Although one of the most celebrated Holidays the world over, Christmas traditions vary from country to country. Many secular customs associated with Christmas are an amalgamation of traditions from around the world. Candy Canes and Christmas trees were imported from Germany while the tradition of puckering up underneath the mistletoe and throwing a Yule log on the fire is Scandinavian in origin. The English sent the world Christmas cards, which American born Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer helped to transport them. One of the most famous faces of Christmas is Santa Claus, whom the New York Historical Society once declared to be the patron saint of our own New Amsterdam. These days it would take a Miracle on 34th Street for Santa to leave the North Pole and take up residence in New York.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he lives in the North Pole, but where exactly does he live? Many countries claim Santa as one of their own and nowhere is the dispute over where Santa hangs his stocking more apparent than among the Nordic nations with each country staking some special relationship with him. Over time, Nordic Santas have undergone a metamorphosis from guardians of agriculture to the benevolent little gift givers they are today. Due to their shared agricultural past and common beliefs in Norse mythology, what would morph into modern day Santa was once a gang of mythical gnome like figures who were thought to safeguard farms. Like some sort of elfin mafia, they demanded an annual payment for their protection in the form of a bowl of porridge left out on Christmas Eve. A missed payment might prompt an elfin relation resulting in havoc/shenanigans on the farm or even the revocation of protection for the upcoming year.

Although the first rendering of jolly old St. Nick was created during the 1930s for a coco-cola advertisement by Haddon Sundblom, a Swedish American Artist, Nordic nationals were slow to adopt this Americanized version of Santa. However, the American Santa has begun to appear on the Nordic Christmas circuit as of late and although similar in dress, he is trimmer than his more indulgent American cousin. Additionally, the Nordic Santa avoids a rap sheet of breaking and entering via chimneys, opting for a more direct route through the front door. He arrives via a sleigh, which at various times, has been powered by reindeers, huskies, and even a Yule Goat.

Finns are fanatical about Santa. They believe that Santa or as he’s known locally by his Finnish stage name, Joulupukki, lives with the Mrs. and his helpers, the joulutonttu, in the village of Rovaniemi in Northern Finland. The town of Rovaniemi has received a trademark from the European Union, United States, and Japan designating it as “The Official Hometown of Santa Cause®. His year round residence is conveniently located just a few miles from the airport where tourists from all over the world come to visit Joulupukki at his Arctic Circle headquarters.

Although Joulupukki makes his deliveries via a sleigh drawn by reindeer, his reindeer do not possess the gift of flight. This allows Joulupukki and his entourage to maintain the Christmas spirit by skipping the maddening TSA lines to make it home in time for après-Christmas R&R at a sauna, a popular local Christmas activity.

Danes concede that Julemanden, or as he’s known by his Danish alias, does not live in Denmark proper. He does, however, maintain a pied-à-terre in the Pixie Forest, which he uses when he attends the World Santa Claus Congress, an international conference of professional Santas. The Congress is the United Nations of the Christmas world as it is where official Christmas business, such as declaring Greenland to be Santa’s official residence, is conducted. The event is by invitation only and all members must pass muster on the naught and nice list to gain admission. The Finnish Santa knows this all too well as he once was placed on the naughty list after he declared he would only attend if the Congress acknowledged that he was the one true Santa.

The Swedes claim that Jultomte, Santa’s Swedish nom de plume, lives in Mora, a small town in Northern Sweden where Tomteland, a modest sized Santa theme park is located. Compared to their neighbors, Swedes are the least obsessed with whether Jultomte glides through customs and immigration with the use of a Swedish passport. The Swedes may be less besotted about Santa’s domicile since he shares the spotlight with Donald Duck when Walk Disney’s special “from All of Us to All of You” is televised. This Christmas Eve broadcast brings the country to a standstill as families gather around the television to watch this classic.

As Finland embarks on its quest for world domination, Danes and Greenlanders concur that Julemanden lives in a secret castle on top of a mountain in Greenland where he and his elves make presents with his magic toy machine while debating whether to wish recipients Merry Christmas in Danish, Glædelig Jul, or Juullimi Ukiortaassamilu Pilluarit in Greenlandic. Instead of employing a team of reindeer like his doppelgangers do, he relies upon 12 Greenlandic huskies, each one named after a different month of the year, to pull his sleigh.

Greenland processes approximately 50,000 letters to Santa a year. All letters are delivered to Santa’s giant, red mailbox, which has the distinction of being the world’s largest mailbox. However, even Santa isn’t recession proof in these parts. Like a scene out of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, he recently faced the prospect of being unable to keep up with his Christmas correspondence, as he could not afford the return postage. Luckily, Christmas was saved when a few of his helpers spotted Santa the postage.

Santa Claus, also known as Julenissen in Norway, took up residency in Drøbak, Norway’s Christmas capitol, located 20 miles South of Oslo. His house, known as the Christmas House, is located in the town square, and is open to visitors. Norwegians believe that Julenissen and the Nissen work in tandem to deliver gifts. After Christmas, Julenissen sleeps for weeks to regain his strength. In between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve, when Santa is in deep hibernation mode, children dress incognito as little nissers and go door to door in their neighborhood and sing Christmas carols to receive treats, much the same way American children go trick or treating on Halloween.

Iceland dominates the Santa contest, if for no other reason than because of their sheer numbers. Icelanders lay claim to thirteen Santa Clauses, or Jólasveinar, each of whom is named after their favorite activity or food with such names as Ladle Licker, Door Slammer, and Candle Beggar. The Jólasveinar are believed to be the sons of two trolls, Grýla and Leppaludi, both of whom have been part of Icelandic lore since the 13th century, even making an appearance in the Icelandic sagas. The Jólasveinar were once seen as frightening creatures and were used to elicit good behavior from children by garnering a reputation for eating naughty children. This gnomatic clan instilled such fear in the local populace that in 1746, the King of Denmark, then ruler of Iceland, banned his subjects from recounting their tales.

Over the years, the Jólasveinar have transformed from a nightmarish cartel of trolls into more charitable creatures. Today they arrive one by one each day starting the morning of December 12 until Christmas Day. The Jólasveinar will leave small gifts in the shoes of well-behaved children who place their shoes in their windowsills, while the naughty ones receive a potato.

Although countries that hug the Arctic Circle may have the most meritorious claims to Santa, his lineage is unimportant as he transcends nationalities and borders. What is important is the spirit of generosity and hope in those who dare to still believe.

Telling someone I visited Cuba often provokes a surprised reaction akin to saying I vacationed at an all-inclusive resort on the moon. Inevitably, a series of rapid-fire questions ensue about this island cloaked in mystery.

At first glance Cuba seems like the aging starlet in Sunset Boulevard who proclaims to visitors, “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.” Although the spotlight has faded, Cuba’s energetic spirit and timeless beauty still beguiles visitors. It’s easy to imagine what Cuba was like in her glitzy heyday, when Havana was the Paris of the Caribbean and the jet setting Hollywood elite, mobsters, and would be presidents frolicked on white sandy beaches and enjoyed Vegas style shows at the Tropicana.

Today, Cuba is a country full of contradictions. It is a country where the world’s most coveted cigars, too expensive for domestic consumption, are stockpiled; where the Bay of Pigs is now a beach resort; and where Dezi Arnaz, is unknown inside his native land. Mostly though, it is a place where in spite of life’s daily struggles, its gregarious and loquacious residents maintain a jovial, fun-loving approach towards life. After all this is a place where the local philosophy can be summarized by the popular toast, “salud y dinero, que belleza sobra” (“to health and money, we already have enough beauty”).

Offering a high concentration of unique museums, art galleries, picturesque colonial Spanish squares, and a vibrant nightlife makes Havana’s charms impossible to resist. The famous Malecón, a 4 km long seawall that snakes along an ocean front boulevard, is the hub of social activity. This is where children play chicken with the waves threatening to cascade over the wall and friends meet to drink rum and watch the sunset. At night the Malecón frequently turns into a makeshift stage as musicians congregate and impromptu salsa dancing breaks out.

The horse drawn wagon taxis trotting along side vintage pre-revolutionary American cars evoke feelings of nostalgia. It seems as if there’s always a “yank tank” turning the corner announcing its arrival with a roar to remind all that Cuba is the only place on earth where time travel is possible. That so many of these mobile museums are still running, without the assistance of proper spare parts, is a testament to the creative spirit and ingenuity of Cubans as replacement parts are cobbled together from Soviet era cars or are fashioned out of ordinary household items.

The absence of drugs and weapons combined with harsh penalties for theft translate into an almost non-existent crime rate. With a remarkably subtle police presence and seemingly relaxed access to the Internet, it’s easy to think that basic freedoms exist. However, the government controls nearly every aspect of life requiring permission before a citizen can purchase a car, sell a home, or even relocate!

With the collapse of the Soviet empire, small cracks in Cuba’s brand of socialism have begun to appear. Since the 1990s, Cuba has been slowly experimenting with private enterprise by allowing Cubans to operate private restaurants out of their homes, known as paladars. Casa particulares, the Cuban equivalent of a B&B, also have emerged permitting owners to rent up to two rooms in their house to tourists. In a country where the government has a history of limiting interaction between Cubans and tourists, a Casa stay provides an opportunity for a more meaningful interaction with locals while also supporting a family instead of a state owned hotel.

Despite the emergence of small private market, there is no need for Don Draper and his fellow Mad Men of the 60s as no visible commercial activity exists. Instead slogans proclaiming revolutionary virtues such as “Patria or muerte,” “Hasta La Victoria Siempre,” “Tu ejemplo vive, tus ideas perdan,” and “Fidel, estamos contigo,” are plastered on highway billboards and town walls.

Life in Cuba is about simple pleasures that center largely on music, dance, and drink. Music is the lifeblood of Cuba. The melodious sounds of the native bolero, rumba, son, and salsa, spill out onto the cobblestone streets as musicians wearing guayaberas and straw hats reminiscent of the Buena Vista Social Club play for tips. Cuba’s lively music scene compliments the rum cocktail culture. It is here that the Cuba Libre, Daiquirí, and Mojito were born. No one is more associated with Cuba’s cocktail culture than Papa Hemingway who once called Cuba home. Some of his favored haunts, still in operation today, include La Bodeguita del Medio, the birthplace of the mojito, and El Floridita where it is rumored that he once consumed 16 daiquirís in one sitting, no doubt lifting his glass in true Cuban spirit offering wishes of “salud y dinero.”

For those who want to experience a taste of Cuba in New York, the ¡Si Cuba! arts and cultural festival will be going on in New York from March 31-June 16th. For more information visit http://sicuba.org/en

Like many a foreigner, I was first seduced by the Argentine Tango while sitting at a café in the colorful working class barrio of La Boca in Buenos Aires. It was here, at a non-descript café on the Calle Caminito, while sipping a glass of Malbec that was as vibrant as La Boca itself that my introduction to the tango began. As I turned to see if I could locate where the mellifluous mélange of live Afro-Cuban and Spanish music was emanating from I spotted a pair of street performers dancing the most sensual dance I had ever seen.

The couple’s movements mesmerized me and for the next few minutes these anonymous dancers were the only two beings that existed for me. I was captivated by the graceful style exhibited by the female dancer. She gave the illusion of floating when she danced as she glided across the floor. Her feet rarely touched the ground when she would perform such moves as the “gancho,” a move in which she would hook her leg around her partner’s leg or a “boleo” where she would perform small quick back kicks as she sashayed from side to side. Her moves were often quick, yet elegant and poised. At other times, she would dance slowly and tantalizingly by performing such moves as sliding her foot down her partner’s body or arching her back as he dipped her.

Watching this couple, it was not hard to imagine a time when the tango was a forbidden dance. Although there is nothing vulgar about it, the Argentine Tango is danced in a close embrace or “abrazo.” It is for this reason when there is chemistry between partners, such as the couple I was watching, that I feel as though I am watching an immensely private moment between two lovers. The couple’s dance conveyed several emotions over the course of a few minutes allowing a voyeuristic glimpse into their relationship. Through their dance steps viewers could catch conflicting moments of flirtation, foreplay, seduction, resistance, passion, rejection and reconciliation. The emotions that we all have in human relationships were summed up in one simple, yet emotionally intricate and complicated dance.

It is said that tango is essentially walking with a partner to music, but such a description misses the essence of tango. To me, the tango is a dance where a couple makes love while fully clothed. It is the most passionate dance I have ever seen performed and it is a dance I knew then I had to learn. It is for this reason that I enrolled in Group Dance classes at “Dance with Me Soho.” I was hoping that I could relive my time in Buenos Aires and learn to dance like the porteña I saw dance so beautifully. Secretly, I was also hoping I would be paired up with an Antonio Banderas type, preferably the Antonio Banderas from “Take the Lead” since that version already knew how to dance the tango, but any iteration of Antonio would do.

When I arrived at the dance studio, I realized that not only would Antonio would not be in attendance, but I would be lucky to dance with a man at all. The ratio of men to women was disappointing as there were eleven women to three men in the class. I tried to overcome this chromosomal imbalance through imagination. When the instructor turned the music on, I transported myself back to Buenos Aires by imagining I was six thousand miles away at a milonga in Palermo Soho, a fashionable neighborhood of Buenos Aires. I imagined Carlos Gardel was signing one of his legendary tango songs, Por Una Cabeza, a song in which he compares his love for gambling on the ponies to his obsession for a particular lady. I pretended that I was the graceful, sensual porteña on Calle Caminito instead of the frustrated woman on Broome Street dancing with an equally frustrated woman where one of us would inevitably stop every so often to ask, “who is leading? Are you leading? Are you pretending to be the boy? Am I the boy? Who is the boy?” The gender confusion was exhausting! After awhile I felt like I was on a bad reality TV show that was experimenting with gender identity.

That night I would learn that at a milonga, a tango dance hall, couples dance counter-clockwise. This was a concept my classmates and I seemed to have had problems grasping as there were several collisions. As someone who would have rallied against banning the tango in its heyday, I would fully support the City of New York outlawing my class ever dancing the tango en masse. What we, as a collective, did to such a graceful dance, should be illegal. While there is a thriving milonga scene in New York City, which I hope to visit one day, I will only do so after I have engaged a private dance instructor to learn the tango. Although I have three more classes left, I have banned myself from taking group tango lessons. For the next three weeks, this gringa can be found dancing salsa in Soho.

I love this town! Prague rivals Paris and Buenos Aires in beauty. Where Krakow was reminiscent of the iron curtain mentality, Prague is western and welcoming. Of course, one of the first things I noticed is how gorgeous and flirty the men are so I admit my perception might be a bit skewed.

There are still some cultural things that we’re trying to get used to, however, since my Czech is limited to “Ahoy” (hello/goodbye), “dyekuyi” (thank you), “prosim” (please), and “pivo” (beer), I’ll over look Rule #3 of the trip, i.e., “just stand there and I’ll move around you.” Speaking of the Czech language, how can you not love a country whose greeting makes you sound like a pirate? Ahoy Prague!

We headed to the Castle District via tram 22, which has been branded as the tourist tram since most tourist sights are along 22. The Castle District neighborhood is gorgeous! If by some random turn of events I had to move to Prague as part of my expat relocation posh package, I’d negotiate a flat in the Castle District. The Castle was architecturally stunning! I’m not embarrassed to say that we posed with the Castle Guards. Those hombres could take a page from the British Beefeaters as they aren’t even subtle when looking around to see how close the tourists are to them. I could tickle a British guard with a feather and he wouldn’t move, but I had the feeling that if we got too close to the Czech guards, one of them would pounce on us and take us out faster than we could say Ahoy.

The inside of the Castle was underwhelming as it was sparsely furnished, but the views from the Castle were amazing. We saw more art than we cared to while touring the various galleries before admitting that unless the art is by someone we know, we’re not interested. We ditched our cultural ambitious and headed to the “Golden Lane,” aka Zlata Ulicka, which is Pragues smallest Street.

The Golden Lane is a quaint street that looked like it could be on the set of Disney around the corner from Magic Kingdom. On Golden Lane there are several mini one-room cottages that were built in the 16th Century to house the 24 castle marksmen and their families who guarded the fortress. The population of medieval Czech must have been comprised of short people as we had to duck through the doors. Franz Kafka, Prague’s native son, had his workspace at 22 Golden Lane. I had Nam like flashbacks to reading Metamorphosis in AP English. To this day, I still don’t see the big deal about an angst ridden teenager who goes into his room, refuses to come out, and slowly turns into a cockroach.

From there we tried to go the Toy and Barbie Museum, but it was closed due to technical reasons much to our disappointment. We decided lunch was in order and headed to Café Louvre, a Prague institution where Kafka and Einstein used to “kick it,” along with other members of the local intelligentsia. I ordered the most delicious split pea soup I’ve ever had. The manner in which it was served had pizzazz. The chef came out and gave me a bowl filled with what looked like a scoop of mashed potatoes with pieces of ham and croutons. He then proceeded to pour the pea soup around the potatoes and then garnished it with mint. I am not sure how you say delicious in Czech, but I said “OMG” in English. We also had our first serving of mulled hot wine.

The wine warmed us up and it was perfect for a cold day. It was here that we developed rule #4, which is “Don’t order more than one mulled wine unless you plan on getting bombed.” It was a bit cold that day and I could have definitely stayed and gotten bombed if it were not for the fact that we had limited sleep the night before and tickets to the opera.

However, the mulled wine made us warm and toasty and temporarily immune from the elements so we headed back to the hotel for a quick wardrobe change and then we were off to Don Giovanni at the Estates Theater, the very theater where Mozart debuted Donny G. We loved rocking it W.A. Mozart/Donny G style in such a visually beautiful place. Cue the Falco Rock Me Amadeus music.

We capped off our day of culture with dinner at the Buddha Bar of the NY/Paris chain. The Prague version was a cross between Buddakhan and Tao. The food was comme ci comme ça and overpriced. The beef I had tasted like $3 Chinatown beef and did not merit the $25 price tag. However, the drinks more than made up for the food. If you go there, go there for drinks, skip the dinner. And say “ahoy” to the giant Buddha in the main dining room for me, would you? I don’t think the “ahoy” for “hi” will ever get old to me.

We arrived in Prague at 7 a.m. from Krakow on the night train. The night train was an experience that I will not soon forget. I wanted to take it because I think that there’s something romantic about traveling by train, maybe it is because I am a throw back from another era and I was looking for Cary Grant on the Orient Express. The Orient Express it was not! Although I didn’t think it was that bad, Ahab, the nickname I’ve bestowed upon my travel mate for her map skills, described it as “super creepy.” In fairness she was also afraid we would get gassed and robbed on the overnight train as she had read one too many travel warnings that had morphed into the realms of urban legends. Perhaps, it wasn’t that bad for me because I drugged myself up with a Nyquil and melatonin cocktail so I was too tired to care. However, it didn’t help allay Ahab’s fears when our hot little porter told us to lock our doors because “there are thieves.” So, we triple locked our private sleeper compartment and debated on whether we should even venture out to the WC should the need arise, lest we get clobbered by some thief in the night.

Speaking of our sleeper car, when we first entered the beds were turned down, however, we weren’t ready to retire yet so we had hot porter put the go-go gadget seats up into the “lounge” position, which he happily did and then left.

About ninety minutes later, the sleepy time drugs were kicking in and we wanted to go to sleep so we tried to convert our seats into beds. However, not possessing Inspector Gadget like skills, we were unsuccessful. We didn’t see the clearly marked signs that alerted passengers that it was verboten to transform the seats into beds and vice versa while the train was in motion until it was too late. Wunderbar! There was an “emergency” bat mobile phone to dial our porter. To me it was the equivalent of the hotline between Kremlin to Washington. To Polrail it was the equivalent of the fake Fisher Price phone that sat on my first grade teacher’s desk which she claimed was her direct line that she would use to narc on us to God in the event we were bad. Needless to say our phone didn’t work and the porter didn’t come running when we called him. It took him 40 minutes to magically appear. I tried to search for him on our car and tried to get into another car to find him, but it was impossible to pass thru the cars as there was no platform floor in between cars. This was both comforting as no one could get into the car who shouldn’t be in it, but also disturbing because we couldn’t get out. Hey, I’ve seen Polar Express. I know that a train can threaten to be derailed when certain cars get separated from other cars.

Perhaps the most fun was when somewhere in the middle of the night and in the middle of who knows where Eastern Europe our train stopped for an hour or so due to an engine problem. We didn’t have heat, electric, or water. It was freezing! Ahab was afraid they would kick us off the train, but I just took more melatonin to go back to sleep. At that point I needed the drugs more than ever because with the lack of the engine to power the heating system and the soothing sounds of the train traveling on the tracks, I had a hard time drowning out the sound of the passenger snoring in the compartment next to us.

I think, I can, I think, I can….choo…choo. Thomas the train finally pulled into the main train station in Praha shortly before 7 a.m. We stepped out of the train station on our very short walk to our hotel and our first smell of Prague consisted of some guy smoking pot. Pot at 7 a.m on a Monday morning? Is that the Czech version of the breakfast of champions?

We only had to go about 600 meters to find our charming hotel, the Hotel Chopin. I highly recommend the Hotel Chopin. The staff was friendly, the rooms were clean with modern décor, and it was centrally located. I wouldn’t hesitate to stay there again should I one day find myself in Praha!

Auschwitz, the whole purpose of our trip to Poland. My fellow companion, who I’ve nicknamed Ahab due to her mad navigational skills, kindly arranged a private driver to take us there. Peter, our driver, naturally only spoke to us when spoken to (see rule 2 from the previous post). He picked us up from our medival themed hotel in Old Town on a rainy day for the hour long drive to Auschwitz. I thought the rain fit the occasion.

The museum at Auschwitz is free and it’s easy to explore on your own, but we hired a guide for 33 PLN (about $11). It’s a group tour where everyone gets a headset and the guide has a microphone and we’re able to hear the guide through the headphones. It’s a great way to give a tour, especially in a place as somber as Auschwitz. Our guide was fantastic. We first watched a very moving documentary on Auschwitz and Auschwitz Birkenau. I had to struggle not to cry during the movie as it was a wonderful demonstration of how brutal the Nazis were. Auschwitz is much smaller than Birkenau. Birkenau is roughly 438 acres whereas Auschwitz is much smaller. In fact, Birkenau was built because Auschwitz was too small to acheive the evil goals of the Nazis. Birkenau was the largest of all the Nazi extermination camps.

If I had only two words to sum up the camps it would be savage and inhumane. Although the Nazis destroyed the massive gas chambers and creamatoriums at Birkenau, the remains are still there to see how large they were. We also walked into a gas chamber and creamatorium in Auschwitz. It was unbelievable and overwhelming to think that we were standing on the exact spot where thousands and thousands met their death unexpectedly. I found that part the most difficult to tolerate as well as looking at pictures of children who had been the victim of experiments. I thought Birkenau was more moving than Auschwitz. It’s weird to say that because Auschwitz had several photographs and items from former prisoners there, but it had a museum like quality to it where everything was roped off and partitioned by glass cases, but at Birkenau visitors are able to roam the grounds freely and explore on their own. You walk along the train tracks that we’ve seen so many times in documentaries which were used to transport people to the camp.

It’s hard to talk about what the visit their meant to me. In fact, it was even difficult for Ahab and I to talk about it afterwards. We were silent for a good part of the car ride back to Krakow, each lost in our own thoughts about what we had witnessed. I was left with the feeling that it only takes a generation, a generation of brainwashing to change an entire culture. That’s a scary thought!

Krakow, Poland.

I’m convinced the Russians were friendlier right after the fall when I was there than the native Krakowians. Although beautiful architecturally, if Mr. Rogers wanted to be my neighbor, I’d have to tell the old man, nie! In my two days here, I’ve discerned two rules:

1) Golden Rule-speak only if spoken to. People avoid eye contact, smiling and even speaking. We noticed this when we were at the Cloth Hall, a beautiful building built for the cloth trade back in medival times, but now houses tacky tourist souvenirs. Vendors refused to acknowledge our presence. Is it better for a vendor to follow you around and stare at you as if you’re casing the joint or to act like you’re not there? At this point, I’m no longer sure.

2) “I don’t know” roughly translates into “I don’t want to deal with you.”

Aside from the cold fish, cold war mentality, we’ve had a great time. The city, Old Town in particular, is stunning. In our first 24 hours we accidentally got caught up in a pro-atheist rally. I tried to take a picture of a guy with a Yankees umbrella to show that they really are allied with the Enemy and part of the Evil Empire, but some godless heathen blocked my shot.

We saw the Wawel Castle where we tried to hunt for the Wawel dragon (these people are obsessed with the ancient lore of the dragon who allegedly lived in the castle). Shocker the dragon remained elusive. After our failed dragon hunting, we tried to find a pub to have a polish beer and some perogies, but they’ve strategically hidden their pubs down long alleyways and in basements. We settled on a cute pub in the cellar of a medival building and had some Tyskie beers and perogies for lunch. The beer was pretty tasty, but the bartender was not. It took me butchering “thank you” in Polish to get a smile out of him. After refueling we debated on taking a tour of the city in a golf cart (no joke), but we decided to walk off the beer. For dinner we went to Pod Aniotami (“Under the Angels”), according to Lonely Planet the restaurant, “occupies valuted cellars decorated with traditional folksy knicknacks and offers excellent typical Polish food in an attractive atmosphere.” It was a delicious and the restaurant looked very Sud de France and if it wasn’t for the wait staff we would’ve really loved this place, but with house wine at $3 a glass and two giant glass enclosed wood grilled ovens what’s not to love?

We later partook in the local liquor i.e., lots of flavored Wodka. I tried a 70 proof honey vodka. I’m pretty sure I actually drank honey flavored gasoline. Someone could’ve lit my dragon breathing breath on fire.

We tried to cap off the evening at the Irish Embassy, which is billed as one of the best bars in Krakow and the largest Irish Pub in Poland. We’re convinced it was the largest Irish gay bar as we were the only two women in the multi-level establishment. It was either because some important football game was on or because we found the only gay Irish theme bar in all of Poland. Knowing us, I’m banking on the latter. Either way there are a lot of good looking, tall men here, prompting us to wonder, who let the cougars off their leashes? We are cougars, hear us roar.

Today I had a day without much of an agenda.  My goal was to go to the top of Table Mountain and possibly sneak in some shopping and have high tea if time permitted.  I woke up to a clear, warm Cape Town day with not a cloud in the sky, which signaled the perfect viewing conditions to go to Table Mountain (the mountain that is in the middle of Cape Town).  As luck would have it, the cable car which transports visitors up to the top was closed due to dangerously high winds.  Bummer.  Weather can change quickly, so I stalked the cable car information line while enjoying a leisurely barefooted stroll along Camps Bay beach.  At some point I decided to plop down on the sand with coffee in hand, dig my feet in the comfy sand, watch the waves crash, and reflect upon how lucky I was to be enjoying such a beautiful vista.  I finally wandered over to my favorite breakfast place, Kauai, also located on the beach, where I grabbed their delicious breakfast burrito.  I became addicted to this damn burrito while I was there and it was if I was physically incapable of not ordering a burrito and cafe latte on a daily basis. Perhaps, I was overcompensating for the fact that it was the closest thing Cape Town has to a burrito and I was having near pregnancy like cravings for Mexican/Latin food, which is nonexistent here (disclaimer, seeing as how I’ve never been pregnant, I can only speculate as to what it feels like to have an overwhelming and irrational craving for a particular type of food and while I was down there it was all things Latin).  

 

 

 

After gorging myself on Kauai I decided to do the hop on/hop off bus thing again, but I selected a different route.  I chose this partly because it’s cheaper than taking a cab (the bus costs $12) and partly because I wanted to sit on the upper deck and work on my tan while getting around town.  I couldn’t exactly come to Africa and not pick up a bit of a tan.  Believe it or not it was harder to become the tan greek goddess that I am capable of becoming.  I was in a car for 4 days on Safari and with three days in misty Victoria Falls it was Cape Town or bust for the tan. I headed over to the V&A Waterfront to do some shopping. The V&A is like Pier 39 or South Street Seaport. I seemed to go there almost on a daily basis for one reason or another, which is slightly embarassing because that’s like coming to New York and heading down to the South Street Seaport every day.  It’s just not done!  However, it did allow me to hear my favorite Zulu band once again and grab some last minute souvenirs. 

 

Luckily, the wind died down and I was able to head over to Table Mountain and catch the cable car.  It’s possible to hike up to the top.  It takes 3 hours, but for safety reasons people are advised not to do it alone and since I was by myself I paid the $15 round trip ticket and took the easy way up via the cable car.  What was neat about the cable car was that it rotates 360 degrees so your view is constantly changing.  This means that you should not hold onto the handrails, a concept which the Japanese tourist next to me had difficulty grasping.  I kept ramming into him every time the car would move and his hand remained stationary on the moving handrail.  The views on top of Table Mountain were spectacular!  You have views of all of Cape Town.  I took a ton of pictures and of course have now forgotten exactly what shots are of what.  I’m kind of annoyed about a picture that this guy took of me.  It would’ve been great, but upon later close up examination I realized that my eyes were closed.  :(  Oh well.

 

 

 

 

From Table Mountain, I headed over to the Five star Mount Nelson Hotel to have High Tea.  Due to time constraints, I abandoned the hop on/hop off bus and arrived via taxi where the doormanopened my taxi door and greeted me by saying “welcome to the Mount Nelson your majesty.”  I could get used to this!  I can imagine the withdraw former presidents must feel when they’re no longer greeted with Hail to the Chief. I probably should’ve had lunch before I arrived for High Tea so I wasn’t acting like a turkey having its last meal before Thanksgiving in front of all the snooty British people, but I was ravenous by the time I arrived.  And seeing as how there was no dress code (much to my surprise), they can’t expect too much from me. I was disappointed that it was buffet style rather than the traditional English way I’ve always had High Tea before, but for the equivalent of $15, I could learn to share with my fellow subjects.  I “splurged” on the gourmet Earl Grey tea for an extra $2 and it was by far the best tea I’ve ever had, which I think says a lot for a former London city dweller.  Because I was ravenous and because everything looked so yummy, I felt like being a gluttonous pig here and I sampled a little bit of everything.  Yes, I know people are starving in Africa and I’m in Africa, but you’ll forgive me if I say, Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Plus, I’ve spent the day stimulating the hell out of the South African economy so hopefully it evens out.  The gardens were lovely. I opted to sit in the “veranda” so I could see the gardens, but still hear the piano playing softly in the background. The Way You Look Tonight was one of the songs being played and after two gluttonous weeks in Africa, I’m afraid about the way I look tonight.  Nevertheless, I’m loving my solo honeymoon, so much so that I think I’ll have another mini slice of chocolate cake adorned with gold flakes thank you very much.  I got the feeling that this is what it must’ve felt like during colonialism and I have to say, I’m a fan.  It’s sad that High Tea is also one of the lovlier aspects of British culture that we didn’t adopt. If it wasn’t for that damn tea tax and tea party in my hometown.  I left via taxi back to Camps Bay.  The doorman said goodbye to his “majesty” (seriously, it’s going to go to my head).

 

Today we drove down to Cape Point/Cape of Good Hope.  Although it’s only about a 45 minute drive from Cape Town, the trip takes a full day with all the scenic stops along the way.  Our first stop was Muizenberg beach, a beach located on False Bay, where the water is much warmer than the Atlantic side where wetsuits are required to enter the water.  Muizenberg is popular with surfers and swimmers and is famous for having colorful beach huts and soft “nap worthy” white sandy beaches.  Just watch out for the Great white sharks!  There are “shark spotters” on hand though to warn those who brave the waters of any Jaws sightings.  Are you hearing the Jaws music in your head too? 

 

 

 

After Muizenberg our next stop was Kalk Bay where we stopped at a charming cafe to get our daily caffeine infusion. Kalk Bay is a sleepy seaside fishing town often compared to certain New England towns.  We did some shopping in the boutiques and browsed the art galleries and then headed to Boulder’s Beach, home of the Jackass Penguin.  It’s at Boulder’s Beach where you can get up close and personal to the stinky little guys.  They’re cute, but as far as hygiene goes, you’d think that for a bird that spends a fair amount of time in the water they wouldn’t be so smelly. Unfortunately, you can smell the penguins before you can see them.  Hanging out with a bunch of birds in tuxes was cool!  It was so funny watching them sunning themselves on the boulders, almost like they are working on their tans. We even saw a mommy penguin sitting on her egg and then we saw another one abandon her egg.  Now, I’m no expert and the conditions aren’t the same as they were in March of the Penguins where the eggs constantly had to be held by the parents, but I thought it was weird that she left her egg entirely unprotected.  Someone should call Penguin Protective Services!

 

 

 

We said goodbye to the jackasses and continued onto Cape Point.  On the way we saw some baboons walking along the highway and when we finally made it to Cape Point we saw baboons perched on the roofs of buildings.  They particularly liked to patrol the area on the roof above the outdoor cafe and would sometimes jump down and swipe someone’s food.  We also saw ostriches hanging out.  Although there are places in South Africa where you can ride them or watch them race, we preferred to watch them in their natural habitat.  I also preferred to watch them on my dinner plate as well.  The Cape of Good Hope, the Southwestern most point in Africa, was beautiful.  I walked on the nap worthy sand and saw giant sized seaweed that belonged in a Peter Benchley novel that had washed up on the shore.  It was erie how abnormally large the seaweed was…very 20,000 Leagues Under Sea.

 

I had another weird foreign language speaking experience while waiting to buy my ticket for the tram that transports visitors to the top of Cape Point.  I don’t know why, but some German guy started speaking German to me and with my 2 years of high school German I was sort of able to communicate with him.  Plus, I think there are enough similar sounding words so that helped.  It was bizarre though. First, the French with the West Africans and now German with some random guy from Munich.  I swear if someone tried to test my mandarin, which is pretty much limited at this point to “Ni hao,” I might’ve thrown myself off the top of Cape Point.  

At the Lighthouse there’s a sign that tells you how far away from certain cities you are.  The Cape of Good Hope is 12, 541 kilometers from New York, just in case you’re wondering.  As I stood there I couldn’t help, but think about explorers like Bartholomew Dias and Vasco de Gama and how they sailed around the Cape of Good Hope in wooden ships.  Kinda made my 18 hour flight look like a walk in the park.  And FYI the Cape of Good Hope is home to the legendary Flying Dutchman (take that Pirates of the Caribbean).

On our way back home we stopped at Fish Hook beach, my favorite beach in Cape Town.  The beach was huge, the sand was once again “nap worthy,” and it was just a gorgeous beach.  However, there was a disconcerting sign stating that people should not be on the beach by themselves because there had been a lot of “attacks.”  Not exactly something you want to read when you’re considering a walk on the beach.  Picture this, you’re having a romantic walk on the beach and your date gets mugged.  Awkward! Not to mention ruins the mood.  So, we decided not to go looking for the shipwreck that was on the beach due to the fact that it was nearing sundown so we headed back into the city at which point our car decided to start acting up.  We pulled into a gas station and tried to ask the attendant if someone could look at the car, but they don’t do those things there and there was a bit of a language barrier with the attendants (this was a common problem I found, as an example, it took two zulu speaking girls at a fast food restaurant called Nandos located in the airport to translate to the third girl who was taking my order what it was that I was ordering in English).   I just happened to ask an Afrikaner if he knew of a service station and as luck would have it his friend was a mechanic.  So, he called his friend and luckily spoke to him in English (I’m guessing so we didn’t think he was saying “yeah, listen mate, I’ve got two young girls here that look good for raping and killing, you game?).  We followed him to the mechanic and the guy looked at it for us, basically said it wouldn’t die and it was safe to drive back home, but that we needed to get it fixed ASAP.  So we went home to Camps Bay, had dinner at a restaurant on the beach, drank some wine and watched some episodes of Lipstick Jungle and passed out! Excellent day!

 

 

Happy belated St. Patrick’s Day from Cape Town.  If I know you, and I think I do, I bet you spent St. Patty’s Day drunk in a bar drinking green beer at noon.  Shame on you!  Unlike “some people,” I was out exploring Cape Town on the giant red double decker hop on/hop off bus blue route.  The blue route is the scenic route.  I stopped off at the Kirstenbosch botanical gardens, which is impressive and massive.  I walked around a bit and hopped back on the bus to do a township tour in Hout Bay.  The same township tour that I did the “drive by” with my friends the day before.  I feel like as far as townships go, I was in one of the more chichi ones and that I got a “vanilla” tour.  ”Kenny,” one of the community leaders picked me up at the hop on bus stop along with some weird guy who was a few fries short of a Happy Meal and he kept trying to touch me.  I was like “please don’t touch me” and he just stared at me instead.  I was definitely reconsidering the tour at this point.  Anyway, I paid my 50 rand ($5) and off Kenny, Happy Meal, and I went.  

There are clearly different levels of the standard of living within the township.  There were about 500 nice houses that the Irish version of habitat built and the rest of the 5000 or so houses are shanties.  I went into two of the Irish built houses and they were bigger than I thought they would be and they had multiple tvs in them.  I was like what the heck chuck?  I don’t even have more than one tv!  They had washers/dryers as well (again, I don’t even have that…well not legal ones anyway).  In that township there were 21 hair salons, one public library, and 63 pubs.  I went into one of the Sheebans and the booze was guarded by a woman who was in a locked room and you could purchase cocktails via giving her money through the bank teller like screen made of chicken wire .  I was surprised to find a brand new pool table in the Sheeban.  After the bar tour, my guide took me on a shopping tour.  I think he was trying to bleed me for money.  It appeared that the plan was to get me liquored up at the Sheeban and then spend a lot of time in the church/community center which also served as a crafts market.  I thought it was funny when I saw a bodega like store owned by Somalians called the New York Store, which claimed to have “anything you need.”  Really?  Can I get a burrito? Because I’m craving Mexican at the moment.  

The highlight of the day was having dinner at Mama Africas on Long Street and getting my “game on,” (pun intended).  I had the best meal in Africa there.  I ordered the kudu, springbok kebab, followed by a springbok/kudu potjie (pronounced poykee-a Cape Malay stew like dish).  O.M.G.! That alone was worth the 5lbs that I’ve gained here.  I also had a delicious Amarula cream on the rocks as an apertif.  It’s a local liquor compared to Bailey’s, but I think it’s far more delish than Bailey’s and has a mild and refreshing fruity taste.  Oh and lots of delish wine with dinner.  If I had died at that point, I would’ve said that I had lived a full, rather satisfying life.  

The rest of St. Patty’s day took a turn for the worst when we went to the ONE Irish bar on Long Street.  One of the members of our group was going to bribe the doorman to cut the line, but it turned out not to be necessary and we lasted all of 3 minutes there before realizing we were too old to deal with an overcrowded bar.  Our would be briber later remarked, “I can’t believe I was going to pay money to get in there.”  It was that bad!

From there we took our lives into our own hands when we took a cab home that was driven by an insane Zimbabwean cab driver who may very well have been under some illegal substance.  Thankfully, the luck of the Irish was with us and we arrived home safely.