• dust with brown sugar (a large pinch, more by taste)
• add a few drops of vanilla (no more than 1/2 teaspoon)
• sprinkle with chocolate chips
• roll and serve with milk (mmmmm I want another now!)

run the world & other new year's resolutions

 

How indulgent and narcissistic is it of me to post gigantic photos of Theo sleeping in black and white? It's pretty awful. I kind of hate myself for it. If it helps at all (spoiler: it will only make it worse), they're only in black and white to disguise how bad the exposure was on them. Look at me using words like "exposure" to mean things other than "indecent!" So anyway...

2013 New Year's Resolutions (it's in caps. it must be serious. let's all be serious now.)

• run 365 miles (I now have "run this town" stuck in my head.)
• run a half marathon (i'm eying this race. running 5 miles straight is a physical impossibility - fact, so naturally i'm prepared for my life to end come 13.1!)
• two passport stamps (Mexico is locked and loaded for February. the world is my oyster that fits in the narrow margins of my checking account for the other!)
• hike 100 miles (Zander is reading this and groaning, LOUDLY, right now. Yippeee!)
• try a new fitness activity (read: an excuse to take a Bollywood class. as though anyone needs one.)
• try one new restaurant & recipe per month (drunken noodles in 12 variations is acceptable.)
• blog it all

I'll be tracking my rather lofty goal of running 365 miles and hiking 100 miles this year here on the blog. I'll hopefully have that set up here in the next week. Until then - I'll just tell you every day. So far, I've run 1.6 miles and hiked 0. I know, you're impressed. #run365

Tomorrow: how I turned Russian pancakes into crepes. Hey, I never said "resolution: eat less dessert." I'm not insane (completely)!

I'd love to hear about your resolutions. Do you believe in them? Why or why not? If not, do you set broad goals in other ways?

welcome! to a new blog and 2013! + a holidays recap

Pinch me! Someone pinch me! It's 2013, and I have a new blog design and URL! This space is cleaner, prettier, and reflective of me. Don't be fooled, I'm not that talented! It's all because of the great Bobbi over at ready to blog. I can't wait to watch this little blog that could grow into a real steam engine in 2013.

This year is going to be big with an italicized big. I hope so, you know? I hope this year drives me to the brink of insanity with all its surprises and wonders and miles on trails and in running shoes and on frequent flyer accounts. I can only dream I'll be overwhelmed with choices in my career and personal life, tested to see how much I can grow and stretch (in character, not pants size, eh?), and given multiple opportunities to present my passport for stamping. (Side bar: I know stamps are all the rage now - making your own and being crafty, but my favorite kind are still Vintage Any Airport, Circa the Advent of Air Travel.) I am forward-looking, filled with hope and really freaking pumped for 2013. It doesn't hurt one little bit that 2012 ended like the party won't stop - with my lovin' man, the funniest roommate ever (try to challenge it!), friends, family and LOBSTAH killing. That last one is awkward, but it happened! I have photographic evidence to prove it, albeit blurry proof! I'm dating my very own Dexter, serial crustacean killer.

I spent Christmas in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware with Zander's family. I'll tell ya what... "We're not in Newnan, GA anymore, Theo!" was my refrain. If you follow me on twitter, perchance you witnessed the smorgasbord of intoxicated tweets, hashtagged, wait for it, #bourgiexmas (no, no, I will not storify this. Okay, I will consider it.). And by intoxicated, I mean wasted, y'all. With. His. Parents. My family doesn't drink. I mean, my mom will get drunk on a single frozen strawberry daquiri like nobody's business, but that doesn't count, does it? Probably not. Zan's parents put all parents to shame. Hell, they put us to shame. We went through approximately 18,000 bottles of wine on Christmas Eve. Zan and I were on our hungover deathbeds pretty much all day Christmas. The 'rents? Nothin' to it! Up and at 'em like kids on, well, Christmas morning! His parents spoiled me silly. Their generosity blew me away. I've never had a Christmas like this one, and I'll never, ever, not ever, forget it. I love my family, and I missed them terribly (the proof is in the drunken hour long phone call to my mother at 1:00am Christmas Eve... wooooops! More like #trainwreckmas!), but it was so special to be welcomed so warmly into Zan's family for this one. 

And then the Redskins won the NFC East title and are going to the playoffs.

And Zander and I saw the second movie in a theater of our entire relationship, and Skyfall was the best Bond movie. Ever. (Resolution: sit on our rumps in dark places and sip on $5 colas more in 2013!)

And Theo behaved himself, all of the time. It was so weird. I wanted to freeze frame all the sitting and lying down and listening he did. He listened! 

And then New Year's. Oh New Year's. I love you so! I think NYE is a magical night, that tells the tales of your year past and the one you're entering. All really drunkenly. What's more awesome than that? Only one thing. CARDS AGAINST HUMANITY. Zander let me talk him into hosting dinner at his condo (it's itty bitty, but it was perfect!). I cooked up a storm, and the guest list was short and sweet. Zan's sister-in-law and I wore the same shirt, so there was double the sparkle, double the fun, and somehow, someway, I don't have a picture of it (gasp!). Six of us ate just about every last bite, drank red and white and sparkling wines and played CAH, the game for horrible people, and we were horrible, and we rang in 2013 at one of our favorite wine bars, cheersing and kissing cheeks and lips and being so merry my cheeks are still rosy.

Here are some of the (not so great) photographic highlights of this joyfully long winter break. Tomorrow? Resolutions. I got 'em a plenty! 2013 is going to be big.