The Art of Eating

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well." ~Virginia Woolf

On a recent business trip to Spain, Catalonia to be exact, it became painfully obvious, that living in America where "eight out of ten people eat at a fast food restaurant at least monthly, with almost half of them saying they eat fast food at least weekly" (http://www.gallup.com/poll/163868/fast-food-major-part-diet.aspx), I had forgotten what eating really is, even though I belong to the mere four percent who say we don't eat at fast food restaurants.

In Catalonia, eating is taken to a whole different level:

Breakfast. Desayuno is divided into two meals (just that is genius in and of itself!): Easing into the day, we start with café con leche and something, anything, to dunk in it: typically a croissant; plain or filled with chocolate. Late morning, breakfast part two consists of a simple sandwich of freshly baked bread, like a small baguette, with cheese and/or ham and cheese. Nothing revolutionary yet, right?

But lunch. Hold on! This is not the time to get disinterested...  So much more than what you are thinking... unless you are lucky enough to be able to relate. Lunch. Take the word in your mouth; roll it around a number of times; taste it. What do you taste?

This incredible meal is as important in Catalonia as it was for Catholics going to church in Italy every Sunday 100 years ago. Working though lunch, hunched over your desk is not an option. No, not even for you. It is a meal over which you connect with business partners and coworkers, family and friends. Starting around two o'clock, taking place over at least two hours, it entails a first course, a second course, dessert, inclusive of wine, water, ending with café. The most common is to order the menu of the day - a selection of three starters, three main courses and three desserts. Since this menu highlights the house specialties it is going to be freshest, and thus, will be my recommendation to you.

"La cena" e.g. dinner is another important meal (are we catching on yet to the fact that every meal is important?) but much more modest than lunch, and eaten late, usually after 9 pm. I am convinced it is slated so late in the day only so we can fit another meal into the day:  la merienda (snack). Or perhaps it has to do with the heat. But does it really matter when it gives you an excuse to have bread so fresh out of the oven that it is still warm, with chocolate on it? Or perhaps jamon iberico and fresh cheese is more to your liking?

Whatever suits your fancy, enjoy! Eating is sharing so much more than food. It pleases more senses than taste and fills more than just your stomach. Eating is an art. Eating is joyful, Eating is relaxing, Eating is a ritual. Eating is cultural.  Done right, it fills your soul!

¡Buen provecho!

Lost in My Native Country

On the road again. Going for a quick jaunt to see the family in Sweden. Yawn. But this time my wish for a travel buddy has come true... a friend from St. Tropez is meeting me there.

Deviating from my usual British Airways flight, surrounded by Krauts (friendly stab at the Germans, originally derogatory term coined during WWII), I embark on Lufthansa's flight 423 bound for Stockholm, via Frankfurt. Upholding their reputation for being punctual and exact, everything is just so. We even depart prior to our scheduled time since everyone's on board and "vee vant to arrive Frankfurt on time". Beverage and food services are delivered efficiently, including alcoholic beverages which were eradicated from airline services long ago to help combat falling revenues and higher fuel costs. As a traditionalist, I embrace the welcome return of what once was, even though I personally abstain from drinking alcohol on flights.

Frankfurt Airport welcomes me with the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee: Bread is baked on site and there are automatic free coffee dispensers abound satisfying your need for a latte, macchiato, or espresso  - just follow the trail of people carrying little red cups and you'll find one of the many stations. Don't bother looking for the decaf option. Europeans are purists.

Kungstradgarden

Getting to and from Arlanda Airport couldn't be easier: comfortable bio fueled buses, equipped with safety belts which all passengers use, depart for the Stockholm city center every ten minutes. Tickets are sold at the visitor center inside the airport, online, in ticket machines outside and on board the bus. A one-way ticket costs me 99 SEK, approximately US $13.00, and I'm in the city 45 minutes later. Taxis cost between three and four times the amount, but should that be your preference, getting one won't be a problem. Taxis are licensed and accept credit cards. They will save you 15-20 minutes.

Guard at The Royal Castle 

Skansen

Pike Heads. Fjaderholmarna.

 Ignoring jet lag "a condition that is characterized by various psychological and physiological effects (as fatigue and irritability), occurs following long flight through several time zones, and probably results from disruption of circadian rhythms in the human body" (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/jet%20lag)  is not recommended, no matter how excited you might be. It will make you queasy, or worse, especially when coupled with jumping on a trampoline after dinner and drinks. (Hard to resist nieces and nephews.) Give your body a chance to adjust. 

Distances in Stockholm are deceptive. An avid runner, I set out to run the morning after arrival (again, reference above paragraph on jet lag) and cover the very outer limits of my childhood territory in thirty minutes. So I run another lap, dodging dainty deer munching tulips and hares with big floppy ears hopping down the middle of the road. Idyllic? Most certainly, yes.

Roof Top Tours

Riding the "tunnelbana" - the subway system is easy: all stations have maps, are well marked, and all subway lines are color coded and connect at T-centralen (there are one or two exceptions) and safe. I notice a mother leaving her Baby Bjorn stroller where it can easily be stolen, but the Swedish logic says "what would a drug addict take my stroller for?". And based on what I witnessed, they don't.

Roda Villan, Fjaderholmarna

Swedes speak English. Very well, and very happily as they are eager to practice their "internationalism" every chance they get, so even if you try to speak Swedish, or if they "somehow" detect that you are a foreigner before you open your mouth, they will be proactive and address you in English. Contrary to Paris, it is perfectly accepted to address someone in English; you don't even need to ask if they speak English. Because they do.

Water is everywhere.

My idea of exploring a new place is to first grab a coffee at a local cafe and see where the tourist are heading. I take note and go in the opposite direction... This is not what my friend had in mind: zig-zagging the city for three days, we visit the Royal Castle, several art galleries, Gamla Stan, Stureplan, Ostermalms Salu Hall, Photografiska Museet, SoFo, Globen, the Vasa Museum, Skansen, the Cherry Blossoms at Kungstradgarden, Djurgarden, and Fjaderholmarna. The must visit attractions are Fjaderholmarna, Skansen, Djurgarden, and the rooftop tour. Naturally, we also sample the local cuisine, an absolute must for any visit abroad, and in my opinion more important than any museum or statue. For me, the highlights are fresh, fried herring out of a food cart parked at Slussen, thin, Swedish pancakes with ice cream and chocolate sauce, a ham and cheese panini at Roda Villan Fjaderholmarna and not the least, the glass of wine enjoyed in the warm sun at Kajen, quay side on Strandvagen, overlooking the ferries and pleasure boats criss-cross the blue water.

Fjaderholmarna

Swedish Summer in Pictures

C.R.U.I.S.E: Epilogue

Feb. 23, 2013

Balboa Clipper update from crew member to me:

"we hit 11.5 knots on the clipper then the sheets for the jib jammed on the anchor on deck a mess so we dropped the mainsail and Cap lost the bitter end and I got hit by the boom and hung on for dear life! fixed that mess too...did I mention the mizzen mast blew thru the floor and I jammed Kellys steel bucket to keep it from punching the hull? ..on dry for awhile!"

C.R.U.I.S.E Part V: The Bitter End

http://evamossberg.blogspot.com/2013/02/cruise-part-iv-between-devil-and-deep.html

Cringing dinghy my companion
Howling winds my chorus
Wincing wood my lyrics
Tomorrow my hope

-Written by crew member at 4 am.

We are all eager to get to dry land, each of us with our own reason: To get parts so we can put the boat back together and sail on to Belize, to eat something other than rice and beans, to socialize, to experience the renowned Fantasy Fest (http://www.fantasyfest.com) where body paint is more prevalent than clothes, to get away from the damned boat that won't stop moving like a rocking horse... I have one more day left of vacation and, full up with adventure and close calls, there is nothing I want more than to spend it somewhere, anywhere, away from this boat.

We part ways at the dock - in typical fashion, the crew goes one way, the captain another. Us crew members fall into the nearest restaurant, relieved to be on "the hard". The TV broadcasts continuous updates on Tropical Storm Sandy saying it could be "a rare event" and we discuss returning to the boat versus not returning to the boat. When the waitress asks what we'd like to drink we laugh out loud and in unison order three dark and stormys, a lovely concoction of spiced dark rum, ginger beer and lime.

Further decimation happens among the crew after breakfast. I'm in the contingency of two who go to explore Fantasy Fest. Originally an initiative undertaken to boost tourism to the Florida keys in the slower months, Fantasy Fest week has taken on a life of it's own and now produces the most revenue of any week during the year. It's a show, a carnival with festive floats, costumes, no shame, a whole lot of body paint and even more rum.

We circle back to the dock between rounds of rum punch and at long last we intercept the captain, soaking wet, dinghy in tow. Soon, a crowd gathers, soaked boat cushions, a cooler, frozen chicken thighs, a few apples, and life jackets are offloaded onto the dock. We can't help but laugh at it all. His attempt of returning to the Balboa Clipper with one of the crew members, groceries and a new steering cable had failed, in the true sense of the word: Going straight into the weather, one wave too many had come over the bow and claimed the rights to the dinghy directly in front of the coast guard station. The rescue was swift but far from painless to the ego. When the TV crew on board the coastguard cutter asked for permission to film, the answer was reportedly "short and negative".

I now really regret not having taken my backpack off the boat and since none of the other crew members have any intentions of setting foot on board that night, only I remain to go back out with the captain. Despite the inherent risk, my heart pounds with excitement. This is another Louis and Clark expedition! Oh the fine line between brave and stupid... Engine flushed out and reattached to the dinghy, we test the waters once more, with almost the same disastrous result as the first attempt. Bailing feverishly to keep up with the waves crashing over the dinghy, we joke about what to tell the coast guard if a second rescue is required...  "Um, yes sir. I found this lovely young lady ashore... I'm sure you understand..."  Luckily, no such scene is called for and as soon as we reach the Balboa Clipper (almost not soon enough) we quickly clutch the stanchions and haul ourselves out of the near sinking dinghy, bucking like a yearling under saddle for the first time. With an acrobatic balancing act and not just a little bit of luck we remove the engine, check the anchors, dry out soaked wallets and cellphones, secure what can be secured, and put our heads down for the night.I'm fully dressed, including life jacket. My passport and wallet are in a watertight bag in my zipped up pocket.

Against all odds, I sleep very restfully. Probably from sheer exhaustion. And the knowledge that I'm close to the end of this delivery. I have booked a ride in to shore in the morning with a shuttle service, will grab a taxi to the airport and once there with a boarding pass in hand, I will have a stiff drink and not worry about my safety for the first time since we left Fort Lauderdale.

Now I need a vacation.

C.R.U.I.S.E. Part IV: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

http://evamossberg.blogspot.com/2012/12/cruise-part-iii-cut-and-run.html

Our boat is quickly transformed to a floating repair shop, brightly illuminated by deck lights. Not only is the steering cable off its track: The bowsprit is looser than it was when we cast off in Fort Lauderdale due to a rotted out heel, and there is a one inch play in the steel plate securing the mizzen mast.

Looks like we'll be here for awhile.

A surprising amount of tools are pulled out of the hold, one by one, like rabbits out of a magic hat; a mounting mess including hundreds of feet of anchor chain, a portable generator, a sawsall, spare pieces of wood, steel bars, caulk, glue, drill sets, socket sets, various hammers and mallets, bolts, nuts and screws of every size imaginable... In the wee hours of the morning, the moon, a creamy yellow big crescent of cheese sets in the big blue, and defeated by fate, we find a place to rest. I curl up in my sleeping bag under the dodger, worried about the prospect of our floating scrap metal yard being tossed around by the elements due to a dragging anchor with no available options of maneuvering. I wake up continuously.

Morning comes, and with energy levels and hope restored, the Balboa Clipper is pasted together with a mixture of ingenuity, steel plates, and marine caulk. I'd like to point out that, against all odds, the second most common problem on a boat, after crew, is not in need of repairs: the packing is tight and sounds like a happy donkey each time the handle is raised and lowered to flush. As a result, we begin to refer to the head as The Donkey. It didn't take long for "I'm going to hit the head" to become "I'm going to feed the donkey". Ah, life on board a boat...

We set sail, haul the anchor, and point the nose to the west, hoping to reach Key West before we have an altercation with the rapidly approaching, recently upgraded Tropical Storm Sandy. She brings us plenty of wind and a display of spectacular storm skies to our aft, but the skies above are blue and the winds on our backs. If I could only shake the constant, nagging feeling of "when?"

 "When" happens at sunset, just as we enter the channel to Key West, in close proximity to other boats and the hard (i.e. land) for the first time in sixteen hours. The emergency tiller, a two feet long steel shaft is installed and in 35-40 knot winds we enter the mooring field, its water boiling with whitecaps.

Another meal of rice and beans, anchors out and holding, wind howling through the rig. With no reliable steering, I'm happy that the Coast Guard Station is located eight hundred yards away.

We wouldn't need them until the next day.

C.R.U.I.S.E. Part III: Cut and Run

http://evamossberg.blogspot.com/2012/11/cruise-part-ii-floating-repair-shop.html

Under skies the color of Guinness stout beer, the outgoing tide carries S/Y Balboa Clipper through the labyrinth of canals of Fort Lauderdale, a man-made engineering marvel that makes me question human intelligence. If Hurricane Katrina sank New Orleans, it's easy to imagine what a tsunami would do to Fort Lauderdale and Miami, not exactly towering above the ocean at eleven feet above sea level. Deduct a normal average wave height of five feet and very little margin is left to protect the multi-million-dollar homes with their curbside boat slips and drive-in boat houses. In what is supposed to be a tight housing market, a motivated seller lists his single family home at $6,999.000. Others are listed between $55,000.000 and $100,000.000.

She glides along towards open water, one bridge after another opening on command, like the door in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Her engine purrs like a content kitten in stark contrast to the gruff bridge operators, surprised and not particularly happy about having to actually work so early in the morning.

Traffic is sparse. It's 3:30 am.

As the sun rises out of the ocean in the east, S/Y Balboa Clipper dumps out in the Atlantic Ocean. We hang a right at the flashing green buoy marking the channel into Port Everglades, leaving a rapidly approaching container ship and her pilot (guide) boat to our aft. Container ships always move a lot quicker than they appear to. Our heading: 180. Dead south, which inherently gives you a strong feeling of good. We cruise along making decent speed on a perfect heading, until suddenly our speed over ground drops four knots. Feeling of good gone. On the wheel, I wonder what I'm doing wrong and ask for the sails to be eased, then trimmed, and when my efforts of gaining a knot or two only slow us down further, I ask for them to be eased out again, back to where they were. Sigh.

The Gulf Stream rushes east and north through a deep, narrow strait some 25 miles wide between Florida and the Bahamas.  Here, the current typically averages three knots, although it can reach speeds up to eight knots at times. This Gulf Stream is the fastest and largest current in the Atlantic; over a billion cubic feet of water rushes past Miami every second. Fascinating facts to read. Heartbreaking and very frustrating to experience. But change is constant and before long, the wonders of nature, a current running in the reverse direction (southbound) on the outer edge of the Gulf Stream, also called an eddy, picks us up. Soon, we see the sky-rises of Miami proper and South Beach sprouting out of the ocean, LEGO like. Eleven feet above sea level. Marvelous.

Sailing has been called "the art of going nowhere at great expense", and this trip is no exception. We are running behind schedule (this is a delivery, not a pleasure cruise) and the two extra days I had added into my already conservative timeline for "oh shits have already run out. Apparent final destination, assuming all goes relatively well from here on: Key West, maybe Isla Mujeres, Mexico. As we round the southeast tip of Florida we obtain reports of tropical disturbance number 19 brewing on our port and tropical storm Sandy, now hurricane Sandy, south of Cuba. Emails from friends read: "Some people's life is meant to be quiet and calm. NOT YOURS!!!!!!
Your is meant to be an adventure. I pray you are safe and well!!!" and "So, there's a hurricane where you are. Typical."


My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, "A Few Figs from Thistles", 1920
US poet (1892 - 1950)



With bobbing sea turtles and bottlenose dolphins playing at our bow, we forge ahead, surfing down waves on the fringes of two big storms, licking us with their advantageous, brilliant steady winds. This is some of the best sailing I've ever experienced.

As dusk falls, our captain decides to teach the two first-time sailors how to anchor. In the dark, and in twelve feet of water. Aye, aye. I head into the wind, and hold her there. Suddenly the strong wind grabs her nose and pushes her to starboard. I turn the wheel hard to port to correct. She doesn't react but is pushed further downwind, the wind now starting to fill the sails. I at full tilt, and nothing happens. She is at the mercy of the howling wind. The steering is gone.

"DROP THE ANCHOR", I shout loudly into the wind as I throw my hands up in the air. I point to the wheel and motion with my hand across my throat to signal the loss of steering.

C.R.U.I.S.E. part II: The Floating Repair Shop

"With a backpack, passport, and a sleeping bag, anything is possible. This trip is far from over." http://evamossberg.blogspot.com/2012/10/cruise.html

Part II: The Floating Repair Shop

At last, the S/Y Balboa Clipper arrives Ft. Lauderdale. She comes in on the high tide that let her float off the sand bar where the crew sort of parked, unconventionally and involuntarily at 4:00 am. She's pretty, a 41' Formosa ketch, meaning that she has two masts, the main mast and aft (rear) of the main mast, the shorter mizzen mast. Below deck, she's pristine; cozy, warm, woodwork gleaming with thick coats of varnish.  On deck is tied a windsurfing board, an inflatable kayak, a fiberglass dingy, related oars, six jerrycans with diesel fuel and a little more than the usual clutter of anchors and lines. Captain Adventure, as I learn is his nickname (which coincidentally matches mine), points out that despite the clutter, there are really only two lines that are unusual: One is a preventer, keeping the mainsail boom from knocking the crew overboard when heading downwind under sail. The other puts tension on the port (left) shroud, as the turnbuckle cannot be tightened any more, "for some reason", he says with a smile. As a point of interest, I'd like to add that the shrouds serve an integral role in keeping the mast from falling out of the sky. 

After a weather update and a round or two of the mandatory sea stories, Captain Adventure grabs a box of waffle mix and exclaims "Waffles at Kelly's!" We follow him to the neighbor's house two doors down, who's intent on winning the neighborhood Halloween decorating contest and is busy adding skeletons, cob webs and a séance circle in the front yard when we arrive but welcomes us warmly just the same. We bond over beers, chocolate chip waffles and coffee, in that order, whilst formulating a plan for our departure. One disembarking crew member quickly made it clear, by his actions, that he was not going to help, but instead arrange for his return home. But as every boat that comes in to port, we need to make repairs and buy parts, food, water and fuel, so the rest of us divide the tasks and go to work. As a final project, started at 9:00 pm under a starry sky, Captain gets hoisted up the mast to repair the masthead light, a mission that ends after two and a half hours with the casing slipping out of his hands, bouncing off the deck and into the canal with the unmistakable "PLOP", followed by "shit" exclaimed from the masthead.  Little did I know that this was the first of what became a steady stream of mishaps, surprising us at first, becoming more expected as the trip continued, under the least of favorable conditions: 

With hurricane Sandy on our tails.  

C.R.U.I.S.E.

Comical
Ridiculous
Unparalleled
Incredible
Sailing
Experience

Before even leaving the dock in Jacksonville, Florida, she has engine problems. This is far better than having engine trouble underway. Which is still perfectly possible.

"She" is a 42' Formosa ketch called Balboa Clipper. She's been on the hard for three years and now the owner/captain wants her by his side in Belize, where he's built an ecolodge near the Guatemalan border. I have been recruited to help bring her south. By, and with a non-sailer.

I confirm early on that I'm recruited neither as captain nor galley girl. Instead, as it turns out, I'm one of only two sailors on board. With that, I'm in. I have yet to meet the captain (sailor number two), and lay eyes on the vessel but am beyond thrilled for an opportunity to sail and complete another leg and +/- 600 nautical miles of the circumnavigation I started in 1991 by sailing from Sweden to the West Indies.

Shy on vacation days, I am meeting them in Ft. Lauderdale, a floating city about twenty road miles north of Miami, which suits me fine. Sailing the east coast of Florida has never been on my list of things to do and the captain has arranged for me to stay with his friends on the river until Balboa Clipper arrives, by ways of wind or diesel. They have a 49' Hinckley tied up in their backyard. Sounds promising. Told they do charters, I check out their webiste www.fantasysail.com. You should too.

Elbow to elbow on the commuter line. I can feel the unfriendly looks "why the hell is she on the RUSH HOUR direct train to Boston with a backpack?!" I smile and think to myself "I have to go to work too...  I just have a different voyage planned for the end of my day. HA!"

Spirit airlines brings me to Ft. Lauderdale for $138. Not a bad flight at all but they are stingy with their carry-on policy. I shouldn't have brought the sleeping bag. It costs me a smile and $40 (vs. $47) to bring it in the cabin.  Better than having it put in the hold and be forever lost. I don't have a return flight booked.

So it seems like I'll have two days here in sunny Florida until the boat gets here. Florida is not my favorite state even though the east coast is livelier than the west coast. The latter, where I spent eight months at school is referred to as God's waiting room due to all retirees who move there for the weather, kind to their ailing bodies. Their presence is very apparent. Here on the east coast it's bikinis, mega yachts, plastic surgery and stilettos.

On top of engine problems delaying departure by two days, the first update from aboard includes "two out of the four guys on the boat threw up for the first twenty-four hours at sea". Yuck. Glad I wasn't on board for any of that.

The most common boat problems are engines and crew.

But this and countless tales of the misadventures of Captain Chris make me wonder if I'll ever make it to Mexico, especially since we will be heading into a strong opposing current. Realistically, he'll want me on board for the crossing, especially now that his talent on board has demonstrated their weaknesses. But time and tide wait for no one.

Plan E (yes, there's A, B, C and D) would be to simply mosey on up the coast back to Boston. Planes, trains or automobiles. I have friends in TX, NC, NYC, CT, and RI I'd like to see...

With a backpack, passport, and a sleeping bag, anything is possible.

This trip is far from over.

Playing Gypsy Again

With a small, thirty-litre backpack slung over my back, flipflops on the left, water bottle to the right, and my running kit in the bottom of the bag, I shut the door behind me, heading for the 5:50am train. Destination Summer Camp: 175 international teenagers, 12 - 17 years old, descending on Simmons Campus for seven weeks to learn English and experience Boston through a variety of activities, from walking the freedom trail to touring Fenway and watching whales frolick off Stellwagen Bank. Sounds like fun, doesn't it? Imagine being in America, away from mom and dad for the first time ever, living on a real American campus?

Who is dumb enough to ever want to manage such an animal?

I, in fact didn't. When the job as Program Manager was pitched to me this past winter I sat back in my chair, arms crossed, smiling confidently as I shook my head and said "no, absolutely not". Truth is, I said no three times, intent on breaking out of the seasonal job cycle which has both plagued and enhanced my personal and professional life (the line tends to get blurred) for well over a decade and can best be described as an existence going from being bored stiff pushing paper in the off-season and screaming high on adrenaline in the busy season.

Since the alternative wouldn't put me on the right career track or even as much as give me a high, I decided, after much deliberation to accept, not embrace the position, knowing that I was entering a love/hate relationship (essentially I hated that I loved it). Seven weeks doesn't sound like a lot but nor did six months when I managed private yacht clubs. I dare you to add up the hours... and then multiply it by fifteen curveballs per day, seven days per week.

So five months later I find myself in a 10' x 8' spartan dorm room (with a killer balcony if you climb out the window), living like a gypsy again. I'm giddy, perched on the top floor like an owl ogling the ground cover, listening to the rain tapping on my window, warning me of the approaching thunder storm. My soul is at rest, my mind at ease.

High or not, life is good.