A Taste of Northern California

A warm winter’s day in Northern California is not to be wasted. My roommate's, Colleen and Scott, and I head to wine country to visit exquisite Sonoma County and Napa Valley. We are going to spend the day sippin’ on the good stuff.

First stop is the picturesque vineyard of Gloria Ferrer in Sonoma. We have a champagne breakfast. Seated on a sun-drenched patio, surrounded by bright daffodils, we overlook twisted rows of vines stark from the winter. They remind me of corn-rows. The bubbles are delicate and roasted almonds are a tasty side-treat. This girl doesn't do things in half measures.

Even in winter, the region is inexplicably beautiful. The hills and dales roll and rollick, the vineyards are ablaze with wild mustard, and quiet country lanes are lined with olive groves. There is an abundance of production and a multitude of festivals on throughout the year.

Our second stop on route is Artesa. Via art installations, architecture and a tier of fountains Artesa becomes a contradictory flavour positioned against the usual Napa fare of “rustic” wineries.  Atop a winding driveway Artesa presents itself impressively with sweeping panoramas of the valley. A large tripod at the foot of a staircase is decorated with panes of reflective glass mirroring the environment – one pane exhibits the ground surface, and another the trees and hills as the backdrop.  Upstairs we see that the winery has been built into the hill with a large glass viewing window protruding outwards (reminds me of the Louvre). Inside are charming modern paintings and statues.  

The service is lacking in enthusiasm and the wines are merely passable, but to be fair we sampled only a few vintages. Outside a lengthy veranda provides a moment of repose to enjoy stunning views and mull over our favourite drop - the tempranillo.  Artesa’s “roots” are Spanish, setting it apart from the majority of surrounding vineyards where Zinfandel holds the crown. Exiting through the interior staircase the huge cellar displays an enormous amount of stacked barrels suggesting a large level of production and distribution.

In town we stop at Jessup winery. The vineyard is located further afield and not open to general public without membership. The tasting room is stylish with art-covered walls and exposed beams.  Seated on stools around a barrel-table we are provided with a platter of cheese, pistachios and buttons of dark chocolate to accompany our wines. We start with a buttery smooth chardonnay paired with creamy brie. We move along to ripe reds - a fabulous zinfandel free from tannins and "Manny’s Blend" fashioned in the style of a burgundy. Through a taste comparison of a 2004 and 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon our sommelier Kim demonstrates the differences between the vintages. She explains that "2006 was a hotter year with less rain" which means the roots were "stressed" creating a fantastic, bold result. Kim says this is aided by the fact that "Jessup does not use irrigation". She lets us test the Table For Four - a Bordeaux styled wine which is very drinkable and juicy before we finish with a luscious Cabernet Sauvignon port paired with dark chocolate.

We pit-stop at a recommended bakery Bouchon and Colleen and I share the mushroom dip sandwich. We sit on the benches outside and devour our lunch.

Our final vineyard for the day is Goosecross. A modest and simple site tucked away in peaceful Yountville. It has a smaller production - the wines are only available through the winery or online and sold in select restaurants. We file into a small, basic tasting room. Barrels are shelved at the back and a small bar in front. Wine-induced, I banter with our man Jose as he pours glasses high. Crackers and chocolates are provided for a nibble. Behind him glass cabinets stand filled with chocolate covered bottles. Its unpretentious and relaxed environment is a nice ending to the experience.

The afternoon dims and we head back to the lights of the city. We choose a Mexican bar and restaurant, Tommy’s, to end the day and start the night with their famous selection of tequilas and share a pitcher of delicious Margarita. Lets taste the night away too!

Conquering Fear on the Mountains of Lake Tahoe

Lake Tahoe is the largest alpine lake in North America situated on the border of California and Nevada. Surrounded by mountains it is a major tourist hub because of all the outdoor activities. We are staying in a warm, large two storey house on “Dollar Hill” (Yes, right off “Dollar Road” and no, I’m not even kidding!), equipped with numerous bedrooms, a deck with a gorgeous view of the lake set on a snow covered hill, and a hot-tub on said deck!  There's a pool table, two lovely fireplaces cranking, and loads of junk-food and booze to fuel our karaoke-inspired moments.

It's damp and we wake to fresh snow only for it to turn to slush and rain. The weather conditions aren’t conducive to the slopes, but some of us want to make the most of the day. We opt for a trail-hike through the mountains above Emerald Bay.

We park at the Eagle Fall Trailhead and choose the hike to Eagle Lake. I've never trekked through snow before and I'm not sure what to expect. 

The trail starts with steep snow-covered steps that meet with a high bridge crossing Eagle Falls. Looking back down the canyon we are rewarded with a generous vista of Emerald Bay and watch as the rapids cascade over the rocks and continue rolling and plunging in a violent push to reach Lake Tahoe.

Snow clouds the visibility of any definite trail. Our tracks are the first of the day. On flatter ground we plunge thigh deep into the snow. Ascending around narrow ridges it is slippery and I find my shoes are worn like bald-tyres. Dan lends me one of his ice cleats – a stretchy snow chain to fit around my shoe. It triples my confidence.

The woods are peaceful and picture-book perfect. The snow acts like a blanket of quiet. Lake Eagle, set below North Maggie’s Peak, is almost entirely frozen over except where it pools and trickles off to join with the rapids.  I attempt to make my first snow-man ever before we head back. It's slippery and in places we slide down on our bottoms - half for fun and half from fear. 

The next day brings perfect snow conditions for snowboarding. We choose North Star from one of the many ski-resorts in Tahoe. I book a beginners snow-boarding class for that afternoon (skiing is so out-dated!).  The lesson price includes lift pass, boot and board hire.

After reaching base by gondola we find numerous lifts for different courses. There is also the standard bar and eatery and a sea of snowboards and skis mounted on the surrounding racks. With time to kill Dan suggests I give the beginners slope a whirl. We catch the lift and he signals for us to jump down onto the board. This is not my finest moment.

It takes me an hour to get down the beginners slope (a course that would take three minutes to walk). Like a baby learning to walk the routine is painful, embarrassing and exhausting. But for three seconds I feel the wind in my hair and sail like a champion before the inevitable "downfall".

I trudge over to the red flags that signal beginner’s class. Kyle, my instructor, is understanding and dedicates time to each of us. Sweating like a beast the physical test runs me through the gauntlet of difficult emotions. Not wanting to be thwarted in the face of adversity I persevere stubbornly. However, I would not have made it through without Kyle’s calm manner, patience and soothing blue eyes. Instead, I leave with optimism in my heart because I learned finally my “edging” (which means I can turn corners!).

Tahoe is an adventurist’s wonderland, but essentially for the city folk it is a getaway to nature. Crisp air fresh with snow and the smell of pines permeates. The grand lake is tranquil and eases stress.  People come here to unwind and forget work.  I used to be a friend only to the sea, but now I have discovered the joy of the mountains.

In the Haight: San Francisco's Hip Movement!

Despite the rumours, San Francisco is easily navigable to tour. Each district comes with its own unique culture, history and vibe to experience. From The Castro to the Marina and back to Chinatown there is a colourful list of neighbourhoods mixed with raw energy and eclecticism.

 I’m making my way on foot to The Haight. The commonly known cross streets of Haight-Ashbury (or “hashbury” as dubbed by Hunter S. Thompson) are famous for being the founding place of the flower-power hippie movement of the 1960’s. This was due basically to cheaper rents. In 1967 the “Summer of Love” was the catalyst of the movement with an influx of people from all social backgrounds in excess of 100 000 moving to the area, creating a hippie revolution. Sharing became an aspect of everyday life with communal living, sharing of resources (whatever they may be), a free clinic and of course, free love.

Puffing my way from Lower Haight to Upper Haight I pass the usual array of cafes and restaurants. Lower Haight is not as developed as Haight-Ashbury, but it has an equally, yet only smaller, eclectic mix of merchandise. It creates a prequel of charm leading up to the main attraction.  The record stores are tiny and cramped, but with big personality. 

I step into Rookie Ricardo’s Records and see the owner and his friend at the back of the room casually chatting. There are retro orange plastic records hanging like mobiles and orange plastic coverings over the lights. African dancing murals are painted on the wall. For a small shop they have made use of space well to produce a decent selection of old soul music and rock with a few turntable listening stations.

The next shop reeks of reefer. There are a couple of T-shirt racks and in the back in a small room there appears to be a team of people producing music. Everything here has that alternative, underground, rough and dirty feel. This is perhaps due to its past – “stemming” from the movement of the 60’s, which originated or “flowered” in the Haight!

My appetite for Russian Literature is whet at the aptly named anarchist bookstore, 'Bound Together'. Shelves of old hardbacks and mainly Dover publications (an American publisher that reprints books that are no longer issued by their original publishers) are stacked together in this second-hand store. There’s a musty smell, but the vibe is buzzing with plenty of young folk stopping in to find a good read. I leave with six or seven new titles for my “to-do” list. Unfortunately, I can contain myself better in a clothes store than a book store, and clothes are usually lighter in the backpack!

Walking through the Haight it is easy to forget you are in a neighbourhood where people actually live (some with homes, some living on the street). Looking up there are reminders in the architecture. All the buildings and apartments are renovated Victorians and Edwardians, colourful and iconic of San Francisco.

I walk past a costume shop, and laugh to myself because many of the people in this area have their real life costumes on and they are often scarier! People-watching has never been more of a revelation. I see one lady has taken to her face with a black marker, drawing big racoon-like circles around her eyes and black clown lips. We can thank Reagan for this.

I find a routine of tattoo parlours and psychedelic head shops. Creative shop-front designs evoke a sample-taste of what you may find inside. Street art and graffiti is a viable product in Haight. ‘Soul Patch’ offers henna, tattoos and piercing and has a painting of a skull sitting on a lotus flower to allure customers. Insightful murals decorate the street, making the walk more enjoyable.

Vintage goes with Haight like cheese goes with wine.  There are an abundance of stores to get lost in like ‘La Rosa’ and ‘Held Over’.  I meet with Cecily Ann, somewhat a veteran of the Haight scene of the sixties. Fashion model-come-vintage entrepreneur, Cecily’s store, ‘Decades of Fashion’ has apparel dating back over a century showcasing an expansive collection of vintage cowboy boots, classic ladies hats, and Edwardian attire. Cecily informs me of the up and coming Edwardian Ball where her shop will have a stall and without doubt will be where many of the costumes hail from. ‘Decades of Fashion’ is kind of like the Museum of Vintage - you can write off the experience as “educational” or it can be a shopper’s heaven with a plethora of exciting new wardrobing opportunities!

At the end of the road, just before you hit the Golden Gate Park, you will come across a famous record store, ‘Amoeba’, with its vast collection of records, DVD’s and more. Amoeba is a fame of its own, regularly hosting both international and national bands, playing in store. 

Across the road is San Francisco’s first ever metal only record store, ‘Shaxul’, which offers a niche market for those head banging “dirty vinyl pushers”.

My mother shared some memories from her youth with me, when young girls and boys would pass out flowers to pedestrians. This no longer exists. However, each unique shop, pub, cafe and specialty store in the Haight has its story. As gentrification makes its way into the district plenty of the power of the sixties remains intact here, a little piece of hippiedom remains, like the scent of ganga in the air, the glimpse of a Seargent Pepper’s T-shirt, and the disconnected eyes and murmurings of the lost souls wandering the street searching for something they gave up a long time ago...

Day Tripping to Tijuana for Tequila Taste-Testing (I'm Tongue-Tied)...

When I would speak of travelling her native country, my mother always used to say to me, “Go to San Diego, but DON’T go to Tijuana”. Ignoring all parental advice, once in San Diego, I saw no other option than to cross this notorious border despite the U.S Department of State’s travel alert and mother dearest.


Border towns in general have bad reputations for people smuggling, and kidnappings, but Tijuana is ranked highly amongst the worst. However, on this day the colour and vibrancy of Mexico are calling to me.

I’ve met Breno, a Brazilian guy, at the USA Hostel, and he accompanies me on this day trip. We take a short fifteen minute tram ride from downtown San Diego, to the last stop – Tijuana Border Crossing.

We walk, with many others, across the border and into Mexico. This is more than easy to do, and there are no check points whatsoever. The walk feels exciting, like some great, big adventure with the prospect of facing danger - we’ve been warned of the violence and troubles of Tijuana, shoot-outs and gangs. I’m just coming for the Tequila and quesadillas man! And that’s exactly what we do.

We see the long curving line of the border, the fence that protects against illegal immigrants jumping across to the great and mighty United States of America. Breno and I attempt to take photos from the top of the ramp; a massive Mexican flag sails in the midst of the crowded sprawl of the city. Special police units yell at us from below, “No photos”! I guess they really take their border protection seriously. I don’t know what they thought our pictures would reveal – a hole in the wall?

We catch a five dollar taxi into town (although you can walk) and spend the day browsing markets, inquiring about and tasting local street vendor fare, and wandering the streets ambling in and out of different churches, shops and districts.

Pretty “school girls” with smudged lipstick sell themselves on the streets of the red light district. There are so many, it makes my heart hurt. I know I’m not seeing the worse, and I feel so innocent and naive. We look, but we try not to stare.

The pavement is often cracked and buildings are in ill-repair, but for the moment I am glad not to be in America. It’s a different taste of reality. Breno and I go in search of lunch – what shall we have? Mexican of course! A horse is a horse!

We end up in the tourist headquarters – the Avenida Revolucion, deciding to play it safe. We have fajitas and burritos and wash them down with Mexican beers, while musicians amble over and offer to play a tune. I happily oblige to pay a few dollars, and the first song is festive as one of the old men plays his accordion and sings, and the other fellow strings along. The second song he offers to play is “La Cucaracha”. It must be popular with most tourists, but he doesn’t really seem to know the lyrics or the tune.

Later, we wander through markets and various streets, getting lost and fighting over directions. For a world traveller, I still am often confused! In the cool of afternoon we seek out a dark and grimy bar for Gringo’s, and start our tequila taste-testing.

The tequila really is better in Mexico. Perhaps it is because of the old lady behind the bar who doesn’t speak a word of English, but selects the finest samples for us, offering me cigarettes while sitting back in her chair behind the bar and watching soap operas. A young guy who works on the door begins conversations with Breno and I. Breno speaks enough Spanish (Portuguese being his mother-tongue) to get by, and translates for me. The boy is telling him about how the people-smuggling works in Mexico. Apparently, it costs over 2000 U.S Dollars to get across the border, with the aid of “professionals”, and you only have to pay if it is successful (well, that’s nice isn’t it!). He tells us about various ways this is done, and how many people save for a long time to afford the fee and when they get to the U.S.A they are so poor they become homeless. For others, there are opportunities to be had, work the Americans do not want to do.

I ask the boy a question, and he begins to answer me. The old lady jumps out of her chair and starts yelling at him fiercely. Breno interjects to defend the boy, and I am lost in translation. Breno tells me the lady thinks that I am with him, and that the boy is trying to flirt with me in front of my “boyfriend”. We attempt to explain to her that it is okay, but she sends the boy away, and settles back into her television programs. We drink some more tequila – the Mexican way: First you pour salt over a thick wedge of lime, then you suck from the lime and sip a small part of the tequila, and then you taste the lime again. It is a slower process, and you can savour and enjoy the quality of the gold stuff. My chosen favourite is “Don Julio” and before we leave Tijuana I purchase a bottle from the supermarket.

We catch a taxi back to the border. Our driver tells us that he used to live in America, but he returned to Tijuana, because life is better here now, and he can make more money. Apparently, this is typical of the times – just as the Polish left England for home after the GFC!

Getting back into the U.S is not as easy as leaving (who would have thought?). There are passport checks, baggage scans and a much longer queue to get in. For me, a day in Tijuana is worth the tram fare. I’m sorry Mother Dearest.

Strolling Santa Monica and Venice Beach (Los Angeles)

Think over 300 days of sunshine a year, boulevards lined with palm trees and busty blonde women driving sleek convertibles with tiny dogs sitting in the passenger side wearing sunglasses, and ‘where’ comes to mind? The ‘City of Angels’ – I’m in Los Angeles, of course!

Getting off the plane I knew I had arrived. From the moment I saw that lady and her doggy in the car, and again when I saw a flock of paparazzi chasing a waifish woman into a parking lot, and finally when a limousine turned the corner with personalised plates revealing “Mr Lush”. Everybody is somebody in L.A, and they’re not too proud to admit it.

An urban concrete jungle, L.A in reality is one giant playground offering spectacles and events for any taste with Disneyland and Hollywood (same-same?), Rodeo Drive, the Sunset Strip, Beverly Hills and Universal Studios to name a few. Combine this with epic rock bands, grungy whiskey bars, and delicious Mexican food, L.A presents itself as a montage of colour and grime, cultures and sub cultures, and the archetypal rat race. Where do I sign up?

Luckily, I checked off most the tourist hotspots on my list when I was here last. I take a shuttle bus to Santa Monica and opt to go for the beach atmosphere and great shopping. I’m a block away from the glitzy shopping district of the ‘Third Street Promenade’. After a deep, comatose sleep to knock back my jet-lag, I wake up to another beautiful Los Angeles day – not even a spot of smog in sight! I walk a block (I love how American’s use “blocks”) to Ocean Avenue and walk towards the famous Santa Monica Pier, which has just celebrated its centennial.

I cross the bridge that leads straight down to the pier. To the right, a large blue and yellow striped tent has been put up for the ‘Cirque du Soleil’, and along the platform I see circus performers twirling purple and orange parasols and oversized vanity fans as they hand out brochures to onlookers. Santa Monica’s leisure pier is equipped with an amusement park called ‘Pacific Park’, a carousel, a trapeze school (why not?), an aquarium, arcade, shops, pubs and restaurants. I see caricature artists at their stalls, food vendors selling fresh fruit cups and churros (a Spanish doughnut), and one man engages a group of tourists with his colourful Macaw parrots, blue and green. Relaxed anglers try to get a bite.

A stroll along Santa Monica Beach transports me onto the set of ‘Baywatch’. I can almost see Mitch and CC running past me, waving. Towards Venice Beach the wide path is shared with people rollerblading, cycling and skate-boarding. On the suspiciously broad stretches of sand there are volleyball nets and gymnasium equipment, while surfers carry their boards out to catch a wave. I stop for a fresh juice at one of the beach cafes and people-watch for a while, an entertaining way to soak up the L.A lifestyle, as the American people show off their outgoing personalities.

In Venice Beach I stumble right into the commotion of the markets. Hippies of all ages, sizes and kinds are selling their wares. Again, the people-watching is extraordinary and I get caught up in a lengthy conversation, about Lemmy from ‘Motorhead’ (due bragging rights if you have spotted him around) with a local character. To my amusement, I see Botox clinics squeezed in next to ‘Medical Marijuana Evaluation’ centres. The people of L.A know how to get what they need...just a day on the coast!

Venice Beach is really funky. It has a street culture touch emphasised by graffiti art, surf shops and numerous tattoo and piercing spots. Not to mention the infamous basketball courts (where many-a NBA star has been scouted), prison-looking tennis courts and ‘Muscle Beach' (an outdoors body-building complex). Venice Beach pushes the concept of a “public space” to the max. A whole day can be spent simply exploring this stretch.

I make a quiet exit from the scene to find a little bohemian street I heard about. Literally, referred to as “the Street”, Abbot Kinney Boulevard is named after Venice’s founder, a tobacco giant who dug miles of canals just to drain the marshes for residential areas and built Venice from ground up. This creative district has been the stamping ground for artsy types since the Beat Generation made its explosion in the 50’s and 60’s, and on “the Street” I’m reminded why: modest art galleries and antique stores neighbour each other and boutiques theme designer-meets-vintage. I find a charming cafe, fittingly called ‘Abbot’s Habit’, which has great coffee and a selection of mouth-watering sandwiches and bagels. But more interestingly perhaps are the people the coffee shop attracts – low-key, informal, off beat. In fact, a replica of what Venice represents.

Choose a day, a location and an attraction and you can lose yourself for hours in Los Angeles, and when you wake you’re in the thick of a giant, colourful playground, watching as the merry-goes-round in “La La Land”.

Fiji Adventure Travel Holiday - Island Hopping the Yasawas on Fiji time!

After freezing in New Zealand it’s time for me to thaw out, and where else would be more desirable for a lazy vacation by the sea than the temperate climate of Fiji with its lulling tides, sandy stretches of isolated beach and soothing scents of coconut oil and dewy rainforest?

Alternatively, I find myself thrown into the mayhem of mainland Nadi, and it takes me right back to my travels through India, with a large population of Indians thriving in the business and retail sectors. The streets are dusty and consumed with traffic and touting taxi drivers rip you off with overpriced fares. As a local lady advised me, “you tell them to put the metre on”. It’s better to walk away and wait for an honest man, or a desperate one, than succumb to their tricks.

I escape the hubbub of Nadi and catch the big yellow catamaran, the ‘Yasawa Flyer’, I’m ready to island hop the Yasawa group. A seven day ‘Bula Combo Pass’ includes my ferries, accommodation and meals for many of the resorts, and the overnight stays are easy to book with reception on board the boat.

My first stop is at Coral View Beach Resort on Tavewa Island. A group of us are shipped from the ferry onto a dinghy, and then we trudge through the shallow water, greeted individually by each staff member with big smiles and handshakes. Coral View has a pile of activities on hand, including great snorkelling, lagoon trips, sunset walks and volleyball in the afternoons. The front beach is nothing spectacular and I mosey down a little village track to an alluring stretch of sand. At night we have a buffet dinner and are entertained by welcome dances, song and games. We participate too and the gardener chooses me to be his dance companion. How can I refuse? Except he is not the cliché of a sexy, muscle-ripped man – he is the gardener who has been pruning the bushes since the beginning of time! At least he is wise to the rules of the game and I end up winning a beer.

In Long Beach Resort on Matacawalevu Island I am surprised by the solitude. There are only seven guests, but the beach is a fantastic long crescent of white sand and translucent water. A guided walk through the village reveals the islands industriousness. Coconut oil is produced to sell to the mainland, cassava plantations are abundant (one per family), and they host one of the biggest schools in the Yasawas. Most of the original houses are thatched bures, but now timber and brick is implemented to stand the cyclone season.

At White Sandy, deck chairs occupy the beach and in the shade hammocks invite relaxation. The local boys prepare a ‘lovo’ (traditional underground barbeque) for dinner and the end result is a subtle smoked flavour. The “bula boys” perform their traditional dances, resembling the ‘haka’ with stamping feet and guttural, rhythmic shouting. They are extremely fit and I hear rumours of their popularity with the visiting ladies. In the morning we make bangles out of coconuts and watch on as a stealthy lad scales a coconut tree with bare hands and feet, to roundup bunches of coconuts. He shows off by crawling down face first like a lizard and adds some acrobatics to the show. It makes the English guys nervous; they laugh it off pretending they can contend.

My favourite resort is the pretty Waya Lailai, where we partake in a kava drinking ceremony. Kava is made from the root of a pepper plant, it tastes like muddy water, but the ritual of the ceremony is engaging. One of the girls tells me that the chief of the village recently passed away. The village held a kava drinking ceremony that lasted ten days.

The snorkelling and scuba diving here isn’t as spectacular as in Koh Tao, Thailand where I got my PADI, but the whitetip reef sharks waiting for me at the bottom of the big deep blue are pretty heart-starting! Joe started the dive shop ten years ago and the sharks seem familiar with him, waiting to be fed fresh fish. They know Joe is boss as he pulls on their fins and smacks them with the metal rod. Joe points out giant clams and almost pushes me under a coral cave to check out a sheepish lion fish. The scuba gear is a bit old and it was hard to find a wetsuit to fit, so near the end of the dive I am covered with goose bumps and ready to surface. Also, make sure to check your oxygen level is correct before your dive; Joe had to top ours up before departure.

I splurge on an extra night on South Sea Island. The island has much better food and free water sports like sea-kayaking. I prefer to relax and walk around the entire island – it takes five minutes. In the evening there is crab racing, and plenty to drink. These small islands, like Beachcomber, are popular with party goers.

In the Yasawa’s, don’t expect shops and boutiques, roads (instead you will find long winding paths slashed back and worn down for local use from village to village), cars or hot water (unless you shell out on the luxury resorts). The only noise on the islands is of the local people working, well known Bob Marley tunes drifting through the air, and the occasional beat of the drum to signal meal times or organised activities. On the islands you feel how remote you are and removed from technology there is a reminder of a quieter life, a less hectic approach to the world, a different pace – its Fiji time! And with that a group of smiling, singing Fijians welcome you with a roar of “Bula Everybody!” “Bula!”