Happy Valentine's Day!

Valentine's Day wasn't a holiday we'd expected to celebrate while abroad. I mean, sure, we may celebrate it on our own, but we hardly thought we'd be stricken with mid-day anxiety about getting a table at dinner tonight. As it turns out, just like Halloween in Spain, St. Valentine's Day is starting to take this part of the world by storm - even Muslim Turkey. Luckily, they happen to have one of the key Cupid Day components down pat - sweets.
A variety box of Turkish delights and some pressed fig balls covered in coconut, nuts and chocolate nibs felt like the right candy choice for our purposes. But, man, was there a lot to choose from. We're currently in Edirne, a great little city west of Istanbul, right near the country's borders with Bulgaria and Greece. The main pedestrian drag has a dizzying array of sweets options, including more than one "baklava salonu."
Triangular, square, circular, cigar shaped, pistachio, walnut, hazelnut, with and without green flakes sprinkled on top - so many different baklavas! The end result is pretty much the same, a puff pastry crunch that leads to a sweet, dense, honey-soaked heaven. The baklava from these specialty bakeries are a far cry from the New Jersey Greek diner variety I grew up with - they're fresh, which adds this teensy bit of breathing room between the layers, allowing the different elements to mix and really explode in your mouth. This is not hyperbole.
Of course, there's also Turkish Delight or lokum, as it is known here. The finer varieties are cubes of chopped dates or nuts held together with gel and flavored with something lovely like rose water. The cheap-o ones are bright colored cubes with lemon, mint and other "flavoring." (See first photo in this post). These classy ones were displayed in a store window like jewelry, in boxes that you could snap closed oh-so-playfully on Julia Roberts' gloved hand. (It's Valentine's Day - you've gotta let me have a rom-com reference).
There's a stage being set up in the main street right now and posters around town advertise Valentine's music shows. The flower shops have wrapped carnations in heart patterned paper and clothing stores have moved all their red sweaters to the front window. We wanted to buy some marzipan, which many people believe was actually invented right here in Edirne when it was the capital of the Ottoman empire. But, since the city is also known for its fruit-shaped soaps, we were too afraid of mixing up the two. Happy Valentine's Day from Turkey!

Merry Second Christmas!

As some readers may remember from last year, Christmas comes a little later in Russia. The same is true here in Georgia, where the Georgian Orthodox church celebrates the occasion on the 7th of January. It's actually not that big a deal - businesses remain open, life goes on as usual. Still, it's exciting to see Christmas trees!

This stunted little thing was in the house of a family in Mestia, where they seemed a little confused about its purpose.
Eastern Orthodox churches use the Julian calendar for the dates of their feasts and holidays, though the countries themselves use the Gregorian calendar. There is currently a difference of 13 days between the two, so things happen a little later here.

This is the national Christmas tree, in front of Parliament on Rustaveli Avenue, in Tbilisi.
We've tried to wish people a Merry Christmas, but have mostly received blank stares. Even when we use the rough Georgian translation - "gilocavth shoba" - it doesn't seem to register. New Year's Eve is a much more widely celebrated event - the biggest holiday of the year, in fact.

The tree in Signaghi is placed not in front of the town hall, but in front of a more prominent landmark - the casino.
Santa Clause has come to Georgia, slowly displacing the older, communist-issue "Grandfather Frost." One cell-phone company made all their employees dress in fluorescent orange suits, complete with beard and boots.

For some reason, we're still laughing about this picture from Belarus. In that officially religion-less country, Santa (despite appearances) isn't really Santa, but just a red-wearing Grandfather Frost (how appropriate!). He tends to be accompanied by his granddaughter, the "snow maiden."

Happy (New) New Year!

December 31st is a special day in Georgia. For us, it signals the end of the holiday season – the time to officially stop spending money on things you don’t need, eating things you shouldn’t. Time to start thinking about throwing out that Christmas tree. Here, though, it is just the beginning. You see, December 31st is a fairly new holiday for Georgians. According to the Russian Orthodox calendar, Christmas is January 7th and New Year is January 13th. This second date is often referred to as “Old New Year,” and has more significance to most Georgians. Never ones to shy away from celebrations and rounds of toasts, though, they have embraced (New) New Year's Eve as a kickoff party of sorts. As far as we can tell, the festivities center solely on feasts and fireworks.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve had the buzz of preparation. All through the city, you could almost here people crossing things off their to do lists. Families left their apartments with bundles veiled in foil, loading the trunks of their car with their contribution to the feast. This little piggy went whee whee whee all the way into the back of a Subaru Forrester. He was generously seasoned with ajiki (a Georgian hot sauce that also comes in a green variety) and was the obvious pride of the man who carried it.
People rushed around with grocery bags and bakeries opened earlier and closed later than usual. This bread cellar is usually pretty sleepy. When we’ve gone down before, there were maybe one or two customers chatting with the floured bakers. On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, though, there was a line all the way up the stairs to the sidewalk. Past the congenial and patient queue, the shop was packed. More workers than we’d seen before were pushing and pulling dough in and out of the immense clay ovens. As orders were completed, the lucky customer would leave everyone else in the flour dust, going up and out to parade their bounty. The fresh, steaming towers of bread never fail to seduce passersby with its come hither scent.
It’s a night for the supra, a grand multi-course meal named after the Georgian word for tablecloth. Possibly because it’s the only thing that is left uneaten? Unlike other capitals on New Year’s Eve, Tbilisi became sleepier in the hours leading up to midnight. Small restaurants shut down in the early evening, so people could go home and dine with family. No doubt everyone was toasting with relatives and eating traditional dished like satsivi, cold chicken in a cinnamon-y walnut sauce with raisins (pictured above and much tastier than it looks).

There’s a carnivalesque vibe to the small holiday markets set up in Tbilisi. Lots of masks, wigs and big felt bows affixed to headbands. Balloon animals, face painting, cotton candy and glitter explosions. The children are officially off from school for holiday break and tourists from around Georgia and elsewhere flash their camera at the lit up city. Tbilisi is beautiful at night, with the mud and dust of transition blacked out and the sheen of finished projects illuminated.
We saw on television the next day that a huge crowd amassed in the New Town for a concert. Somehow, we never found it. Instead, we walked around and took in the gradual crescendo of fireworks. All week, we’ve heard a crack here and a pop there. When the sun went down on December 31st, flashes of light flew and fizzled steadily. Then, in that all important last hour before midnight, it really picked up. It was hard to tell if any of the display was city sponsored or all the collective work of the residents of Tbilisi. Young kids, old women, just about everyone did their part painting the sky. Out on the street or out their window, their firework was shot off. The Christmas season has begun! Happy (New) New Year!

Autumn Roast: La Castanyada

To smell a chestnut roasting on a European street corner is to smell autumn at its most basic. Add the scent of sweet potato cooked with hot coals, and you have a scent that transmits harvest, tradition and location – the smell of La Castanyada.
The Catalan festival of La Castanyada - which loosely translates to “the chestnut time” – is an old tradition surrounding All Saints’ Day. In the particular mythology of this kind of thing, chestnuts and hot sweet potatoes were cooked and eaten during the cold nights around the day of the dead, when bellringers needed to stay up through the darkness to chime prayers and commemorations for the departed. It has become something of a celebratory event on both the 31st of October and the 1st of November, with special recipes, small “panellet” cookies and lots of moscatell wine. In Barcelona, the street carts roasting nuts and roots get busiest as the sun goes down and the night’s chill sets in.
Barcelona isn’t a cold place, of course, and this year it’s particularly balmy – especially for those of us unaccustomed to southern climes. While the Barcelonés walk around in sweaters and scarves, we were feeling quite warm in short sleeves. The atmosphere is autumnal, the temperature is temperate. But the cool night air off the Mediterranean carried with it a melancholy of shortening days and summer’s end. Joining the huddle around a Castanyada stand, a universal sentiment of fall came over us – like what’s elicited by the rustling of leaves or Halloween night.
But La Castanyada is perhaps one reason why Halloween hasn’t caught on here in Catalonia as much as it has in other parts of the continent. It’s a simpler holiday, and it feels more fully autumnal, a flickering of food and fires against the tableau of a fading year. It’s said that the roasting of the sweet potatoes offers an opportunity to remember and commune with the dead. It's nice, instead of the ghoul-aping of Halloween, to feel a communal search for heat and closeness.
The women who traditionally sold their “castanyes i moniatos” from simple braziers were called the “castanyeras.” They sat bundled in blankets and headscarves, their fingers blackened from the work and smoke, scooping nuts into paper twists with special “espàtulas” scoops. The image has endured, though the vendors have changed. We saw many versions of these scarecrow-like figures, some set out in jest, some with care.

Halloween in Barcelona

We really thought Halloween was like American football and peanut butter – something beloved at home that never really caught on in Europe. But the pumpkin seed seems to have been planted in Spain and, here in Barcelona, the holiday has gained some popularity. This isn’t to say that trick-or-treaters were knocking on doors for croquettes. There was simply a nice peppering of festivity throughout the city on Halloween and the night before.
The first signs appeared in obvious forms – stag parties roving the streets in costumes, international students in flamenco dresses, a Happy Halloween banner hanging from the doorway of “Fish&Chips.” But it definitely reached beyond the expat scene. Little kids wore FC Barcelona uniforms and Scream masks. One girl struggled not to trip on her oversized sweater, an orange and block horizontal stripe number of her mother’s. Paired, of course, with a fedora and Freddie Krueger claws.
There was a plastic pumpkin here, a cotton cobweb draped there, a line of wrinkling jack-o-lanterns lined up on a balcony. These pumpkins grinned from a market stand. Without the pop-up costume shops, convenience store candy displays and masquerade party sitcom plots, Halloween feels a lot more simple. You can celebrate if you want or just go about your day without anyone judging you for your lack of interest.
So what is Halloween at its most basic level? Scary of course! Costumes were more ghoulish than witty, more bloody than skin-baring. The most idea-oriented thing we saw was a group of teenage boys dressed as comic book samurai, complete with absurdly oversized swords and cartoonish wigs. Most people, though, were just going for dead or undead look. All of the zombie homages may be a little nod to the more widely celebrated Day of the Dead (November 1st).
Day Light Savings ended on the Saturday night before Halloween, giving everyone an extra hour to party it up. This bar was still being decorated when we arrived at around 10pm. Things get started really late here. People began to stream in, none in costume, most excited to order the themed drink of the night: absinthe. The bartender took great pains to get it all right, but no one really seemed to care, preferring to mingle than watch the chemistry of it all. It’s just something about that liquor’s goblin green color and borderline mythic history and edge of danger that just screams Halloween. For me, the candy bowl set out on the corner was a truer badge of authenticity.

Sneaking a Peek at the Festa Da Desfornhada

After dinner on Saturday night in Guimarães, we passed by a restaurant named Histórico by Papaboa. Both entrances to its courtyard were brimming with people, piled up to watch what was going on inside, the Festa Da Desfolhada. Since there didn't seem to be any ticket-takers and the start time on the poster was three hours earlier, we simply excused ourselves through the wall of onlookers and checked it out for ourselves. With a few glasses of vinho verde in me and a video camera in my purse, what else is a girl to do?
Everyone seemed to be in clean up mode. Big straw brooms scratched away at the stone ground, batting corn husks over into an ever-growing pile. One man raked the cobs into a tray and then let another smack at them with something that resembled a long riding crop. It was obviously a traditional festival. The men wore straw hats and the women wore red headscarves and long skirts. A few children ran around, making sure (along with the still-playing band) that the festivities weren't completely over for the night.
"Desfolhada" means "leafless," but translates more perfectly to "husking" and that's what the festival is all about. It's a night of eating and drinking and husking corn. Evidence of all three filled the courtyard, even as things appeared to be wrapping up. The smell of food lingered in the air, the corn was still being dealt with and a man in a red-wine-stained shirt whirled his dance partner around and around.
A four piece band made up of three accordions and a tom tom drum played a folk tune on loop as couples spun and moved in circles around each other like a Teacups ride. The cleanup crew-cum-percussion section joined in with their straw on stone scratching and wood on corn thumping. As we stood there, we saw the revelers gain a second wind. Just when it all seemed to die down, a man in a blue polo shirt walked across the emptying square, clapped his hands a few times, struck a flamenco-esque pose and, somehow, roused people back to the dance floor. Singing started and cameras flashed. You can watch a little bit of it below. I warn you - the music's an earworm.

The Andorra Ferrari Convention

At one time - before I could actually drive a car - I could have told you the exact horsepower output, zero-to-sixty times, top speed and general desirability of every Ferrari in production. Nowadays, I don't even know the names of the different models. It was thus only mildly exciting when the 5th annual "concentración Ferrari" arrived in Andorra, and the streets and valleys began to vibrate and thrum under the onslaught of pistons and tailpipes.
There's a nostalgic charm about the way people worship the cult of the supercar. It's reminiscent, in some ways, of antique modes of aristocracy - a car is deemed superior by birth rite, mumbled approval is given as it passes, heads are turned. They are given free reign and police escorts as they rumble along closed roads, speeding expected, laws not applicable. We stood at a bus stop with our cameras one morning, watching as a long procession screamed along the main Andorran road, dozens of (mostly) red, sleek things traveling at high speed and full clamor. It seems impossible, but we could actually feel the heat of the engines as they whizzed past. Mystifying and slightly gross.
Really, this is the culture of car longing. Ferrari has retail stores all across the globe, selling branded polo shirts and sneakers, pens and luggage, watches and cufflinks. The allure of the car is the marketing ploy; the red glow extends eventually to knickknacks. Although the concentración probably boosted sales, the Ferrari store in Andorra is almost always busy. The owners of the cars wore special red and yellow fleeces, given to them by the event organizers, unavailable to the public, the distinguishing marks of the elite.

It must be a strange convention to attend, a kind of fellowship of the envied and the gas-guzzlers. One wonders if there is jealousy within their ranks, if the older owners look down on the recent-purchasers, if they talk about their Ferraris or about Andorra or about something less mythical.
The convention ended on Sunday, but a few stragglers have still been growling around the mountains. Parked, they draw perhaps even more attention than they do when driven. Maybe that's because empty seats are easier to imagine sitting in, or because they are suddenly, curiously inanimate. Admittedly - even now that my lust for them has dissipated with age - a revving, moving, exhaust-scented Ferrari is still captivating in a way that few other vehicles are. At rest, though, there's something hair-raising about their stillness, as though they might suddenly awaken of their own accord and pounce.
A less publicized and more romantic (for us) convention of Volkswagen bugs and vans was held in Andorra on the same weekend. We joked that it was organized to protest the Ferraris - a populist uprising, maybe - and that Andorra was much too small for all of this driving. It doesn't take long to traverse the main road and suddenly come up against a border. Why hold a car "concentración" in such a small, congested place? Possibly - and this is especially pertinent for Ferrari drivers - because gas is about €1.50 per gallon cheaper in Andorra than it is in France.

A Warm Rice-y Welcome

As is our microstate arrival custom, we went to the town center and took an inventory of all the posted events. Comedy show on Tuesday, Ferrari fest next week, "Fira del Roser" in Sant Julia de Loria this weekend! The exclamation point comes from the fact that right there under the dates and times were the words "GRAN PAELLA POPULAR," which we translated to mean "FAMOUS BIG PAELLA." This isn't usually the main event of the Fair of the Rosary, celebrated the first weekend of each year. Normally, the local cattle are brought down from the mountains and showcased at the fair. However, a statement issued by the town regretfully explained that they had spoken to the farmers and the cows simply couldn't make it down for the event this year.
Other than the livestock exhibition, the fair also features 30 venders selling local beer, honey, preserves, clothing, jewelry and the like. The crowd was thin and the booths seemed sad when we first arrived, early in the day. Some sort of scavenger hunt filled the sidewalks outside with sprinting teenagers and a chocolate-covered-churro stand made the surrounds smell like 'fair' - but the tent remained pretty empty. They say that the whole parish usually shows up, which is around 1,500 people in Sant Julia de Loria. I'd say the bovine stars of the show were sorely missed.
Even still, at around 1:30 (half an hour before the promoted paella time), the staff got to stirring. A corner of the tent was sectioned off by a picket fence and potted flowers. A picnic table was topped with bread, plates, forks, water and(of course) red wine in plastic cups and the paellas were a'cooking. The set-up made it feel like a backyard barbecue and, soon enough, the entire town had flooded in and lined up. Nothing brings a community together like free food. They waited and gabbed as a local news camera man shot footage and our stomach gurgled from the almost torturous aroma. Our second day on the Iberian peninsula, we're not used to eating lunch at 2pm just yet.
You can say the cows made a special appearance after all, along with some chickens and pigs. The tri-meat paella with mushroom and pepper had a ton of flavor and tasted as fresh and homemade as can be. Heaped, steaming hot, onto our plates by a bubbly woman, the paella made me feel like I was at a family gathering of some second or third cousins I never knew I had, but was happy to find out I was related to. "Good rice, right?" one of the organizers asked us with a smile that suggested the question was rhetorical. We nodded and chewed and swallowed our warm welcome to Andorra. "Have more!" he said as he walked away. If we could have fit more in our bellies, we would have.
Paella is actually the Catalan word for "pan" and, around these parts, the term is used to describe any rice dish that's cooked up in a shallow pan over fire, like this. Any expert would take one look at this picture and say that, for such an enormous quantity, the cooks did a fine job - because right there, stuck to the bottom of the pan, is some sacorrat. When we left, they had begun doling out more helpings from the second pan. Inside, outside, all down the sidewalk and in the playground next door, people were sitting, squatting and standing with their plates on the sunny Saturday afternoon - chewing and talking and taking a break only to take a sip of red wine from a plastic cup.

A Country Fair

At first, we couldn't tell if it was a cattle auction or a country fair, the way the beef cows were all dolled up for the occasion. A sign on the road read "Chateau-Chervix" and we followed to see what sort of castle we'd find. The chateau stood on a hill, at the end of a long straight street lined with houses - but something more interesting was happening down on the ground floor. Cars were parked along both curbs and everywhere in between. Music played in one direction and crowd roared in another. Naturally, we squeezed into a spot and went investigating.
Chateau-Chervix is not just the name of the castle, but also the small commune at its foot. And it probably doesn't see this sort of action on any old Saturday. Today was the agriculture show, the country fair, if you will. I've never been to a country fair in America, but have read a few Garrison Keillor accounts and feel pretty confident in my conclusion that they are pretty universal. The whole town was there - probably the surrounding towns, too - to see the animals, mingle, eat and drink. Old men wore their best suspenders and young kids wore pink and brown ice cream smiles.
It was fairly sparse, but festive. Men huddled together to discuss the bovines (and, most likely, gossip about their owners). Lively debates went on under newsboy caps and straw hats. It was a very hot day, which drew some attention away from the animal stars and drove more people into the shaded areas.
I'm sure people perused the local produce and chatted up the vendors a little bit longer because of the umbrella salvation. Cantaloupes and a myriad of onions and garlic were for sale. Nearby, a woman stood behind a table with a few pieces of used, mismatched glassware, a wrapped leg of cured ham that was being raffled off and a television which was plugged in and showing a rugby match. On the tv was a sign that read "40€. Cannot take until game has ended" (in French, of course). I wonder how many wonderfully amusing signs I've missed in countries where I didn't benefit from a translation.
A few children were being lead around on ponies and a number more were kicking up dust in a dirt bike ring. This young woman led her horse around in a circle right beside a loudspeaker which played country western music. The songs were in English, but I couldn't tell you if they were American or not. The flag draped over the horse sure was. It put a smile on my (particularly patriotic this weekend) face.
Understandably, predictably (and enviably) most of the country fairers were congregated in the refreshments tent. The din was almost at a roar and the tables were strewn with emptied cups and plates. This is where things began to look particularly French. The food was sold as a three course set menu: local dried & cured meats, local beef with vegetables and goat cheese for dessert. A far cry from the sausage grills or (dare I say "french") fries usually served in these settings. Red wine was the drink of choice.
As we left, the band was arriving, hurrying toward the tent in their traditional costume. The women clomped along in wooden clogs, worn over thick woolen socks. I couldn't imagine how hot they must have been. But this is tradition at its most fun, I think.

Oldie Night and Two Fests

When the electronic board that usually reads "Welcome to Vaduz" changed its message to say "Oldie Night, August 20, 20:00" we knew we had that evening's plans settled. The small square outside city hall, where the farmer's market took place a week later, was transformed into a beer garden/discotheque/summer party. We had dinner at an outdoor cafe table across from the tent beforehand and watched as dolled up women and men with firm handshakes met up to begin the festivities together. The crowd was mostly post-collegiate and up, with a few youngsters brought along by parents.
We'd both assumed live music would be involved, but I figured "oldie" meant big band or Elvis or early Beach Boys the latest. Merlin had the less American-centric idea of polka and folk music. It wound up being 70s, 80s and early 90s material ranging from Abba to Sade, performed by a series of cover bands. We stayed through two sets and while the first group was great, the second was on fire. People danced and clapped and the energy was contagious. You really can't go wrong with a free concert that includes a 10 instrument band, more than one disco ball, a wurst grill and beer in big, plastic cups.
In Liechtenstein, there's been no shortage of concerts and fests. Each town is posted with fliers for the upcoming happenings, which makes it easy for transients like us to feel in-the-know. Some event names are more straightforward than others. 'Chiliheads 2011' intrigued us until we found out it was a chili eating contest with a cover charge. 'Weinfest Trieson' was more our speed. It was originally to take place outside the church in Trieson, but the rain moved it into the town's meeting hall (something we learned, once again, from an electronic board on the roadside).
What made this fest particularly exciting was that we'd camped in Trieson for over a week and now had a chance to feel a part of the community. Right through the doorway were the numbered wine bottles and people standing around tall, round tables tasting them. Some people didn't bother with purchasing tastes and simply went to the other bar for a beer or glass of whatever wine was open. This boy hung out at the third bar, the one for desserts, chatting up three teenaged girls in charge. Our plum tart was delicious, as were our three tastes of white wine from Trieson (and a fourth taste of red, thrown in for free by the man who produced it).
Communal tables and live music can pretty much be expected at Liechtensteinische fetes. Two men played some ditties on their accordion and lap guitar while a larger, folk costumed group set up onstage. When their set was done, the couple of musicians went outside for a smoke, each with an opened bottle of wine in their hands. Payment for the gig? It was a warm familiar - familial, even - atmosphere in which one could easily have spent the entire afternoon, but which made us somewhat crestfallen about our inability to make casual conversation.
Sommernachtsfest in Eschen was advertised by a pretty white and green flyer which boasted live music, food and drink. We don't know much German, but we at least got that far. It also had a ticket fee, which convinced us that it must be awesome. We purchased tickets from a nice lady behind a grocery store bakery counter and made a reservation at an inn so that we'd be nearby at the end of the night (though a free taxi was included in the cover, we think). Three police officers stood outside the meeting hall, mint-filled welcome drinks sat on a table by coat check and people in fancy clothes made us feel under-dressed. "What is Sommernachtsfest exactly?" we asked someone our age who was working the event. "It's just like a town party. There is a band and food and a bar inside for shots."
It felt like walking into an auditorium for prom at a school you didn't attend. Better yet, a school at which you're a foreign exchange student. One woman twirled the long red straw in her Hugo (said welcome drink) waiting for a date that never came. Groups of similarly attired adults sat together while more dressed down couples sat alone. We hovered near the bar with its happy, smiling bartendress and little bowls of pretzels. It was like a classier Oldie Night, with white tablecloths and votive candles on the communal tables, waiters taking your order for beer and wurst and a playlist that was more KD Lang than Kool and the Gang. Again, we wished we could chit chat with someone, but were content enough with being flies on the wall for one more night. We didn't dance or mingle - or do shots - at any of the fests, but left each later than expected and downright giddy. Liechtensteiners know how to throw a party.