Horse around.

My mom grew up on an Iowa farm with a pinto horse named Beauty. She got that horse when she was about nine years old and spent a lot of time after school riding her. After visiting a friend or going for a long ride, my mom could fall asleep on the horse’s back and Beauty would just take her on home. There was a saddle, but she rode mostly bareback, grabbing the mane with her strong arm and somehow hoisting her petite frame onto the horse.

Beauty was still around when I was a kid. I remember one particular time riding her with my mom through a snow-covered field near my grandparents’ farm, the snow sparkling as it does when untouched on a sunny, cold day in winter. In her later years, Beauty became friends with a ram who would follow her and keep her company. After Beauty, it was many years before I rode a horse again. I went on a trail ride one autumn during college in Colorado. But then nothing. Only memories of Beauty, oh so long ago.

Here I am on Beauty, when I was but a wee one. My mom was leading
us around my grandparents' farm. Beauty was a good, gentle soul. 

So when traveling through Guatemala a few years ago and the opportunity to go horseback riding presented itself, I took the reigns of nostalgia and said, “Giddy up!” Neither of my friends, Ronja from Denmark (you have read about her before here and here), or Evelyn from Guatemala (you have read about her here), had been on a horse before. An adventure awaited us. And we did have a great time.

Here I am in Guatemala, getting ready to go site
seeing with my new buddy.

One thing I noticed while horseback riding in Central America was that the stirrups were too short (or high) for this tall gringa. The most obvious example of this occurred when I went for a trail ride around Laguna Apoyo in Nicaragua. My knees were just too bent to be comfortable. But evidently changing them was too much work or something because my requests were not heeded. It was kind of like riding a bicycle that is too small, only the horse was not too small ... it just felt like he was because my knees were in my chin. But I still had fun, and enjoyed the time with my friends (read more about them here), the views, and the company of a grand animal. 

Here I am on a sweet Nicaraguan horse in a pose more
suitable to a yoga ball. Research tells me the stirrup
(where your foot goes) should come to just below or at
the ankle when your leg is hanging down straight.
Um, not quite. 

To bring up bicycles again, I will say that riding a horse is like riding a bike. You really don’t forget how to do it, even after many years, and even after never really being a master rider to begin with. Going horseback riding somewhere you are visiting, whether it’s a foreign country or not, is part of the traveling adventure you should consider, even if you do it on a regular basis at home. You get to see some beautiful views, enjoy the outdoors, and make a new friend (i.e. the horse). So jump up on that saddle, and ride into the sunset. And good luck with the stirrups. 

Let a museum enlighten you.

In previous posts, when I have encouraged you to be a traveler more than a tourist, I did not mean to skip museums. Museums are for everyone. Museums open doors to different cultures, places, times, and people. I love to visit museums, especially those dealing with history or art (or both). Some of my favorites have been the Anne Frank Museum in Amsterdam, the Nobel Museum in Oslo, the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, Canterbury Shaker Village in New Hampshire, and the Frida Kahlo Museum (also known as The Blue House) in Coyoacán, Mexico City. I have also seen some wondrous artwork from the masters of the past and have enjoyed the work of today's artists whose commentary on events and situations is powerful, creative and inspiring. I always learn something, if not a lot.

When you are traveling, whether or not you are a history buff or an art lover, I recommend visiting a museum. Or do as I do and visit many. You will learn about the place you are visiting and what has happened there. You will learn of events that inspired people, or damaged people, or changed the course of history. You will learn more about the culture you have taken such an interest in.

This week here in Austin, Texas, there has been an exhibit called Architects of Air on display and available for visits. No matter who is describing this exhibit, the words “bouncy house” always seem to be used. It is an outdoor exhibit, filled with air ... but it isn’t bouncy. It is an inflatable, interactive display of architecture and color. Here are some photos I took: 

This is what Architects of Air looks like from the outside.
Although not a part of a museum per se, the exhibit itself
was both museum and artwork. It was quite amazing!

Here I am, amid the color and light of the different passageways.

Architects of Air travels all over the world, so maybe someday you will see it (or maybe you have already). It is a unique experience. I waited for almost 30 minutes to buy the ticket, and then waited another hour and a half to get inside the exhibit (where everyone had to take off their shoes to enter). Initially I thought, “I am not waiting that long! I mean, come on!” But then I decided, “Why not?” I was thinking I had too much to get done and that I shouldn’t use my time for this experience. But I soon realized how ridiculous that was. I wouldn’t feel that way if I were visiting another city and had the chance to see this exhibit. I wouldn’t feel that way if I had to wait in line to take the ferry from Manhattan to the Ellis Island Immigration Museum (which I did, and it was February, so it was very cold ... unlike today in Austin where it was 80ºF). I wouldn’t feel that way if I were waiting to ride the Millennium roller coaster at Cedar Point in Ohio (I think I waited longer than that ... all to be completely terrified!). I think I was just hung up on the fact that I wasn’t a visitor, or a tourist, or a traveler. But the truth is, I am always those things. We are always in a position to see our familiar places in a different light if we just take the time to explore them in a different way.

So this is why I say that no matter where you are, whether you are traveling or at home, take some time to find all the treasures museums hold. Some are actual treasures. Some are worth more money than we can fathom. Some are held in small museums with seemingly simple stories to tell, but are interesting and important nonetheless. Some explain a place in history that is practically incomprehensible. But they all shed new light on the usual, and lend new color to what we thought we knew.  

And the award for worst movie on a bus goes to ...

It is movie awards season in Hollywood, which to those who love movies means there is typically a better selection of quality movies at the theater since many are released before the end of the year. I am a movie fan. I like all types of movies, from dramas and westerns to romantic comedies and foreign films. I have even extolled the virtues of watching U.S. movies when you are traveling to practice your foreign language skills by reading Spanish subtitles (read this blog post here).

As this year's movie award season takes off, I thought I would again write about watching movies in a different country. Although the movies I am going to discuss are not ones you see in the comfort of a theater, with a bag of poporopos in your lap. I am going to talk about movies on buses.

I have traveled on buses in various countries in Latin America over various distances. Some have been rather comfy, with attendants who are like those on an airplane. They are dressed in bus company uniforms, pass out snacks, and make sure people are comfortable. Some buses have been crammed with people, with more people seated in each row than was intended or imagined, and people standing up and down the aisle, so smashed together that holding on to a seat or a bar overhead is hardly necessary since you are propped up by those around you. But whether a first class bus or a chicken bus, I have seen movies on them, to varying degrees of entertainment. 

My friend Monica and I took a bus from Mexico City to Oaxaca one holiday season and the trip took around seven hours. The movies shown on this bus were good for practicing Spanish. The first one was in English with Spanish subtitles, and as you know, I always enjoy that. The second one was a U.S. movie, but dubbed in Spanish, so I had to work a bit harder to know what was going on. The third one was an Italian film with Spanish subtitles. Quite the challenge. But it was an intriguing movie about the mafia, having to do with a child who had witnessed the murder of his family by a rival family. I don’t know what it was called, nor do I know how it ended. I just know that it wasn’t over when we pulled into the Oaxaca bus station and many of the passengers who had been watching it stuck around to see what was going to happen to that little boy. I was hoping to watch it another time, but I still have no idea what it was called.

There was also a chicken bus in Guatemala in which the driver was evidently a huge fan of Vicente Fernandez, a very famous Mexican singer and actor who has made dozens and dozens of albums and been in a mountain of films over the years (think Elvis with a sombrero). Don Chente, as he is fondly known, is beloved all over the Spanish-speaking world, and that was obvious on this particular bus trip. A television was attached to the front of the bus, near the bus driver’s head. And the movie being shown was one with Chente, some crazy chase scenes, some shoot outs, and a lot of mayhem. There was singing, too. A little cheesie, but full of old-school-charm. I was a little nervous that the bus driver seemed so intrigued with the movie when there was this winding road curving around cliffs and large potholes. Hadn’t he seen the movie before? Couldn’t he just listen? Well, somehow he managed to drive, and watch the movie, and sing along to the songs. Vicente Fernandez is a living legend, but I maintain that he is not worth going over a cliff.

On another bus, this one a little more subdued, less crowded, and more comfortable, took my friend Ronja and I across Guatemala, an eight or nine hour trip to San Luis. Ronja had books. I had books. Ronja had her iPod. I had the songs in my head. So when they were about to play a movie, we thought we were about to pass the time with some decent entertainment. We were so very wrong. If I could pick the worst movie ever created in the history of U.S. films, I think in at least the top five would be the Wayans Brothers’ Little Man. Oh, are you not familiar? Here is a synopsis: a three-foot-tall man tricks a couple into thinking he’s a baby. But he’s really some kind of thief. And a pervert with a thing for boobs, which fits right into his role as a baby. You see where I’m going with this. And this was what we’d hoped would help pass the time on the long bus ride to San Luis. It was dubbed in Spanish, which was pretty lucky because I can certainly block out Spanish better than I can English. So yeah ... we went back to our books.

If you ever find yourself traveling by bus in another country, you may get some decent movie entertainment. Or maybe you won’t. Or it could be another way to help you with your foreign language skills. Or it could be a reason to get back to the book that nice British couple passed along to you earlier in your trip. Or you could have an actual, face-to-face conversation with your friend, travel companion, or the person sitting across the aisle from you. Or you could sleep. Any of those suggestions is better than a bad movie on a long bus trip. But if it’s Don Chente, make yourself watch. He is a legend after all. Just make sure the bus driver is watching the road.  

To see Don Vicente Fernandez, go here. This is from the 1978 film, El Coyote y la Bronca. I don't think this was the movie being shown on the bus in Guatemala that day, but I wonder if this is how that bus driver takes care of his bus. 

Make sweet memories.

First of all, Happy New Year everyone! I did not write any blog posts over the holidays because my mom was visiting and we were very busy. One thing that has been a part of the Christmas season for me my entire life is my mom’s fudge, and this year was no exception. It is delicious, very rich, and sweet. I have shared it with various friends and coworkers over the years and it is always a big hit. People love it. Of course you can make it any time of the year. We just always make it for the holidays.

Here is the fudge we made last month. I sure would like a piece right
about now, but it is long gone. 

The Christmas I spent in Guatemala (I believe it was the day before I ate the raw radish salad that brought my stomach and me a week of hell. See this post.), I wanted to share something from home with my host family, so I decided I would make my mother’s famous fudge. The recipe is not all that complicated, so she emailed it to me and I went to the bigger supermarket in Xela to get the ingredients. I also purchased an appropriate pan to put the fudge in and a measuring cup, measuring spoons, etc. My host mother was a wonderful cook, but she did not bake evidently. And she didn’t need any measuring cups to cook. The woman knew what she was doing.

Things were a bit different in Guatemala in terms of the ingredients. They didn’t have marshmallow cream for instance. My mother informed me that my grandmother had used regular marshmallows before, so I was in luck! Marshmallows are a very popular treat during the holidays in Guatemala. Store shelves are piled with bags of marshmallows, affectionately known as angelitos (little angels). People eat them as they are. They will put them in candy dishes and set them on a coffee table when guests come. There are bowls of them included on the snack table at holiday get-togethers. So thank my guardian angelitos for that!

The only other two ingredients that presented a challenge were the butter (the butter wasn’t divided into the measurements we have in the U.S., so I had to eyeball it and put in what I thought was the right amount) and we had a hard time finding vanilla (a regional mystery similar to the coffee one. See this post.). I think the mother in my house finally got some from a neighbor. But as I mentioned, it’s a pretty easy recipe, so luckily there weren’t many ingredients to find. 

After having everything I needed, the middle daughter Luci-- the one who loved to cook and bake, the one who made my birthday cake (see that photo here)-- and I started to work. I told her how my grandmother used to make this fudge. And that it was one of the Christmas candies my mom makes every year. Luci and her family had never had fudge before. I don’t think they knew what to expect. But Luci helped me with the process and we got it done, laughing pretty much the entire time. It turned out a little different than at home. The sugar granules were a little bigger, so the fudge was ever-so-slightly gritty. I didn’t mind, and the family sure didn’t mind. It was a big hit. The father even took some to work to share with his coworkers. A coworker even asked for the recipe.

Luci and I, ready to put the fudge in the cake pan for cooling.
We almost just ate it right there out of the pot.

One evening after that, Luci and I attempted to effectively translate the recipe. We didn’t really know how to translate “fudge,” so we went with “dulce de chocolate,” which is basically "chocolate candy." She knew a little English, but her knowledge of cooking was really helpful. I wanted the family to have the recipe in case they wanted to include fudge in their future holiday festivities. I’m not sure they did ... I always forget to ask when we exchange emails. But it was fun to share that experience with Luci, and to show the family something that is a part of my own Christmas tradition.

If you ever get a chance to stay with a family in another country for an extended period of time, it is great to prepare a food from your own country for them. I am not much into cooking, and I don’t know how to cook anything all that exciting (goal for 2012: master lasagna!). But dessert I can do! If you can share a food from your personal menu, they get a taste of your culture. And if you teach someone how to prepare a dish, or anything else (do you know how to dance country swing, or paint, or tune up a motorcycle?), you are helping to create a memory, both for your host family and yourself. And memories like that are pretty sweet.