Recipe: Rum Manhattan

I am not going to say too much, I am just going to leave this right here: 

I am calling it a Rum Manhattan. It may have another name somewhere in the world, but as this classy Mad Men-esque drink came directly from the brilliant mind of Jacob, I don't know what that name is. The drink is reminiscent of a good Whiskey Manhattan though (one of my all time favorite drinks), so Rum Manhattan it is.

It goes something like this: one part spiced rum, one part sweet vermouth. Off to a good start, aren't we?

Then we add in some Grand Marnier for a decadent orange edge, balance it out with some lemon, and add two types of bitters for depth and complexity. 

Are you sold yet? Thought so, here's the recipe:

Exploring the Gard Region of Southern France

My family comes from the Gard region of Languedoc Roussillon, a stunningly beautiful, but comparatively little known area of Southern France. While many visitors to France head over to the more famous Provence and Cote D’Azur regions (just bordering Languedoc Roussillon), they miss out on a stunning area of France filled with medieval villages, vineyards, dramatic mountains, rivers, ravines, castles, and gorgeous coastline.

I could write for hours on all of the things to do or see in the region, but for now I will focus specifically on the Gard, the eastern-most province of Languedoc Roussillon. The Gard is characterized by a landscape of rolling hills and rivers that build into the grand Massif-Central Cevennes mountain range. The area is predominantly agricultural, meaning that between the quaint villages, your drives around the Gard will be filled with gorgeous panoramas of vineyards, sunflower fields, and iconic tree lined avenues. 

The agricultural nature of the Gard also means that the area still preserves many strong food and food-making traditions. You can turn down nearly any gravel road and find yourself at an independent winery or a farm selling house-made goat cheese, pâté, honey, and more.

 To the south, the Gard does offer a small spit of coastline, but frankly, it is not as nice as many of the beaches that can be found to the east and the west. If you want to go for a swim in the Gard area, do as the locals do and head to a river. Mountain rivers score the landscape, often cutting through deep ravines and spanned by gorgeous Medieval bridges and aqueducts. Grab your swim gear and water shoes and you are sure to find a well-beaten foot path leading down to the water’s edge.

To the north, the Gard is hedged with dramatic mountain ranges, sweeping panoramas, and enough lovely mountain villages to get lost in for months at a time. There is so much to see and explore in the Cevennes mountains that you may just find yourself packing a picnic and driving up the first mountain road you find. Regardless of which one you take, you are bound to find yourself somewhere beautiful.  

The pace of life is slow in the Gard, and can best be enjoyed by allowing yourself the time to relax, enjoy long, leisurely meals, and take sunset walks. There is certainly enough to do in the Gard that you could pack your visit full of activities, but to get the most out of the local culture, I would recommend purposefully slowing down – even if that means doing less.

That being said however, let’s get to the list of things you won’t want to miss in the Gard.

Recipe: Plum Clafoutis

Meet my new favorite dessert, the Plum Clafoutis.

Last Autumn, Jacob and I "discovered" Tarte Tatin, an upside-down French apple tart. Yum. It is delicious, impressive, and baked in caramel, which means making it is a pain in the butt...I mean, labor of love. 

The technique includes making a butter caramel in a heavy skillet, then cooking the apples in the soft caramel sauce, and covering everything with puff pastry before transferring the whole deal to the oven. After baking comes the ever-treacherous flip, which has flung molten caramel across my kitchen more than once. 

In comparison, you have the Plum Clafoutis, our current summer obsession. A Plum Clafoutis uses a similar technique as the Tarte Tatin, while thankfully leaving out the dangerous bits (I have spent a lot less time scrubbing burnt sugar off my stove this time around).

The plums are cooked briefly in butter and sugar, forming a thick syrup around the plums and giving the fruit a caramelized bite. The fruit and syrup is then transferred to a pie tin, topped with an eggy, pancake-like batter, then popped into the oven to finish baking. While baking, the cake puffs up (similar to a Dutch Baby), and the plums rise to the surface to show off. 

Topped with powdered sugar before serving, a Clafoutis makes a unique and elegant dessert, while also pairing beautifully with coffee for brunch or an afternoon tea. 

Best of all, the a Clafoutis is a highly customizable cake, and can be made with just about any summer stone fruit you have on hand. Cherries? No problem. Peaches? Nectarines? Go for it. While the small sweet-sour Zwetschgen plums are plentiful in Vienna though, I will be making a lot of Clafoutis. 

Finding the Heart of France

After years of visiting my family home in Southern France, this has become my favorite sight:

A closed gate. This gate means the afternoon is winding down and you are home to stay. This gate means that the day's excursions are done - everyone has returned to the nest and nothing else is needed. 

This is my second favorite sight: 

From the edge of the terrace you can look over the pool, the mountains as they change color in the setting sun, and the barbecue - usually tended by a small group of people, all with their glasses of wine. 

This is what you see when you turn around: 

People bustling in and out of the kitchen, listening to music, setting the table, and putting the final touches on dinner.

Food has always been my way of connecting with France. This may not come as a surprise to you - I mean, it is me after all. You already know that I really love food. And then, of course it is France, the land of baguettes, cheese (more than 365 different types!), and wine.

It goes deeper than that however. Everywhere you look, you can see people folding the rituals of food, food making, and eating into their lives. 

You can see it in how an elderly neighbor and long-time family friend stops by to present us with a bottle of his homemade Cartagen, a sweet regional liquor made from freshly pressed grapes.

Or how his wife still keeps my Grandmother's old books on identifying mushrooms, and knows all the right places to forage.

You can see it in the bee keeper, a friend from church, who takes his bee hives "up to pasture" to the aromatic hilltops of the Ardeche so his bees produce a richer honey.

Or how the little old man at the weekly market in Uzes sets up a small card table displaying two plastic boxes filled with goat cheese. He only has two kinds: Less dry and more dry, and it is the most complex and flavorful goat cheese you could ever hope to try. 

One of our favorite days came as a tip from my cousin - a talented wine maker with a thriving business. He told us of a wine festival taking place in nearby Anduze, a picturesque town situated along a river on the edge of the mountains. The festival would feature over 25 local, independent wine-makers - my cousin being one of them. 

The next day Jacob and I drove over to Anduze, and walked into the festival. The park was pleasantly busy - not crowded, but bustling with people tasting wine, having picnics, children riding mini horses, and buskers playing old-fashioned French vaudeville music. 

We paid the 4 Euro entry fee that granted us a wine glass and booklet for taking notes, and the tasting began. The vintners were set up in a semi-circle, each with 2-3 wines on display. All you had to do was approach a winemaker, let them know which wine you would like to try (we chose to stick with the reds - there were a lot of wines to try and we weren't planning on getting wasted), make small talk and take notes as desired, then thank them and move on. If you decided to purchase a bottle that would be handled at another tent separate from the tasting area. 

As someone who loves samples, but always feels guilty taking one without buying anything...I'm not alone in this, am I? Anyways, having an entire wine festival dedicated to pressure-free sampling made me giddy with joy (the wine helped too). Why don't more festivals do it this way? You could have easily spent the entire day there, drinking over 60 wines, for a grand total of 4 Euros - and you get to keep the glass.

In all these things I saw a common thread: a love for a life that finds pleasure in community, beauty in the simple things, and refuses to be hurried or pressured along. You could see it in the fact that the festival's entry fee was €4, as opposed to $50.00 as it could have easily been elsewhere. I realized it with a jolt when trying to run errands and finding all of the department stores closed for lunch between noon and 2 pm.  

It is difficult, as a visitor, to enter into the same slow stream that characterizes the south of France. It takes time for your heart to start beating slower, for your mind to stop racing, to let yourself relax into the beauty of simply being

So Jacob and I (and the rest of my family as well - we were in good company), hit the brakes and forced ourselves to wind down the fastest way we knew how: through cooking.

This year in France was a special one. It had been 12 years since this much of my family had been together in France at once. It was also the first time that we all really cooked together. My brother taught me recipes he created for the restaurant he is opening in Sydney. I taught him how to make green beans taste better than he thought possible. We brainstormed dishes to challenge each other and show off our skills, then had 6 sets of willing hands ready to act as sous-chefs.  

Over a week and a half we made lemon-stuffed trout, lavender-smoked artichokes, fried chicken and collard-style green beans, flank steak with chimichurri sauce, ricotta and olive stuffed peppers, American-style ribs and truffle macaroni and cheese, and much more. Not every experiment was a blazing success, but everything tasted amazing.

This is the beating heart of what I love about France. "My France" is slow mornings, lazy hot days, afternoon naps, and long, long evenings spent around the dinner table. My France is food shopping, wine tasting, bursts of activity before dinner, and star-gazing late into the night. 

I have always found the romance of France to be an elusive one to capture. In some places, you can find a city's pulse by simply strolling its streets and feeling its vibrancy. But walking France's markets and cobblestoned villages only left me skimming the surface of what I've always known to be a deeper pool. Finding that connection this year (in food, what else?) filled me with enough ideas and thoughts to fill a book - and so, I am starting to write one. It may take years to finish, but it will be full of stories of the people, the food, and the stories that cut straight to the heart of southern France.

But while you wait, I will give you some recipes. Stay tuned. :) 



Sardinia and Dreams of Food

My earliest food memories are not of eating but of cooking. My mother made nearly everything she cooked from scratch, spoiling us kids with French delicacies while we complained about having to eat mushroom and red wine infused Boeuf Bourguignon “again”. She also had to deal (quite frequently) with my brothers and I staring into a half empty fridge, whining “there is nothing to eat!”. “Yes there is,” she would always reply, “you just have to make it”.

So I did – and haven’t stopped.

Sitting on the breathtaking beaches of Sardinia kick-started some deep personal reflection. I find that whenever I am on holiday, with time to slow down, breathe, and dream about the future, I end up wandering back over to the same subject: food and cooking.

I realized how much my mother’s approach to cooking shaped my own perspective on food (thank you, Mom!). She taught me how to cook by instinct, to know by taste which layers of flavor are missing and which ingredients a finished dish contains. She coached me, through years of cooking failures and successes, to understand what techniques produce what results. She taught me the value that comes from cooking your own food: how it gives you freedom, control, and teaches you balance.

While in Sardinia, Jacob and I had two exceptional meals, both of which left a lasting impression for something other than the food.

The first was on a day-long boat trip we took to visit some of the coves that were only accessible via boat. We chose to book with a company that used smaller boats and limited their passengers to around 30. The trip offered lunch and aperitifs along with several stops at gorgeous pristine white coves with crystalline water. In the morning the atmosphere on the boat was slightly strained. All of the guests were jockeying for a prime spot to enjoy the trip, perhaps secretly wishing (as I was), that they could have had the boat to themselves.

People relaxed slowly as the morning wore on, but at lunch there was a transformation. Guests were seated at bench tables that accommodated six. A crisp white wine stood waiting on each table alongside a basket of bread. Stilted introductions were made, and the same old small talk questions as always were exchanged: “where do you come from? How do you like Sardinia?”. The first course was served: a typical Sardinian dish made with small Fregola pasta, a thin wine and tomato based sauce, and lots of seafood. Amidst the mounds of Fregola were crab legs, langoustine in their shell, calamari, and mussels. Things started to get messy, cracking into crab legs and peeling shrimp. Wine was poured. The dish had the ephemeral sweet taste of the sea. People began to relax, and talk. Real questions, and real answers. The room became louder with chatter and laughter.

The second course was served: whole shrimp, head still attached, sautéed in butter, herbs, and a local liquor, served in a large dish to share. More wine was poured. By this time the whole table was laughing, slurping at shrimp shells and accepting heaping second helpings. Our table re-filled our dish three times. I had never tasted such sweet shrimp.

Next came dessert – lemon sorbet served with coffee and tea. Finally, the captain came around with two bottles of ice cold liquor in hand, both homemade. One was a Sardinian style grappa that burned as it went down, the other, a thick and sweet liquor made of the myrtle berries that grow thick on the island.

By the time lunch was over everyone on the boat was friends, smiling benevolently at each other and sharing their previously coveted space. It struck me how effectively food can bring people together. It can break down walls, and build trust. A shared meal is a powerful thing.

Our second exceptional meal in Sardinia was at an unusual seafood restaurant tucked down at the end of a dirt road. Seafood in Sardinia is not especially cheap, but Jacob and I knew we wanted to have one glorious meal where we indulged in all the fresh seafood we could not find in Vienna. My research turned up a restaurant that was reviewed as having exceptionally fresh seafood for the price. We made our reservations and gave ourselves extra time to drive out to the coast and find the restaurant. Our directions took us through the industrial port, down a quiet dirt road along the water that ended in a fishing co-op. We parked and looked around, but there was no sign of the restaurant. The fishing co-op was surrounded by water on both sides – the sea to one side and a bay on the other. Walking over to a bridge, we saw a flaking and sun-faded wooden sign for the restaurant. It pointed across the bridge, and down a further dirt road. Crossing the bridge, we stopped to look at ropes full of cultivating mussels, and large tanks whose water roiled the movement of fish. This was clearly where our dinner would come from.

We walked down the empty dirt road for about ten minutes before we came to a small building on the edge of the bay, isolated and surrounded by pines. The restaurant did not open until 7:30, so we waited as other guests arrived on foot for their reservations. We were seated and brought a pitcher of house wine.  No menus were provided – we had simply told them how many courses we wanted when making the reservation. Now, they would bring us what they had prepared for the evening.

First came a cold salad of perfectly tender squid, octopus, cuttlefish and potatoes. The salad was dressed in only the barest of lemon and olive oil, letting the delicate flavor of the seafood shine through.

Our second course was a massive bowl of fresh mussels steamed in white wine and butter. The sauce was light and pleasantly briny, once again allowing the sweet mussels to be the star of the dish.

Our third course was another seafood Fregola, like the one eaten on the boat, studded with large pieces of lobster, crab, squid, and clams.

Next a plate arrived with two full grilled sea bream, adorned only with a slice of lemon. As I informed Jacob with every course, I had never had such fresh or perfectly cooked fish. It was a revelation of how incredible a white fish could be.

Finally, the meal ended with hefty slices of sweet watermelon, as Jacob and I discussed how glad we were that we had only taken the smallest of the two fixed price menus - €25 each for 5 courses and a bottle of wine.

Being so close to the source of our food that evening reminded me of how my own fascinations were reflected in the cooking choices I made when I was young. As a child I would go through phases of food obsession. I had a deviled egg phase: For several weeks, I made deviled eggs whenever I had the chance. I also had a garlic bread stage. That ended the day my mother leaned over to me in church, sniffed once, and stated “you smell like garlic”. Another phase revolved around melted cheddar cheese – particularly how the oil would separate out and fry the remaining curd, leaving a lacy and crisp cheese cracker behind.

4 years ago, Jacob and I spent a month in Sweden and found ourselves immersed in a world that I have since come to deeply appreciate. At the time it was a shock. We were newly married, fresh off the plane from San Diego, embarking on a disorienting 6-month trip around Europe. That trip was life changing in many ways (it brought us to Vienna!), but that month in Sweden continues to impact me. Our host family folded us into their slow, peaceful pace of life, teaching us how to bake bread, harvest vegetables, and forage for edible herbs, berries, and mushrooms from the forest. We only scratched the surface of all there was to learn. I will never forget the day I first found summer chanterelle mushrooms on my own, and came home with pockets full of golden treasure.

Since then, my fascination with the fundamental crafts of cooking has grown exponentially. I want to learn everything. I want to understand where my food comes from. I want to spend a year on a vineyard tending vines and making wine. I want to learn how to butcher meat and clean a fish. I want to make sourdough bread with my own yeast starter, and learn to forage and identify edible plants by their leaves and smell. These fascinations are, in my mind, a grown up, rounded-out expression of the same interest that drove my “deviled egg phase”, and I am sure, will continue to shape the future I dream of.  

Ball Season in Vienna

Once again I find myself needing to recap months at a time on this blog, only to ask myself: But what did I even do in the last months? As it turns out (and I didn't realize until now), the answer is: A LOT. 

So let's dive in, starting with the earliest first: 

The IAEA Ball

Vienna is one of the few places I know of that still has a strong culture of balls. The official start date of Ball Season takes place sometime in November, and reaches it's peak in January and February. According to the Vienna city website, over 450 balls take place each year. Frankly, that is astounding to me. How, when the rest of the world casually swapped balls for gala fundraisers (on one side of the economic spectrum) and house parties (on the other side of the economic spectrum), did Vienna manage to hold on?

The balls tend to be split by networks or profession. For example, you have one ball for lawyers, another for bakers, another for Coffee House Owners (no kidding), one for the IAEA section of the United Nations, one for people who like hiphop, etc. The balls vary in size and formality, but if you look around, you are bound to find one that you are interested in. 

Rumor is that there are tours groups (typically from Asia) that offer ball seasons to young women who want to feel like a European princess for a winter. The ladies are put up in hotels with chaperones, given dancing lessons, taken shopping for gowns, and provided with well groomed young men to be their prince for the evening - and every evening, of every ball they attend. Google has yet to confirm this for me.  

We attended the IAEA Ball, one of the largest in Vienna, with a small group of good friends. Finding a ball gown was easy enough for me, though a tuxedo for Jacob was another story. The dress codes are strict - men must wear a tuxedo and bowtie, or will be barred entry. Bowties are sold at the door at appropriately exorbitant prices for anyone left in a pinch. Another option (as it is a United Nations organization hosting the ball) is to wear your "national dress". We considered seeing if Jacob could get away in a pair of Levi's as "American national dress", but thankfully a friend came through with a borrowed tuxedo that was exactly Jacob's size.

Prior to the ball start we met for coffee and cake at Landtmann's, a classic Viennese cafe close to the Hofburg Palace, where the event was held. I may be sentimental about my family's history in Vienna (I have pictures of my Grandparents dancing at the famous Vienna Opera Ball in the 1970's), but sitting in that cafe made me feel like I was connected to ball-goers spanning across hundreds of years, all meeting in this particular cafe for a glass of Sekt before going to dance the night away.

And the truth is, in many ways, it seemed like the balls hadn't changed a bit since then - except that, back then, everyone would have known how to dance. And no one would have been taking cell-phone selfies. Our group had met the week previously to practice our two steps, rhumbas, and viennese waltzes, but unfortunately one evening of instruction was not enough for Jacob and I to counteract a lifetime of ignorance. (Although we tried, and had lots of fun)

The ball itself was made up of several halls, each offering different types of music. In the main hall an orchestra played the classic Viennese waltzes and ballrooms dances, while adjunct rooms offered Jazz, Latin, an IAEA talent show (which I avoided), a Beatles cover band, and a "silent disco". The silent disco (relatively new to the ball repertoire I am sure), consisted of people putting on headphones and self consciously dancing to the music no one else can hear. If someone understands the appeal, feel free to explain it to me. 

Jacob and I stuck mostly to the Beatles cover-band and main hall, though our dancing skills were far from impressive. Thankfully, however, with so many cultures and walks-of-life represented, there was by no means an expectation that everyone would be an expert at the dizzying Viennese waltz. A galant and practiced dancer from our group did ask me to dance once or twice, which provided me with the distinct sensation of, "Oh. So that is how this dance is supposed to go". That is, I imagine, the advantage of wearing a long and flowing skirt to a ball - no one can see that your feet are just trying to keep up.

Aside from the dancing, which many people were very serious about, the main pastime of the ball was people-watching. The parade of gowns and national dress was truly spectacular; an activity that could have easily occupied you for the entire evening. 

Our group had reserved a table away from the main area of the ball so that we had a quiet place to retreat to whenever we wanted to rest our feet and escape the crowds for a few minutes. I was surprised when I picked up the menu of food that could be ordered to your table. The menu was short and did not contain the types of foods I would have imagined at a ball. Where was the beef tartare and caviar? Why was there goulash and sausage with bread on the menu? 

Come to find out, sausage with bread (with champagne of course) IS traditional ball food. This is, in fact, the true Viennese way to eat at a ball - and I love it. There was something so refreshing about pairing the opulence of a ball with the same no-nonsense food you would order from a Wurstelstand on the street. 

Scattered throughout the evening were ceremonies, such as the entrance of the debutantes, all dressed in white, to dance a Viennese waltz. At midnight everyone is taught to dance a quadrille by the Master of Ceremonies. Our group had stationed ourselves in the main hall well before midnight for this particular dance - only to find that a 70's cover band with afro wigs was performing past their time slot. At 20 past midnight we left the main hall during "It's Raining Men", and the quadrille began 15 minutes later. 

Jacob and I lasted until roughly 1:30 am before we decided to call it a night. By our party standards, 1:30 definitely qualified as dancing the night away. 

By the way, you can read more about the balls here - it is really fascinating: Vienna Ball Season. (And more here if you are really interested.) 

Three Days in India: Pt. 2

Continuing from Three Days in India: Pt. 1... 


Day Two

The taxi arrived at 3:45 am to take us to the airport for our city transfer flight. By 4 am we were speeding down the road on the dark, mostly deserted streets when suddenly three large moving shapes loomed ahead. Camels! I stared open mouthed as we passed three boys riding three enormous camels along the side of the road and the opening words of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody floated through my head. “Is this the real life, or is this just fantasy…”

On the way to the airport I was informed that I would need to show my itinerary as proof of my flight before I would be allowed to enter the airport. Not having the itinerary printed or available Internet, I had no way of accessing the information. Ahead of me, my colleague showed the itinerary on his phone and was waved through. My turn. I explained that I couldn't show it, but did have an email with a taxi itinerary that mentioned Hyderabad.

"Sorry", the guard said, "you can't enter. You have to go print your itinerary." 

"Where?", I asked.

The guard pointed in the general direction of "outside the airport". 

No way was I going to leave the airport to track down an internet signal and printer at 4 AM in a city in India I knew nothing about. I argued with the guard and when my colleague joined in the fuss the guard apparently decided we weren't worth the trouble and let me in. After passing through security and receiving my boarding pass (funny, it's really easy to prove you have a flight once they let you IN the airport...), we went to the gates to wait.

Our flight status was posted as "Check in", so we kept an eye on the screens for update. 15 minutes into our wait the intercom came on: "Will Wolfgang Platz and Chelsea White please report for last call boarding immediately." What in the world? They never even posted a gate! We walked the 3 meters to the gate mentioned and they sent us down a flight of stairs - directly onto the Tarmac.

It was like a scene from Casablanca. Small groups of people streamed to various planes in the foggy morning air. I half expected to witness a tearful goodbye between Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. We were directed to a small plane on the edge of the Tarmac, ducked under the propellers, and climbed in to an already full and boarded plane.

Once again the question arose: when did they announce the gate? How did all these people get here?!

Our short flight landed us yet another world away. This time the air was pleasantly cool, the airport modern and clean compared to Pune. The landscape was filled with jasmine trees, plumerias, and oleander. The roads were well kept and traffic showed a tendency to slightly more order.

Thankfully, our agenda for that day was simple: arrive in Hyderabad and check into our hotel, once again located on a campus of the tech company hosting us. 

We arrived to the guard house at the campus entrance knowing exactly what to expect. We stepped out of the taxi with our laptops already in hand, ready for the 6 security guards standing behind the desk to assess our threat level. Badges were issued within 10 minutes and we were waved through. The Hyderabad campus didn't seem to take security as seriously as Pune…I don’t think anyone even checked the taxi undercarriage.

The campus at Pune had been impressive, but it was already clear from our drive that Hyderabad was a wealthier city overall. The grounds were gorgeous; lushly landscaped with meandering paths cutting through glades of palms, fountains, and flowering trees to shiny glass building complexes. 

The air smelled like jasmine and plumeria, and there - just a glorious 20 meters ahead - was a hotel where I could face-plant onto a large, soft bed and go back to sleep. After two room changes and a small negotiation of “Excuse me, this room doesn’t have internet, how do you expect me to work?” with the hotel clerk, I did just that, my hard-won Wifi password clutched in my hand.

I woke up ravenous three hours later at 11 AM and feeling like I was wasting my short time in India. All I had eaten so far was a spicy chicken and cabbage wrap thing purchased from an airport kiosk 7 hours earlier. Thankfully I had been given multiple bags of a regional sweet-spicy pastry to take back to the office in Vienna - that would make for as good a meal as any. Munching happily away, I soon noticed the slogan written on the bag. 

Mmm…nothing like the taste of cannibalism. 

Around noon my colleague and I met up to go on a shopping excursion. We got the name of the nearest mall and waved down a Tuktuk on the busy street outside campus. For the uninitiated (as I was), Tuktuks are an extremely common form of transportation in India (and many parts of Asia).

A hybrid between a taxi and a man-powered rickshaw, they are a cheap and effective way to navigate cities quickly. The back seat of a Tuktuk is designed for two people, though I don't think I saw anyone besides ourselves with less than 4 people crammed into the back. On a later excursion to pick up food for dinner that evening, an Indian colleague explained to me how, as a child, he and his friends would fit 20 children into the back of one Tuktuk. It sounded like it was a feat in human Tetris. 

Our ride to the mall was thrilling. The Tuktuks ride low to the ground, sans-seat belts and the sides of the car open to the air. Cars and busses make up maybe 40% of the general traffic, with the other 60% of Tuktuks and motorbikes cramming themselves into the crevices between the cars, one wheel up on the sidewalk just to get an edge on their neighbor at the next green light. It felt a bit like real-world Mario Kart, though the drivers were so skilled and confident you never had the chance to feel nervous. 

The mall was a shiny testament to globalization surrounded by tell-tale signs of a growing economy. We passed through security entering the mall (as was becoming standard procedure), while I was pulled aside by a female guard to be patted down in a curtained cubicle. My threat level assessed, I was free to start shopping. 

First thing first was food. My “taste of people” wasn’t holding me over too well. Frankly the thing I found most challenging about my short time in India was the need for hyper-awareness about food and drink. I am privileged enough to hardly ever think twice about whether something is safe for me to eat or drink, and often found myself having to slap my hand away from fresh fruit, vegetables, or tap water being offered. Having double and triple checked that my lunch order did not contain anything fresh (I was getting excited to eat a salad when I got home), we ate a nice lunch in the food court, fielding the stares of every other person at the mall. We were the only non-Indian people there. Being a minority - also something I have not experienced frequently in my privileged life.

The majority of shops employed their own security guards, who would manually check your bags upon entrance. One of the stores even had a mandatory bag-check to ensure shoppers couldn't squirrel anything away into the bags they were already carrying. I was surprised to stumble across an entire UCLA Bruins merchandise corner of a department store - apparently they are big fans of the Bruins in Hyderabad. 

After a couple hours of shopping we had a coffee from Dunkin Donuts on an abandoned outdoor terrace overlooking posh apartments on the waterfront and tarp-covered hovels at the base of a half constructed building

Back at campus I took the opportunity to explore. It was amazing how much more it felt like a university than a workplace. We passed a glorious looking pool and fitness center, an outdoor amphitheater where a staff talent show was taking place, and an outdoor yoga class. Re-entering the hotel lobby, I came upon a young man leading a group of women in aerobic exercises.

I settled back in my room, got some work done, and re-emerged to meet Vaibhav, an Indian colleague, to pick up food for dinner. As tired as we were, we had turned down any sightseeing options earlier in the day, but now I was getting antsy to see something other than a mall. Vaibhav was a gracious and knowledgable tour guide, answering all my dumb questions (Why is everything here in English? British colonization, duh.), and sharing stories from his life. 

My Austrian colleague, in true Austrian form, had requested we bring some beer back with dinner. Beer wasn’t technically allowed on campus, but my purse was large enough to smuggle it in, and, to be honest, I really wanted a beer too. We stopped at a liquor shop first, then had the Tuktuk follow us as we walked up the side of the road so I could see everything going on. 

I tried to take lots of pictures but was self conscious about taking the time to stop and set up a shot. We passed a flower stand and I bought a strand of gorgeously fragrant jasmine to wear in my hair. It cost me all of 20 cents. 

Dinner was to be ordered from a well known Biryani shop, the famous dish of the area. We passed through security entering the store, placed our order, and waited 15 minutes before being presented with more food than the three of us could possibly eat. 

Back at the hotel we crowded into the bathroom to transfer our beer into the plastic water bottles (“If anyone asks, it’s juice”), just like rebellious teenagers. We found a table outside and ate a messy but delicious dinner with our hands while my legs got steadily consumed by mosquitos. Only half way through dinner did I realize that it was Thanksgiving. I counted 29 bites on my legs that night. 


Day Three

The next day we were packed and out of the hotel for a day-long conference and a flight home in the evening. The conference took place at a large hotel across the city, the drive for which provided a lot of good photo opportunities.

The conference went very successfully without drama. 

A group of men from a local TV crew asked to take selfies with me (uhh…sure?), and I found an outlet Macgyvered with unlit matches and wire. It seemed to be working just fine. For the moment.

That afternoon we unexpectedly ran into a woman we had met at the conference in Pune two days earlier. She happened to be at the hotel to celebrate the wedding of a friend. In the evening, as we prepared to leave, I heard drumming of a wedding procession begin in the street outside. I ran out into the courtyard and climbed up onto a wall to watch as much as I could. My view was limited but the music was loud and vibrant. What I would have given to see the full thing!

Soon after, we were packed back into the taxi and whisked off to the airport. This time I had my itinerary ready to ensure I could enter the airport. Two flights, some failed attempts at getting upgraded to first class, and a great conversation with a Welsh man in Abu Dhabi later, we arrived home to Vienna at 6:00 AM. The first thing I did was buy a salad and fall straight into bed. 

Three Days in India: Pt. 1

At the end of October, as a large yearly work conference was wrapping up, the CEO of the company I work for came up to me and announced that he would like me to accompany the Founder of the company on a business trip to India. Would I be interested in going? 

I was dumbfounded - of course I was interested in going! But why me? What did they expect a "Marketing Specialist" like me to accomplish? As it turned out, my main responsibility was to do one of the things I like best: observe. I was to join the Founder of our company in attending two software conferences with the goal of getting a "feel for the market". Observe, interview people, attend presentations, take notes, and see if I could figure out a better strategy for reaching the market that exists in India. 

Challenge accepted. 

*I have very few good pictures from the trip as the majority of my time was spent in a hotel or in the car. Hopefully whatever pictures I have will help to round out the story. 

Getting From Point A to Point B

The flight to India was uneventful in all the best ways. I watched the sun set over Iran during 3 pm my time, a fiery sunset unlike any of the soft palates featured in Vienna. We landed in Abu Dhabi after dark, and but for some clues I could have just as easily been in Arizona as the UAE. A long bus ride took us to the main terminal, passing an overhang covering luxury cabs - a Rolls Royce pulling out of the drive ahead of us. Within the terminal we passed through a mall's worth of luxury shopping.

The UAE is a famously wealthy country with a penchant for luxury brands. I was struck by the disparity between those shopping, covered and uncovered Arab women and men (in the white robes and checkered head cloths I had only ever seen in movies), as they were surrounded by the silicon advertising of airbrushed models, all invariably Caucasian. Does it ever strike them as odd? Do they ever wish they would see a Chanel or Burburry ad featuring someone who looked like them? 

Our flight to India was delayed, meaning our slim chances of sleep were further shortened. Once we had disembarked the plane in India at 4 am, I was naive to think we were on the home stretch and sleep was in sight. A taxi would be picking us up from the hotel at 7:30, so if I was lucky I might get 2 hours of sleep.

But first we had to get through customs. 

The "foreigner" line was short, but operating so slowly that 50 people had cleared customs to our right before we even arrived to the desk. We were admitted through customs, then asked to show our customs declaration pink slip to a guard by the stairs. He looked at it and waved us on. Down the stairs we found another queue being aggressively guarded by a paunchy uniformed military man, with a red stripe finger-painted onto his forehead. He didn't speak any English so he augmented his communication skills with an extra dash of enthusiasm. Before we could move on to the luggage pick up, it would seem, we first had to have our hand luggage re-screened and our tired bodies metal detected. The metal detector was held together in parts with packing tape.

Once our luggage was retrieved we passed through another checkpoint, this time, a re-screening of our checked baggage - our final barrier to India. A taxi driver was waiting for us, and led us out into the warm humid early morning amidst an ongoing symphony of car horns. In Indian traffic it would seem, car horns are constantly in use. The honking doesn't seem to accomplish much besides providing the drivers a constant source of cathartic self expression. That being said, I didn't see any car crashes - a feat unto itself. I liked to imagine that the honking was actually just their way of saying hello to each other. 

Even in the dark 5 am morning there were many people out on the streets. The drive revealed a non-tourist-board-approved India: fading and threadbare infrastructure, decades of signs and placards ripped and plastered over, heaps of dirt, rock, and rubbish. Stray dogs and people roamed freely, even in the street. Sidewalks were few and far between. Glimpses of temples and monuments integrated into strip malls flashed by, including one infinite second into a low fluorescent lit room, where a man with a tambourine chanted loudly over a floor covered by the praying bodies of men in white.

Our entry to the technological sector of Pune was met by an unbelievably large neon sign stating "Persistence",  illuminating the atmosphere with red light pollution glow. I learned that Persistence is the name of one of the local companies when a handful of their delegates arrived to the business conference the next day. That knowledge did little to make the sight of the monumental glow on the horizon less surreal. 

It was nearing 5:30 am and we finally had arrived to the campus of the company that was hosting us. A massive and powerful enterprise, the company has Google-esque campuses all over India, equipped with guest houses where we would be staying. We drove to the gate where we were stopped by a security guard and made to get out of the car so he could look at our laptops. 

He shook his head at us as his colleague held a mirror on a stick underneath the taxi carriage to check for explosives. "You need a pass". Frustrated but too tired to argue, we drove back down to another gate and entered the office, where a woman who was quite happy to take her time checked our trip details, confirmed our contact at the company, reviewed our passports, wrote down the serial numbers of our computers, and finally issued us a guest pass with our computer serial number printed on it. While this took place another guard held a mirror under our taxi.

Passes in hand, we drove back up to the first gate where the same guard as before re-checked our computers. We were waved onto the grounds while I asked my colleague why the company was so concerned about our computer serial numbers. It remains a mystery. Once at the guest house we passed through another security checkpoint. Our luggage was scanned as a guard reviewed the serial number on our laptops, compared the number to the one on our guest passes, and wrote the number down in a thick black ledger. It was past 6 am and we were finally free to check in.

Day One

I got ten minutes of sleep before I had to get up to prepare for the conference. My first impression of the Pune streets did not change now that the sun was up. Even more people thronged the streets, crossed haphazardly, or casually checked their cellphone while leaning against highway middle barriers.

Cows had been added to the mix now, standing just as casually as the people on the side of the road, munching on trash, far from any sign of grass. One white cow stood motionless in the middle of the road itself as traffic diverted around it. No one seemed to care.

We passed slums that looked like beaver dams made of rubble, and searched for the most daring biker (a barefoot family of 5 on a motorbike won that day).

We drove through the gate to the hotel hosting the conference and entered another world.

This world had two story waterfalls, lush palms, uniformed waiters and crystal chandeliers. This world felt odd being so close to the one just outside. We left that world at 5:30 pm and by 6:30 I was back in my room, finally able to sleep for the first time in almost 40 hours.

To be continued...

A Year of Vienna in Review

Dear world, I have not forgotten about you! I know I have been mysteriously absent the past several months - a result of a season so busy that it left Jacob and I trying to catch our breath and wondering how to slow down. 

The past few months have had their fair share of adventure - a hike through rain and snow up to an alpine lake, a whirlwind weekend in Tuscany to visit dear friends, an unexpected trip to India...

That's right, I said India. I spent Thanksgiving week there on a business trip, and as you can imagine, it was quite the memorable experience. I have a blog post on India nearly ready to go, so you can expect that coming your way soon. 

Our busyness forced us to reprioritize our schedules and lives, as we came dangerously close to burning out this past autumn. I have made the decision to stop actively pursuing my photography side-business, opting to be more intentional about taking time to rest instead. Jacob and I have taken up Thai Boxing as a sport, and take classes at a gym several times a week - a routine that is as good for our mental and emotional happiness as it is for our bodies. Then of course there is work, church, friends, German class, and all the little odds and ends that add up to a full and abundant life. 

And friends, we DO have an abundant life. It is not easy, but for all of its hardships we are still blessed beyond belief. Life is only getting more exciting and full of possibility as we grow, learn, and draw closer into the heart of our God and Father. 

I recently spent some time scrolling through pictures from 2015 - little snapshots taken here and there that never made it to Facebook or any wider audience. A handful you may have seen before - snagged to supplement a blog post, but most are just from little moments from day to day life and friends. Here, in chronological order (as best as I can remember), is our 2015 in review:

A Year of Vienna in Review

The "Refugee Crisis" And Choosing Love

Austria has been in the news a lot lately. There is no way I can write a new blog post without addressing the stories that have brought the word "Austria" to far more people's lips than could ever identify it on a map. 

It is a hard thing for me to talk about the "Refugee Crisis" in a forum like a blog, partly because I think these conversations are best held in-person, but mostly because I feel extremely under-informed on the topic as a whole. Yes, I have read countless news stories, I have seen the refugees with my own eyes, I have scrolled through people's opinions on either side of the issue. But have I immersed myself into the story, studying the issues from every side, examining the policy and politicians, weighing their claims, and interviewing the refugees themselves? No, although I would like to. 

Two of the many, many signs displaying public support for the refugees arriving in Europe. 

Two of the many, many signs displaying public support for the refugees arriving in Europe. 

There are three things in regards to this situation that I can confidently state however: 

1.) Vienna has traditionally stood on the boundary of East and West, an epicenter of world-changing history. It is this pivotal and influential positioning that made Vienna so crucial in WWII, in the Cold War, and now as a major UN and NGO hub. My Grandparents, living in Vienna in the late 60's, witnessed the Prague Spring of 1968, where Czech refugees poured over the borders into Austria. My father remembers his school, the American International School of Vienna, being temporarily shut down and repurposed to house refugees. My point is, this isn't a new story. It is the repetition of an old story, stories that have shaped nations and shifted perspectives. I, for one, am grateful that I get to see it firsthand and be a part of history in the making. 

2.) When you boil down all the arguments for or against the refugees, you end up with one of two things: fear or love. In the end, all of the decisions we make, the actions we take, the things we choose to believe, about anything, are born out of either fear or love.

Cots lined up ready to receive weary refugees in the Salzburg train station. 

Cots lined up ready to receive weary refugees in the Salzburg train station. 

Many are afraid of the impact such an influx of people will make on the economy, housing, infrastructure, culture, public safety, etc. These are understandable concerns, and not ones to be taken lightly. I don't know the answers to those concerns and I am certainly grateful I am not in charge of making those decisions. My prayers for wisdom are with those that are. But in the little I know, and the little I have seen firsthand, I am so proud to see my city overwhelmingly choose to love every refugee who comes our way instead of fearing them.

So many Viennese have volunteered their time that new volunteers have been turned away from the train stations and camps. So instead, those people go shopping, coming back with bags of clothes, toiletries, and other items the refugees need.

The day the borders opened I was on a train from Salzburg to Vienna. I disembarked the train onto a platform crowded with thousands of refugees - it took nearly 10 minutes just to inch off the platform. Standing on a low wall near the front were some young refugee men, holding signs saying, "Thank you Austria, with my whole heart, love Iran"..."love Syria". I was so proud to be able to shake that man's hand and welcome him, to let him know that we were glad he was here. 

Volunteers waiting with food and water in the Salzburg train station for the next wave of refugees to arrive. 

Volunteers waiting with food and water in the Salzburg train station for the next wave of refugees to arrive. 

3.) I am continually struck by the fact that 70-odd years ago Europe had their own mass exodus of refugees fleeing war. I was so touched to see Germany be the first to open their borders, the first to welcome those whose lives had been torn apart. The shadow and shame of WWII still hangs heavy over many, but oh! What beautiful redemption, that they can now open their arms to those in need.     

So, to conclude. If I have been given the gift of seeing history-in-the-making firsthand, how do I make sure I don't waste it? I have no idea. I am still trying to figure that out. But I do know that, no matter what, I am choosing to love. 

Medical aid workers prepping their work site. 

Medical aid workers prepping their work site. 

Of Bathing in Budapest

The last few weeks have been exhausting. It hasn't been anything in particular - it's just life you know. Does life ever actually slow down? Wait, don't answer that. I don't think I want to know. 

The past weeks have been tiring and wonderful. Jacob and I joined a boxing gym (check that one off of the life-long-dream and things-I-need-to-master-before-I-can-become-a-spy lists) and it is thoroughly kicking our butts into shape. It's awesome. 

Our careers are advancing in wonderful ways (catch that? I said career because that is what we actually have now...not just jobs). Sometimes I need to remind myself how ridiculously blessed I am to be 26 and have a career - that is increasingly rare these days. 

And the past few weeks have made my head spin. Like when the elderly lady sitting across from me on the subway after work the other day started yelling at me for have "two cell phones" (my iPod and my cell phone were in my hand). I didn't catch everything she said but from the context and the sympathetic looks I was receiving I am assuming it was something along the lines of "damn youths and their technology". 

So rather than telling you about my recent boxing class inspired revelation of "I didn't even know it was possible to sweat that much", I am going to tell you a story from when Marcia, Jacob's mother, Jacob, and myself went to Budapest for a weekend. 

So, a few weeks ago that I wish I could teleport to and re-live, Marcia, Jacob, and I took off for a weekend in Budapest. We knew Marcia would love it. Not only is it a beautiful and fascinating city, it is host to more amazing restaurants, cafes, and thermal baths/spas than can be adequately enjoyed in just one weekend. We did our best though. We ate and drank our way through Budapest, soaking in the sunset light on the Danube on a wine-tasting river cruise, then soaking in the thermal waters of one of the traditional spas Budapest is known for. 

The view from our boat on the river cruise. 

The view from our boat on the river cruise. 

A Hungarian specialty called Langos. It is deep-fried bread with your choice of toppings - in our case, sour cream, cheese, bacon, onion, and tomato. It was delicious in a "I don't care if I die young" type of way until your body suddenly wakes up and realizes what you are eating. Tried it once, never again. 

A Hungarian specialty called Langos. It is deep-fried bread with your choice of toppings - in our case, sour cream, cheese, bacon, onion, and tomato. It was delicious in a "I don't care if I die young" type of way until your body suddenly wakes up and realizes what you are eating. Tried it once, never again. 

A daytime walk through Szimpla Kert, the popular bar that first kicked off the "Ruin Bar" movement that caught like wildfire in Budapest. In case you are wondering, "Ruin Bar" is short-hand for a bar whose aesthetic was determined by an "anything goes" mentality and items salvaged while dumpster diving. Think things like half-sawed off bath tubs, detached car chairs with the stuffing coming out of gashes in the fabric, marker graffiti on the walls, etc. 

A daytime walk through Szimpla Kert, the popular bar that first kicked off the "Ruin Bar" movement that caught like wildfire in Budapest. In case you are wondering, "Ruin Bar" is short-hand for a bar whose aesthetic was determined by an "anything goes" mentality and items salvaged while dumpster diving. Think things like half-sawed off bath tubs, detached car chairs with the stuffing coming out of gashes in the fabric, marker graffiti on the walls, etc. 

It was our last day in Budapest, and after so many cumulative hours of walking we decided the best use of our time would be a nice long soak and a massage. We went to a wonderful bath called Rudas, styled like a Turkish Hammam. The main room had 5 baths, one in the center, with four in each corner of the room of ascending temperatures. It smelled a bit in there, that sulfuric smell that is somehow acceptable when you can convince yourself the waters are good for you. 

We hopped from bath to bath, occasionally stopping to go into the steam sauna. (Bathing suits were required for those of you who will wonder.) The steam sauna was an experience in itself. The first time I went in I completely fell apart. I pride myself on being someone who would be level-headed in a crisis, but apparently 122 Fahrenheit of concentrated heat is too much crisis for me to handle. Jacob and Marcia had gone in ahead of me - Marcia had sat down like a normal person, whereas I froze in place, trying to breathe, struggling to open my eyes, and unsure of what to do because every move I made just made me hotter. After standing there like an idiot for (what felt like) an eternity, Marcia told me to come and sit down by her. I sat down and realized Jacob was missing - the steam was too thick to see him. I called out for him (sorry other sauna-users, it was too hot to be courteous), and he called back - he was on the floor. That's right folks, Jacob had gone into the sauna and pretty much immediately just lay down on the floor, knowing that would be where it be coolest. The only problem was that if he passed out from the heat we would never find him. 

The bucket of cold water waiting for us on the other side of the sauna was such an endorphin rush that the pain was forgotten. Somewhat like childbirth, or so I hear. 

After a couple of masochistic trips to that sauna, it was time to prep for our 30 minute "aromatherapy" massage. Marcia had treated us each to a massage and we were all slotted in at 2:00 PM. Thirty minutes prior to our massage we decided to go to the "resting room" (basically the nap room, if we were in Preschool), which gave us a clear shot to the massage area. 

The hallway to the massage rooms. 

The hallway to the massage rooms. 

Marcia was getting increasingly nervous. Jacob had checked out the massage area earlier and reported seeing a burly Hungarian man massaging someone in one of the rooms. From where Marcia was positioned she could see three middle aged man chatting in the corridor. They in themselves were a motley bunch - one was in the spa uniform, another was pot-bellied and wearing nothing but a towel, and the third was blind, shirtless, and wearing white booty-shorts while holding his cane. Assumedly the blind guy and shirtless dude were two regulars chatting with one of the staff. 

Time came for our massage and we went over to the trio standing in the hallway by the massage area. After a moment of confusion a second man in a spa uniform scanned Jacob's massage receipt, said something unintelligible to us, and promptly walked away.  

Moment of silence. 

Then the blind guy speaks up. "Follow me!", and leads Jacob down the hallway, tapping his cane to the entrance of the massage room. 

I stood there, slightly petrified. But before I could think, the man wearing nothing but a towel turned to me and grunted. Oh dear. I would have preferred the blind man. I followed the towel-man into a massage room. 

Marcia got the guy wearing a uniform. 

Now from here I will break it up into our individual experiences: 

Jacob: Jacob was told to lie down on the table, so he did - on his back. The blind man tapped around a bit with his hands, and then went "No! Turn over!". So Jacob did. The blind man tapped down to his foot, then started massaging. Jacob's verdict: overall, it was a good massage. Perhaps a bit unorthodox, and the harmonica music playing on the radio was odd, but it was good.

Chelsea: Frankly, I was terrified. When given a choice of whether to lie on my stomach or back, I opted for my stomach and came up with a plan. Anything gets fishy and I will kick him in the face and make a run for it. Thankfully he left the door open so that helped a bit. But still. Secondly, that was not aromatherapy. That was just plain old unscented oil. 

Now, I am not sure what the European standard for massages are, but I have come to expect certain things: a relaxing atmosphere, quiet, minimal distraction. Not so here apparently. To my naked masseuse's credit, nothing unseemly happened, unless you consider him placing a hand on my back and my butt and shaking vigorously unseemly.

There was, however, some guy standing in the door way having a conversation with my masseuse, as I listened to the harmonica music wafting from Jacob's room. At one point I opened my eyes and in the plastic room-divide could see my reflection as my masseuse massaged my neck with one hand, other hand on his hip, as he engaged in passionate conversation with the guy standing in the doorway. 

Marcia: As soon as Marcia saw Jacob walking away with the blind masseuse, and myself with the wearing-a-towel-is-he-naked? guy, she couldn't stop giggling. She followed her fully clothed masseuse to the room and lay down on the massage bed, trying to stop laughing. In the end she had to imagine her husband (Jacob's dad) dying to stop giggling during the massage. 

The moment we all saw each other though...

The Hungarian massage we will never forget. And truthfully, the funniest story I have had to share in a while. Budapest never disappoints. 


Recipe: Summer Radish Tartines & Aperol Spritzers

It has been a blisteringly hot summer. The hottest summer, in fact, in Austria's recorded history (and they started recording some time in the 1700s, so that's a big deal). Most Austrians will tell you that a summer will contain one or two days where the thermostat is above 90 degrees Fahrenheit - this summer, we are nearing on two months of it. 

It has not just been Austria though. All of Europe is suffering from the heatwave, and parts of the Middle East are reporting mind-numbing figures like 165 degrees Fahrenheit. 

The dog days of summer indeed. (I am SO excited for Autumn.)

Until then however, Jacob and I have been enjoying a luxury few Viennese have: air conditioning. Yes, we have air conditioning. Not just one, but three air conditioning units, meaning to me that the previous tenant had a fixation on hyper-cooled air. We are so grateful. 

Even with the air though, many of the 100 degree days (with a relatively high humidity point) have been spent trying not to move and certainly trying anything to avoid turning on the oven or stove.

I like finding recipes that makes my heat-avoidance look glamorous rather than lazy. These Radish Tartines have become one of my go-to recipes this summer, and at this rate, will still be in the repertoire even after my oven and I have made amends. 

The recipe I have included is the "fancy" version, though I will share the "I'm hungry now" version too, which is just as good: bread, radishes, cream cheese, salt, and olive oil. The combination is simple, light, refreshing, and filled with beautiful layers of contrasting textures and grassy-creamy flavors. 

Then you need something to drink. Overall I am not a huge fan of spritzers - I tend to like my alcoholic beverages to taste like alcohol, not fruit juice. This spritzer is the best of both worlds - tangy, sweet, refreshing, with multiple nuanced layers and a slightly bitter finish from the Aperol. Pair the Radish Tartines with this Aperol Spritzer, and you just may forget about the heat for a little while.