The Babe Goes To Amsterdam

Our last weekend in Europe had a cast of six. My darling wife Raquel, the Israeli Ukrainian Alex, the perpetually stoned Dutchmen Eric, his infinitely optimistic Japanese wife Nolico, and our begrudgingly kind tour guide, Eric’s friend Seger. After a night of drinking jaegermister in Utrecht and a morning exploring this picturesque town in the Netherlands we set out for Amsterdam.

We arrived in Amsterdam around the serendipitous time of 4:20, and set out to find a coffee shop. Our brains addled, we set out on what Seger contemptuously described as a time honored tourist tradition of Amsterdam: wandering aimlessly in search of food.

To our credit it wasn’t entirely the fault of the tetrahydrocannibinol, there were factors working against us. The first pizza place we went by had a long line, the middle eastern shop had decent enough falafel for a snack but lacked ambience, the burrito place was sold out of everything except grisly beef, the slew of Italian restaurants we passed didn’t have room for six, and the two signs for Indonesian restaurants were inexplicably hung over either empty boxes or a brick walls with no windows. An hour later, to my delight and Seger’s dismay, we ended up at a restaurant three doors down from the coffeeshop that we’d started at. We dined on mediocre pizza that our munchies made into something amazing.

Fed and thirsty we set out for a bar. Again, indecision is the enemy of the stoned, yet we managed to find a string of bars quick enough. Fearing that we’d end up walking in circles on the sidewalk, I tried to lead the group into a spot boasting craft beers, but Eric intervened.

“We are in Amsterdam! Why do you want to drink Brooklyn Lager?”

I stammered some lame excuse but followed Eric into the place he described as punk-rock with little argument.

Inside, I realized for the umpteenth time how great it is to visit someone instead of somewhere. The bar was called “Ruig,” Dutch for “Raw” and it was amazing. It had exposed wiring on the ceiling, plywood for a front door, old exposed brickwork and 4 hipsters arguing over which funky piece 80’s vinyl they were going to put on next. Bless that Dutchmen’s sense of smell.

“All they need is an old Japanese man and this place would be perfect!” Alex declared.

We ordered Belgian style trippels from the oldest brewery in Amsterdam and proceeded to party. Before too long we found the couch, and half lounged, half danced with skills so hot we lured the whole damn city to come party Ruig-style.

We drank and smoked and drank some more. Laughing and reminiscing and just generally making me realize how important friends are on this great big planet we all call home. Here we were, people from Texas, Isreal, Japan and Utrecht, all laughing and dancing our hearts out because we were with people we loved enough to feel at home.

So comfortable were we that Nolico fell asleep with her arms wrapped around Eric’s belly. Try as he might, Nolico could not be revived from her slumber until he told her it was time to go. We did our best to hide our tears and hugged our goodbyes to the people that only need good music and a couch to make us feel at home anywhere on the planet.

With half of our party departed, Raquel, Alex and I kicked it up a notch.  We kept the beer flowing and the dance moves bumping. So notorious were we with the bartenders that they made a point of putting more of our precious trippels in the fridge for us.

“There’s only two left, don’t worry, we’ll bring ‘em to you once they’re cold,” they said and we felt all warm and cozy.

“Do we need to close the tab before we run across the street to the coffee shop?” Alex asked.

They looked at him as if he’d spoken Japanese.

“You’re coming back right?”

“Yeah! this place is great!”

“You can pay later of course,” the thought of us bailing on the bill never crossed their minds. They must’ve known we liked the music too much.

Across the street we wandered and proceeded to do the exact opposite of what we’d been told to do.

We’d just met a man named Willem, a Scottish Dutchmen, who’d assured us that yes the coffeeshop was open, but that for the love of Bob Marley don’t get that “tourist-hairspray-stoned-off-your-ass-shit” He swore by the stuff mixed with tobacco, and told us that the green stuff would knock us on our ass and end our party.

But when confronted with a menu including the likes of White Widow and Purple Haze, I couldn’t bring myself to make my darling wife imbibe more tobacco, so we got the green stuff, went back to the bar, lit up, and realized Willem had been 100% correct.

“You guys kinda got a going home vibe,” he told us and we shook our heads no and told him that we weren’t going anywhere until he turned his back. We giggled while we paid the tab and got the hell out.

We wandered home through the red light district, lingering just long enough to sense the unmistakable charge of sexuality the ladies of the night exuded, yet not long enough to be nauseated by it.

The next morning we set goodbye to Alex and wiled our day away lounging in the park, going to Van Gogh museum and thinking about our two month adventure through Europe, and our year abroad.

So now’s the time I should say my grand realizations about life, the world, and everything, but alas doing so feels too grand a task for one as ignorant as I, so instead I’ll quote that woman of infinite wisdom, that muse of magic and lover of life, my darling Raquel.

Raquel loves travelling and hates to travel. She says there’s no better feeling than running for a train or the moment when she first sits down on a plane and knows that she’ll soon be somewhere she’s never been and can’t possibly imagine.

But arriving is always a disappointment.

Travelling is expensive, exhausting, and the big stuff’s always a let-down. The monuments are smaller than you thought, less garish than you’d expect. The lines are only worth the wait because there’s nothing else to do. Raquel says that what really matters about a place is the people and the food. If you’re fed the food that they’d feed their mama, life is good, and if they do it with a smile and share a drink with you the meal’s all the better.

I think she’s awfully jaded for such a young beautiful woman, but then again, I can’t really say a thing. My experience is different from hers for every dish I taste, every joke I crack, every monument I photograph is made sweeter by her smile, her laughter, her presence. For me travelling with My Babe is effortless because everywhere we go is an adventure of amazement or the absurd.

Are there places I still want to go? Of course, but as long as she’s with me, it doesn’t have to be any farther than the grocery store. At least until she wants to run for another train. I’ll be racing to keep up.

Greek Restaraunts and Waiters

 

Greek food is amazing. Everyone knows feta and olives but there’s much more to the cuisine. We’ve had roasted anchovies, crispy croquettes, lemony fish soup, and cucumber salads. Dining in Greece is also great because of the waiters. Everywhere we’ve been, except for one amazing bakery run by a grumpy baker, we’ve been treated as honored guests to be fattened and entertained.  

Crispy croquettes

It’s good to travel with Raquel because she eats half of my plate while I eat hers. The best meal we’ve had thus far was veal slow cooked with fresh green beans in tomato sauce and a massive hunk of mousaka. Raquel said the veal was so tender it fell apart when you looked at it, the green beans popped when sprinkled with feta, but we agreed the best was the mousaka. Potatoes and eggplant were roast to perfection then layered with spicy minced meat, house made tomato sauce, and topped with a layer of creamy béchamel sauce and (surprise) a sprinkling of feta. It was then put in the oven just until the top turned all brown and crispy. I know the ingredients and how it was prepared because when our waiter saw that we’d licked our plates clean he thanked us profusely, and when I told him it was even better than my dad’s mousaka, he proceeded to tell us, in perhaps too much detail, all of his secrets for the next fifteen minutes.

Fried fresh anchovies (better than the sardines)

There must be a fraternity the waiters join, and if you speak Greek to them they’re forced to lavish you in kindness. At a seafood restaurant on the island of Kea a waiter saw us looking at the menu and practically dragged us to the back of the place to look at the fresh fish.

Looks delicious! But we just ate.

He didn’t care. He knew we’d be back, we’d seen the fish after all.

We returned the same night and were greeted by the same man. He helped us pick out a scorpion fish (I like to eat strange things, and scorpion fish look strange) and two delicious red fish whose name I have forgotten. The scorpion fish has a texture something like crab and a rich almost meaty taste. Raquel could not stop eating its cheeks. The other fish was light, flaky and crispy with salt and I cannot remember because I thanked one of the waiters in Greek, and he practically fell over in delight. Soon as we finished our fish we were presented Mastiha. I tried to ask the waiter exactly what it was to which he simply asked, “You know Mastih? It is made of Mastih!” It is so delicious that Raquel actually drinks it, perhaps too quickly for when the waiter saw our empty glasses he snapped his fingers and they were refilled. Raquel slid her second shot of this wonderful drink to me (she’s still a lightweight, no matter how good the booze) and I proceeded to become pleasantly inebriated. On our way out we thanked our hosts, efharisto, to which they added, efharisto poly, or thank you very much. A meal and a language lesson. Marvelous.

Amazing rabbit and onions. Notice the
falling-off-the-bone quality

But our best host was a man in Hermopolis. He was thin and goateed and did everything with a flourish, whether it was pouring wine or clearing plates. He recommended the rabbit, and we thankfully listened to his suggestion. It came with caramelized pearl onions and pile of fried potatoes. We rounded out the meal with a bowl of fat fresh beans topped in feta and white wine. The rabbit was savory and decadent and was accented by the sweetness from the caramelized onions which popped in your mouth, braising the rabbit in their juices with each bite. Between morsels of rabbit we scooped up the beans and feta with our fried potatoes and watched our waiter. The only time he wasn’t singing was when he was acting like a monster to make little children laugh, doing pratfalls when he banged his head against the signboard, or clearing a table, an activity he liked to do without a tray, much to the chagrin of the other waitress, who would follow him to be sure he didn’t drop anything. He repaid her assistance by placing a potted plant on her tray anytime she got too close. Maybe it was just the wine, but we found it all hilarious.

And what’s better than a fine meal served with a personal touch? A week of them.

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Click for a quick Greek lesson to earn free snacks  or for food in Austria!

 

Speak Greek

 

The Bear

“It’s all Greek to me,” I joked, looking at the funny letters that look like ours but don’t sound like them. We were in japan a year, and any attempts to learn the language were met with giggles and embarrassment, so why bother in Greece? It’s not like I’ll be able to get any sort of handle on the language in two weeks, and what will learning a few phrases really do?

Turns out that a few words in Greek have earned Raquel and I all sorts of goodies.

First, a disclaimer. I can’t read Greek, neither can you probably, so my translations are all just the sounds of Spanish. So think adios amigos not goodbye my friends.

We were given our first lesson in Greek from the first restaurant we went to. I asked the waiter how to say thank you, and he told us, efharisto, then spent the rest of the evening teaching us greek spelling on our table cloth. He was great. He’d write down a phrase, then vanish and let us absorb it, then as soon as we’d glance his way he’d be back at the table, checking our pronunciation. After the meal and the lesson I told him efharisto for everything. So impressed he was he brought us mastiha a sweet herb flavored digestif. It was perfect after a meal of spiced meatballs and mousaka. Raquel spent her entire time on the subway telling me how good it made her tummy feel.

The next phrase we learned was yasas, which means cheers and is good for hello or goodbye. We tried out this handy phrase in a little bakery. It earned us free sesame seed crusted pretzels and a big smile from the shopkeeper.

Of course, when learning all of this greek, you may get in over your head. This happened to us in the town of Finikas, when at a Taverna (spelled Tabepna in Greek). We ordered in greek, feta parakolo, or feta please, and the waiter proceeded to interrogate us in his mother tongue. I understood not a word, but the waiter figured this out soon enough and switched to English. Half a bottle of wine later and I was drinking tsipouro with the Frenchmen at the table next to us. Siporo is distilled white wine and I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would take something as good as greek white wine and turn it into something as repulsive as tsipouro. Fortunately the waiter noticed my distressed and brought Raquel and I rakomelo, which is the same vile liquor that’s been boiled with cinnamon and honey, and is marvelous.

After that drunken debacle I learned the next phrase. Milate Anglica? Or, you-speaka-da-english? This one earned us chocolate at a coffee shop one day and cheaper cups of coffee the next. Seriously I think they just like spoiling young Americans.

But perhaps the most powerful phrase in my limited vocabulary is roharismo parakalo. Which means simply, “check please.” If you learn anything besides yasas, I’d focus on this one. I always say it at the end of the meal and the waiters seem unable to help but bring us desert. I’ve earned us yogurt with figs and honey this way, a coconut custard that was quite tasty and two pieces of something like flan, one of which was coated in lavender syrup and the other in a pomegranate reduction. Ambrosia, and all thanks to asking for the check in Greek. I think the waiters appreciate an attempt at the language, and can’t help but feed us a little bit more.

The Babe and the Beard

But then again, I could be full of crap. The locals have told us they haven’t seen Americans here in years, and everyone might be being nice just so we’ll spread the good word. Either that or they’re trying to get at my wife. Aw well, at least they know enough to try to get me drunk while they’re doing it.

 

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Use that Greek at a great restaurant or perhaps while you explore the island of Syros!

The Beard, The Babe, and The Bear

From where I sit above Vienna I can see old bearded Austrians hobble past young Muslims lost in conversation amongst red-brick buildings. To think that 24 hours ago I was eating a box of bento—rice, fried fish paste and steamed vegetables—on the floor of a train station in Tokyo boggles my mind. My wife Raquel and I finished a year spent teaching in Takayama Japan and decided to strap our stuffed bear Kumamon to one of our backpacks, and spend two months in Europe. 

Eating on the floor in Japan is certainly more agreeable with the locals than walking while you eat, but typically frowned upon when done in a train station. Yet we were given no hassle, for Kumamon was with us. Locals tried to frown when they saw two westerners shoveling their faces between trains, but inevitably failed when they saw his fat black belly and rosy red cheeks. Frowns faded as the passersby mumbled “Kumamon,” from goofy smiles. It seemed that deciding to take a stuffed animal as our only carry-on item besides a backpack each was a great idea.

But that all changed.

The three of us landed in the Dubai airport after a tiring yet sleepless 12 flight from Tokyo. After a year living amongst a sea of Japanese salary men, the diversity of the airport boggled my mind. I saw men in turbans and women in scarves, gnarled beards, styled mustached, business suits, bindies and baseball caps on hair of every style growing from skin of every color. The only thing all these people had in common was their distrust of the two Americans sauntering through the airport with a stuffed bear. 

People woke from their naps just to roll over and turn their backs on us. Mothers warned their children to keep their distance and husbands told their wives wait to take a picture until the cheerless ambiance of the enormous international airport could return.

After an hour of listless wandering, it was time to fly to Vienna. We queued up, inched forward, presented our boarding pass and were promptly told to get out of line. A hundred people walked past us, their tickets brokering them no troubles. We kept smiles on our faces and Kumamon bounced happily in Raquel’s arms but the passing crowd was not amused. As people filed onto the plane, stares grew from distrust to suspicion to downright horror. I know they were all thinking the same thing. “There’s a bomb in that bear.”

“Your seats changed, I didn’t have a printer,” the flight attendant said with a grin, not even apologizing for how sweaty the delay had made us. We piled onto the plane, plopped down with Kumamon, and prepared for the praise to come for our travelling companion.

Instead we were greeted with a cold smile from a European flight attendant, and told to stuff our teddy bear in the overhead so we could take off.

Teddy bear? We looked at eachother. TEDDY BEAR? We would never travel with a teddy bear! But then our eyes alit on sweet sweet Kumamon and we realized that she was indeed talking to us.

So I’ll miss Japan, with its bowing businessman and silly characters, but we’re ready for a new adventure, this one with a cast of three lead characters and countless bit parts that will come and go. So stay tuned to see who we meet, and what they have to say about my beard, my beautiful wife, and lil’ Kumamon.  

If you liked this post, follow our adventures in Europe or find out about my year in Japan.