Cuenca - a vegetarian paradise

After our arrival to Cuenca (Ecuador) we were eager to eat outside. What we were searching was the regular rice, beans, and salad dish, which we enjoyed in so many other latin places. When we figured out a place where such kind of lunch is available for US $1, we were absolutely content.

That changed as soon as Roy, a friend we met over CouchSurfing, told us about a unimaginable great vegetarian place called "El Paraiso". It is a kind of vegetarian restaurant chain, which has several places here in Cuenca. We did not wait long before trying it out, and we were astonished when bing served a huge lunch portion for only US $1.25. We fast forgot about our one dollar rice-bean-salad restaurant. We tought us in heaven, until we came there about the third or fourth time. As I cannot eat milk products, I always had to order a dry meal, which means without sauce. I did not feel great about the meals anymore, and prefered to create my own dishes at home.

During the following weeks we fasted, which was not the most easy, because we found especially in this three weeks of eating nothing a handful other promising veggie places. Once we were back to normal food, we decided to try them all out.

El paraiso we still visited from time to time, but we meanwhile prefered a lot El Natural and Good Afinity.

"El Natural" is a very cosy place, which reminds rather a home than a restaurant. The Owner as well as the cooks are always ready for a chat, and love to hear what made you appearing in their restaurant. They offer breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but until now we have only made it to several lunches over there. We love the course, which consists of a nice soup with usually choclos (kind of corn) or popcorn, a herbal sweet drink, a main meal consisting of rice, salad, vegetables, beans, soymeat, potatoe stews etc., and a dessert, which is either a pudding or fresh fruit. All that you get for only US $1.50. The meal leaves us always satisfied, just sometimes we wish to get less rice, but more vegetable stew on our plate.

"Good Afinity" we discovered while passing it by bus a bit out of the centre. It looked promising, and thus once after swimming we went for a try. Although it is slightly more expensive, the menu del dia costs US $2, it is a pure pleasure. The course starts with a delicious soy milk or a fresh juice, is followed by a soup based on potatoes, soy meat, beans, or vegetables (or in combination), and finished by the main meal consisting of rice, potatoe stew, fried, boiled or stewed vegetables, beans, fresh salad, soy meat in various forms, smoked gluten, and/or pasta salad. Usually, we have a hard time to finish this meal, thus take the rest of it home. As a dessert for hours after the meal (because really nothing fits anymore), we often take a Pastel de Luna home. This is a kind of sweet made of puff pastry with coconut or bean filling. We have never thought it possible that beans can be sweet, but in Pastel de Luna they are, and it is making you right away addicted.

Besides, Good Afinity sells self-made soy meat, soy sausages, gluten, tofu, and soy milk. The first time we decided to buy tofu we weren't sure if we should take two portions, because for $1.50 we expected to get a small piece. When we were finally given the bag with tofu, we were grateful having ordered only one, because it contained two tofu bars, bigger than any I have ever seen in Europe. We finally lived on that pieces of tofu for two weeks, making ourselves great creamy tofu cheese, as well as tofu feta. Absolutely overwhelming delicious, we can tell!

Not enough of those great places, it seems that every restaurant in town has at least one vegetarian dish on its menu. Even Sakura Sushi, needless to say it's a sushi restaurant, offers a vegetarian course containing of miso soup with tofu, vegetarian rolls, and a sweet banana dessert. What do you wish more for as a vegetarian?

Since living here, we got the impression that Ecuador is a perfect place for vegetarians. Once I even read that one of the former presidents of Ecuador tried to promote the vegetarian lifestyle in his country. If we look at Cuenca, he did fairly well, and we imagined it to be a standard in Ecuador. Since we received a couple of travelers having been to several places in Ecuador before they arrived to Cuenca, we learned to be wrong. It seems Cuenca is the only place in Ecuador, which you can truly call a vegetarian paradise. And we are grateful without that knowledge having choosen Cuenca for our long-term stay in Ecuador.

Cuenca clearly spoilt us. Still we believe in succeeding to find here and there another vegetarian restaurant on our trip through Ecuador, which finally starts during Christmas 2007.

Much Like November

The neon-yellow gingko leaves have fallen everywhere in Gwangju. The air doesn't smell as much like November as it did in the states this time last year. The chill that hits my face in the morning is different, and my scarf doesn't wrap itself around my neck the same way. Halloween has come and gone, without much mention of pumpkins or candy-corn. Having to explain jack-o-lanterns and trick-or-treat again and again seems to have punctured some of the magic that makes me love Halloween so much. I worry that the fourth Thursday in November will pass me by, since I keep forgetting about it until someone reminds me. I get nervous when I have to explain Thanksgiving to someone, and I realize that all of my closest friends here aren't American, so they can't back me up. But how hard is it to explain American Thanksgiving to someone, really? (Whistles and turns head.)

Aside from really missing this time of year in the states (and aside from my inability to properly explain third-grade American history), I'm glad I'm here. It is my home and I'm at peace with a lot of things here. My boyfriend of one year is here visiting me from Virginia, so that adds to my peace. It had been six months since I last saw Mike standing in front of me. And when I met him at the bus station here in Gwangju, he looked good. Better than I remember. We stared at each other for a few minutes, saying nothing. It was nice to hold his hand on the cab ride home. I've missed that. I've missed him.

It's been fun having Mike immerse himself in the life that I've made for myself here. Unfortunately my job doesn't offer personal vacation days, so I've had to work the entire time that he's been here. But while I'm at work, the day is his, and there's a lot to explore.

Last weekend we went to Damyoung, which is an area of bamboo forests about an hour away. I usually prefer doing my own exploring on my own schedule, but one of my Korean friends found a pretty good and inexpensive day tour that went all over Damyoung. So, conveniently enough, we just followed a large group of non-English speaking Koreans around the whole day and made up our own history of locations, since we had no idea what our tour guide was saying. Despite the many other tour groups dashing about, the bamboo forests were beautiful and, at times, peaceful. The tour included lunch at a restaurant that served rice from pieces of bamboo that you can take with you as souvenirs. Lunch was pretty tasty. Typical Korean cuisine: marinated pork, kimchi, fish, something green and spicy, and ten other unidentifiable dishes. And as much as I'm used to it, it's still never a comfortable feeling having twenty-five Koreans stare at you while you eat.

In contrast with having a relaxing two weeks with my boyfriend, I do feel pressure to make sure I can show Mike as much of what I love (and don't love) about Korea as possible, without completely overwhelming him. This weekend we'll head up to Seoul. Maybe meet up with a few friends, show Mike a few temples and get lost on the subway. He leaves when our weekend in Seoul is up and I anticipate a pouty lip at the bus station. I have a lot to look forward to with Mike in my life, so I won't let myself stay sad that long after he's gone back to the states. Just long enough to guilt him into sending me stove top stuffing and pumpkin pie filling.

Home in Understanding

I walked down here about two hours ago with the intention of writing. Yet during those hours, I wrote not a single word. Rather, for two hours I have been calmly sitting on a rock outcropping overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I am not alone here. There is a middle-aged, bald headed man to my left, about fifty yards away, doing the same thing. He, however, is wholly naked and wearing sunglasses. Completely at peace. To my right and below me, there is a girl sitting alone on a single rock staring into the ocean. She looks at home. At peace. Beautiful. There is another individual to my right about 75 yards, reclining on a rock, studying the waves. He is wearing boots, pants, and a winter parka with the hood pulled over his head. A dozen other individuals dot rock tops and patches of sun around me. A confused but confident seagull has been sitting with me for the past ten minutes, either expecting a hand out or admiring the endless sets of waves breaking into the rock wall below me. Beyond these dozen and a half individuals, there is nobody except for the occasional couple that has strayed from the Golden Gate Bridge parking lot a mile away to grab a quick photograph. They quickly leave to head back for their vehicle, likely eager to catch all the sights of San Francisco they can handle in one day. I don't blame them. San Francisco has more things to do than any local could handle in a lifetime.

But at the moment, I am in no hurry. Right now, I am completely at peace. I could sit for another two hours and watch the waves crash against the cliffs to my left and right, creating lingering yet impermanent clouds from the sprays of mist they send into the air. I could listen to the swell rumbling itself into sets of ten foot waves for hours or continue to feel each wave in my feet and legs as they smash into the cliffs below me. I could sit and see how long it takes for the fog brewing a few miles away to reach me. And I just might.

I left Montana three weeks ago and was homesick within an hour. I felt at home in Montana, and I regularly stumbled into places that put me completely at peace. It was a strange feeling, leaving. I have never had a difficult time with it before. In fact, I've quite enjoyed the life of constant travel. Perhaps it was a subconscious idea that Montana is my peace, a place that fits me. A place in which I can relate to most people I meet. A place where most people are at peace. Perhaps it was the idea that no other place could move me the way Montana moves me.

This homesick feeling compounded as I reached Yosemite. I strolled into Yosemite Valley on an October Saturday. Yosemite's "slow season." I wandered through the valley, near some waterfalls, and up some boulders all day, but I didn't really see anything. People were everywhere, few of whom seemed to have enough time to do whatever it was they needed to do. The business and busy-ness of Yosemite Valley gave me a tunnel vision that distracted me from really seeing any part of the 3,000 foot cliffs that surrounded me.

A few days later, I found myself in Kings Canyon. I had never been before, and I was unprepared for how amazing it is. Deep cliffs, mirror-like rivers, giant sequoias, waterfalls, quietness. During my stay I saw about fourteen people. All of these people seemed to have all the time in the world. They wore smiles, were eager to talk with a stranger, and were happy being where they were. I spent one morning on a secluded river beach, reading a short book cover to cover. Another afternoon, I walked a few miles upriver and seemed to have the whole park to myself. My thoughts weren't focused on, "I wonder what Murphy and Genie are doing right now... they're probably drinking coffee in Missoula... I wish I was in Missoula," or, "I bet it snowed in Montana today." Rather, I was happy being where I was. My thoughts were good thoughts, amazed at how many places in the world can be so incredible, and glad that I'm lucky enough to be able to visit so many. I was happy by myself. I would have been happy with friends, family, or fellow travelers enjoying the peace Kings Canyon offered.

They say that solitude is lonelier in public places. Given my recent experiences with the crowds of Yosemite, the tranquility of Kings Canyon, and this specific cliff on San Francisco's west side, one could assume that I would agree with that statement. But I don't think I agree. I have some company today on these cliffs. They do not make me feel lonely. Actually, they make me feel happy. I know they appreciate the beauty of this location and are content with soaking in the scene for hours. No rush. No imperative business calls. No necessity of keeping up with the Joneses. They are here, and they are happy. I am within the city limits of one of the most famous cities in the world with a metro area population of multiple million, yet I do not feel the loneliness. I feel an understanding with the people with me on this cliff. They make me feel at home.

The Sage of Yellowstone

Having worked in Yellowstone, I fell in love with the place--a common, if not universal, outcome. I am not surprised that it happened. I am, however, never sure why I am so avid to pass on my feelings for Yellowstone to our children. My usual rule is that I do not want them to follow in my footsteps. Viewed from above, my footsteps make a trail that is long and tangled and frequently veers off the path to investigate something glittery that turns out to be a broken bottle or an old hubcap. My footsteps are just about the stupidest thing you ever saw, really. But where Yellowstone is concerned, I want the kids to be just like I am. And I have had some success.

It can be challenging. Recently, ten-year-old Dustin and I spent some time in the park. We were there by ourselves--Jen had business that kept her at home with Lewis--so I was accountable for Dustin's welfare on top of the need I felt to solidify his relationship with the park. And I should explain that I am his stepfather; I came into his life a long time ago, when he had just turned five, but we are in a sense still getting to know each other. It was all a heavy responsibility. I responded, as I have before, by turning into Professor E. Cology.

"Come forth, my son, and learn from Nature's University!" I didn't actually say that, but that was my tone, as we set out on our first morning to hike to Osprey Falls, on the Gardner River near the north entrance to the park. We hiked along an old road that followed a broad sagebrush flat, mountains all around. The high country autumn had begun, with blue skies and moderate temperatures, and a cold wind in our faces. The meadows, long since brown, roiled in the wind like a rapid. I lectured all the while. "That's Bunsen Peak. The Bunsen burner is named for...what's his name, the guy the mountain's named for. He was an expert on volcanoes, and...other stuff, like, um, Bunsen burners...and it's a volcano, so it makes sense, see?"

"What are those things, dad?" Dustin asked, pointing at the sky.

"I...don't know." Those things later turned out to be fireweed seeds. Fireweed is a handsome pink flower that blooms voluminously where wildfire has been. Looking like cotton, the seeds ballooned over the landscape in a miles-long wave. Dustin knew perfectly well what fireweed was, once we found the source. He had to stop me from explaining.

A few minutes later: "What's that, dad?"

"I...don't know." It was scat--animal droppings, for you city folk. I knew that much. I did not know what it came out of, whether dog or bear or chimera, but I took a photograph with our car key for scale, and it was huge--not the key. I noted Dustin looking over his shoulder. "That's good," I said. "You should always be cautious and think about what animals might be out there."

Moments later, I was hiking with my head down, hat blocking my eyes so that I could see only about ten feet of the trail. "Whoa, Dad!" Dustin yelled. I stopped, confused, wondering what was going on. Dustin pointed.

There was a bear on the trail ahead. We were too close for comfort; it was maybe a hundred feet away, looking oddly alert. Bears always look to me as if they can't be bothered, but this one seemed tense. It appeared to be a black bear--not the more dangerous grizzly, that is--but it was also huge; it stood there, sniffing the air, looking away from us and apparently unaware of our existence. I looked to my side and noticed Dustin backing away with his eyes averted, which is just the thing that all the nature guides say you should do. Like a tourist at Disneyland's Country Bear Jamboree, I was reaching for my camera. I saw what Dustin was doing and thought something like, Oh, yeah--that's a real bear. We should leave.

So we backtracked. All this time, I had been nurturing a vague plan that we would fish in the Gardner River. We reached a point where my fishing book said that we could descend to the river, and we were sorrowful at what we found. The river raged hundreds of feet below, at the bottom of a V-shaped canyon. The terrain between us and the water was a hodgepodge of volcanic rock and dead timber, all meshed together like chain mail. It was not quite sheer, in those places where the slope got more ambitious. The climb back up would be exhausting. We hiked along the canyon rim, back and forth, and found that there was no easy way to get to the river below. "So, should we try this?" I asked Dustin.

"No."

"Why not?" I asked again, genuinely perplexed.

"It's stupid. It's practically a cliff."

The bear was gone now, so we finished the trip to Osprey Falls. We found it at the bottom of a long trail, deep in the river canyon; the river made a 150-foot leap here, and Dustin was deeply impressed. I was nursing my sore bones, and actually did not pay the falls much attention. After a rest, I fished for the remainder of our visit. The fish I caught were the size of the fish that come on a pizza. Dustin was eating, which was what I should have been doing. "Do you want to fish?" I asked him.

"No, I think we should hike out so that we don't get caught by the dark."

It was not that long before dark as we approached the trailhead. By mile 10, I was just barely able to walk. I would have been in better shape if I had eaten. It was good to know that I could do this kind of thing, along with the 800 foot drop down into the river canyon to the base of the falls--and 800 foot climb back out--but I was quite literally dragging my feet by now. Dustin zipped along without complaint. We figured out the next day that we had gone about 14 miles.

That evening, we were supposed to go to the community center in Gardiner, to a meeting of local environmentalists, where I hoped to meet some of my old Yellowstone Park Service Stations friends. (Among the organizers was Mike Tercek, a YPSS guy from my days in the park, now a Tulane University Ph.D. and a kind of freelance biologist--which, however, sounds odd, as if were a character in a film noir gangster movie or a piece of hard-boiled detective fiction: "He was the most dangerous kind of scientist: a free-lancer. And he had the drop on me. Standing there looking down the barrel of his .38, I had to figure it was only the harmful effect of lead on the environment that kept him from pumping me full of it." That sort of thing). When we got back to town, I was so wrecked--by dehydration, fatigue, and the migraine headache I had developed--that I could hardly sit upright. I probably also had a touch of altitude sickness, of which Dustin was quite free. The subjects under discussion at the meeting were complex. I sat there like a cartoon character who has been hit in the skull with an anvil or a grand piano: stars and little birds were spinning around my head. I was no longer Professor E. Cology. I was more like Professor E. Coli. I was deathly ill, that is.

Dustin sat up and took it all in. After the meeting was over, I had to ask him what it was about.

I had begun to feel better about the time the meeting ended. Still, if I could have let Dustin drive home, I would have. "So, did you have a good time today?" I asked.

"I had a great time," he said. "It helps that you used to work here. It makes you such an expert."

I'll take that.