A Cowgirl in Cuba

Hola possum-itas, I’m back in the saddle after an adventure on the commie Caribbean isle of Cuba. Like most Canadians, the bf and I booked in at a beach resort in Varadero, what I am now calling the 11th Province of Canada. Picture house boating on Shuswap without the boat...picture Ibiza without the Sangria...picture Cancun during spring break without the Americans and whoomp, there it is. A mecca of maple leaf tattoos and Bubba Keg mugs.

What’s a Bubba Keg you ask? I inquired with a few lads from Halifax, to which they explained ‘you get them at Canadian Tire, obviously’. Obviously indeedy. The Canadians can’t wait for the Cubans to pour a proper rum punch so they insist on having their Bubba Keg filled to the brim to avoid line ups at the bar. Offiside? Maybe. Efficient though, I’ll admit. O’ Canada.

The single saving grace of this otherwise Canadian town was Calle 62, an open air bar with $2 mojitos, live music, and a mix of Cubans and visitors all vying for a coveted seat. People end up spilling out onto the street and dancing til dawn; little kids and grand parents alike. Loved it.

In an endeavor to escape the crazed pubescents and cruise about Cuba, we took off to Havana for a few nights to break up the debauchery. While en route we discovered a fabulous little road side stand, in the middle of nowhere, latin music blazing, serving up the best pina coladas ever to be tasted by this senorita. Upon arrival in Havana, the city immediately blew me away. We set up camp in the Vedado at the Tryp Habana Libre, formally the Hilton and headquarters to Castro and his cronies during the revolution in 1959.

Kiddy corner to our hotel was the Coppelia Ice Cream Cathedral, perpetually surrounded by Cubans lining up for hours for a few scoops of the good stuff. We couldn’t figure out what the big deal was? Was the ice cream laced with a little something that made these loyal patrons come back for more? Turns out, most Cubans were not permitted in the high end ice cream parlors of pre-revolutionary Cuba so today, the ‘Cathedral’ is a gift from the government. Hence the commitment to stand in line for hours for a bit of ice cream because they now have the right to do so. Fight the power people.

Habana Vieja (The Old City) is chalk full of Spanish colonial architecture, horse drawn carriages and old American cars circa the 1950’s. A complete time warp to an era of glamour and corruption, wealth and seduction. I was certainly seduced by the insatiable energy, so intense and passionate you can’t help but feel inspired the moment you enter the city limits.

After strolling around the Capitlio and making a stop at the Partagas cigar factory to stock up on some Cuban stogies, we indulged in a lobster dinner at the famous El Floridito Restaurante. A favorite of Hemingway himself, complete with his favorite bar stool preserved with chain roping so no one else will ever assume his spot. As we sipped on our second bottle of vino tinto, I tried channeling the great writer's vibes. Some of the best literature ever written about Cuba is care of this American legend.

The following day we made our way to Plaza de la Revolucion to admire the gigantic Che Guevara mural and make a stop at Castro’s offices...you know, to drop by a fruit basket, as you do with most dictators. We spent our last night in Havana at the Hotel Nacional, a popular celebrity haunt back in the day and still every bit as glamorous as the last time Marlene Deitrich walked through their front doors. We took in a cabaret show, which was nothing short of spectacular, complete with a plethora of pasties and half naked latinas shaking their stuff for an enthusiastic crowd. On the way back to our hotel, we cruised along the city’s Malecon, which was a buzz with young people singing and dancing; lovers locking lips as the waves spilled over them. These are a passionate people.

Our last few days were spent on Varadero’s white sandy beaches, hiding under a palapa, hoping that time would stand still. But alas, we’re back in Vancity watching the NHL playoffs like the rest of the Cuban-Canadians.

Hasta leugo Cuba.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

Soul searching over Sangria

After a week of couscous and cumin in Morocco, I made my way to Tangier to board a ferry to Spain. Following a week of constant heat, filth and stank (I'm speaking affectionately here), I was craving some kick ass cuisine and some well deserved beach time.

I decided Malaga would be my home base for the south of Spain, birthplace of thee Pablo Picasso and a nice central locale to hit some nearby beach towns.

I spent my first day a la plage at Nerja, known for it’s Balcony of Europe, in other words a huge vista overlooking the med. Two words can only describe what I like best about this part of the world - topless sunbathing. Why oh why is this such a big issue in North America? I love being able to let the ladies free, avoid tan lines and not be gawked at by pervy men. How refreshing! My only issue with the south of Spain is the demographic tends to creep a little farther down the line from me than I would like, i.e. newly retired Brits and Germans reliving their youth. Bless them. I’ve never seen so many 60+ ta-tas on display in one sitting. You go gals!

I’m also a big fan of how Spanish people smell, in particular the men. The smell of strong cologne strikes you unexpectedly as you stroll the streets, reminiscent of Davie Street on a Friday night. They’re also very affectionate...with each other! Always hugging and kissing, hugging and kissing. Just giver fellas. I was so taken aback one evening, dining alone enjoying a huge seafood paella, when I discovered that my waiter...well, I think he fancied me. He asked that I come back at midnight as he and his friends were going to shut down the street and hold a fiesta in my honor! Talk about grand gestures. I politely declined as I am spoken for (woe, that sounded very old fashioned) but was flattered nonetheless.

The Spanish gals, on the other hand, were rocking a few fashion trends I found puzzling. 1) Stockings. It was a warm 25-30 degrees every day I was there, and these women still insist on wearing stockings? Funny, because no one seems to wear them anymore on this side of the pond. 2) Sporting Fall/Winter attire, in again, 25-30 degree heat. I completely appreciate the importance of fashion and these are two seasons most fashionistas would hate to miss out on, but seriously. A sweater and a wool jacket in this heat? I would shrivel up and die. 3) Hammer pants. Remember these bad boys? Gals are actually wearing them again - everywhere you look. I have to say...they somehow make them look chic. Can this be so? Clever Spanish.

I also had difficulty ordering a double espresso. Not because my Spanish was lacking, but because the baristas couldn’t understand the idea somehow. Does no one fancy a double smack in the face in the morning in this country? I had to demonstrate for them, pouring two espressos into one coffee cup. They thought that was weird.

I spent another day on the beach in Torremolinos and then sped off to the Algarve region of Portugal to a lovely little town called Lagos. One thing I had observed in both Spain and Portugal was that it was tricky to order just one glass of wine. Not that I ever drink just one, however it’s either a half bottle or full. No fucking around people. And the port....oh GOD the port....amazing. A glass of local port daily was absolutely necessary. The Portuguese seemed more laid back than my fragrant friends in Spain. One day I watched an adorable old fella reel in a fish from the beach, probably about 50 lbs. I love these people and I love their lifestyle.

One thing to note, as I was traveling alone, many people found this very odd. A woman traveling alone, eating alone...seemingly content, which I was. One night in Lagos I was enjoying a fabulous meal of duck pate, olives and grilled squid when these young men across the restaurant were talking and pointing at me. “Look at that weird girl eating alone in the corner,” I imagined them saying. When they were leaving one of them came by my table to tell me how impressed they were that I was ‘ok’ eating alone and that I seemed really happy. I told him there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. Given he was probably 21 years old, I’m sure my response startled him...he then asked me to meet him at a club later to get wasted. As you do.

After a fantastic taste of Portugal, I made my way back to Spain, stopping in Seville. What a darling little town. Given this is where Flamenco originated, I decided an authentic Flamenco show was definitely in order. Wow. I had no idea the level of intensity and emotion involved in this Spanish art form. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she begins to cry watching Opera for the first time. I was moved.

Last stop - Barcelona. Everyone raves about this city, and rightly so. It’s the San Fran of Europe. It’s divided into diverse, charming little neighborhoods and has a Tapas bar on every block. Which brings me to the topic of Tapas - yes please. Standing around a busy bar, snatching whatever tapas tickle your fancy to then show your bartender at the end of the night how many tooth picks you’ve accumulated to determine the amount owing on your bill is simply brilliant. Almost like an honor system! I wonder if this could catch on in North America? One would hope so.

After more litres of Sangria than I could possibly count, I find myself back in beautiful Vancouver settling back into a routine of sushi and Hockey Night in Canada. Hasta Luego Espana.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

Smells like Morocco

Salaam possums. After leaving the city of lights (or the city of legs as my luck would have it), I hopped a plane to the crazy town of Marrakech, Morocco. You often hear what a mental place this is, with it’s souks and snake charmers and such, and this town definitely did not disappoint. It’s funny when I was leaving Canada, many of my friends thought I was nuts to travel Morocco on my own. Yet when I told people in Paris what my travel plans were, they thought it was fabulous! Morocco has definitely become a popular place for travel and I found it to be very safe...even for a cheeky Canadian such as myself.

When I arrived at my hostel, which was nothing short of Aladdin’s palace, my new friend Ucef at the front desk advised me that I ‘looked American’. Now, one can take this a number of ways, however I gave Ucef the benefit of the doubt and explained to him I was quite obviously a Canadian, more specifically a Vancouverite, given I was sporting Lululemon’s and had an umbrella in my bag. To which he replied “Where is Vancouver? Never heard of it.” Okie doke, American it is.

Starved, I headed into the square of the Medina (Moroccan term for township) in search of some tasty, authentic Moroccan fare. Little did I know this would later disappoint me, but I digress I found some food alright; ‘group eat’ I call it. Sure, there are plenty of touristic restaurants but I decided to dine under some large tents in the centre of the square with crowds of others while the Moroccans cooked us a feast over large grills. Couscous or Targine (stew). This was my choice in dishes over the next week, and this could be accompanied by either beef, chicken or vegetables. Oh, and a big hunk of white bread. I’m confident I ate more white bread during my week in Morocco than I do in a year in Canada, but hey, carbs are the new protein, no?

Another interesting thing to note when dining in Morocco - forget about enjoying a glass of vino with your meal folks. It is possible to get a drink in this country, but incredibly inconvenient. Where’s the funky cold medina people? Nope. Nada.

The next morning, I went to the square to see what the vibe was like during the day. Enter the snake charmers. Big, black cobras literally entranced by a flute. Alarming. I was suckered into getting my photo taken with a few of these reptiles draped over me (a ‘water snake’, not the cobra) for a few Durham, so I went along with it. After I snapped my pics and handed the snake back to the man he kissed it and held the thing up to my forehead and announced “You will have many years good sex. Good sex for you!” Excellent. That’s good news. I actually tried to give this guy American dollars at first, to which he explained “We don’t take those anymore, only Euros.” Wow, how the world has changed possums.

On the way back to my hostel, I got lost in the souk, or maze more like. Shit. This thing is confusing. A cute little boy came up to me and offered to lead me back to my hostel for a fee. Done and done little man, let’s roll. We arrive, with me feeling like an idiot as I hand over 20 Durham to this kid and before I could open the door he threatens to light up a cigarette if I don’t give him any more money. Excuse aime moi? (He’s probably about 8.) I refuse ofcourse, to which he lights up like he’s been smoking for 20 years and walks away. Where am I?!

I should note, I learned alot about the Muslim faith during this trip, and although I like to keep an open mind, I have to say - where are the women? Are they hidden? Are they nocturnal? I didn’t see many gals around, and when I did, I would often get a look that said ‘oh look at you, must be nice to be in shorts and a tube top whilst I sweat to death under this thing’. I mean no disrespect by any means, it’s just a tad hard to swallow for this western gal.

I then embarked on a road trip to the Sahara, making many memorable stops along the way. However, when the red dunes started to appear on the horizon, I knew this was going to be the highlight of my trip. My group and I hopped on some camels and embarked on a 10K trek into the desert to our campsite for the evening. Please note possums, 10K on a camel = a very sore tookus for DAYS. We arrived after dark and sat under the stars waiting for our guide to cook us dinner. Never in my life have I seen stars like this. Pure magic.

Our group was split in half, 50% French speaking, 50% English. Morocco attracts alot of French speaking visitors, naturally, however this is bad news for me as French people don’t seem to appreciate my sarcastic sense of humor. Or any sarcasm...period. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly the life of the party in the desert. When our food finally arrived, we were told we were eating ‘Moroccan style,' i.e. no plates or utensils. Yuck. A dozen filthy mutt hooks all grabbing at the family style dish at once. I decided to sit this one out.

The next morning, I perched myself on a dune alone in silence and watched the sunrise. Probably the most peaceful thing I’ve ever experienced. The Sahara is quite something. To me, it looks like a big sea of red pepper dip, like you could dip a chip into it. Strange comparison? Maybe, but the sand is so soft and fine...almost creamy.

All in all, I loved my time in Morocco but I have to say (and anyone who has been there will agree) - ALL of my belongings smelled like cumin, which is essentially the smell of Morocco. I had to air myself out for about a week after I left, but it was well worth it.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

The French Connection

Possums! The Urban Cowgirl is finally back in the saddle - pun intended - with all sorts of travel tales to share. My original intent was to blog intermittently throughout my trip however the bloody French/Spanish keyboards made this a touch painful. So, in keeping it real, I opted for my trusty journal instead.

First stop - Paris. Having been there before I had already checked off all things touristy, so this time around I decided I would soak in the city, people watch and eat my face off...naturally. I arrived in the morning full of piss and vinegar so I ditched my bags and enthusiastically headed to...the cemetery. Yes, that is correct possums. A friend of mine reminded me that Jim Morrison was buried in a Parisian cemetery and asked me to take a few snaps of his grave...so I hopped on the Metro and took my morbid ass over to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery to check it out. Buried amongst the likes of Oscar Wilde and a plethora of Napoleon's cronies, most visitors seemed only interested in swarming the grave site of Mr. Morrison. I had hoped to stumble upon some hippies pouring a bottle of whiskey over the rock legend’s grave, but no such luck.

It just so happens that Fashion Week kicked off the day before I arrived. Coincidence? One would think not, however it was just my luck and lucky I was indeed. I scoped out show locales online and discovered the Gaspard Yurkievich show was taking place at the Louvre. Not too shabby of a venue I must say. I ventured to the famed museum to see if I could stumble upon any celebrities in a stalker-like fashion. Turns out they keep the riff raff (and by that I mean a mix of fashion victims, Paris’s elite and a handful of media) and the celebs in separate rooms before going in for the show. What I didn’t know was how easy it would be to sneak in there! With no ticket and a sub-par ensemble (i decided to wear all black, you know, the mod bitch look), I loitered around the line up to get in. Next thing I know some gal with a head set on is handing me a bag of goodies and ushering me inside. Ofcourse, sans ticket, I ended up standing in the back but no one even questioned it?! ‘C’est bonne’ i think to myself. I did not see any celebs, which let’s face it was the real reason I was there, but Yurkievich did put on a good show.

The only problem with visiting Paris during Fashion Week is the influx of perfect people...and I do mean perfect. I’ll meet your Mary Magdalen Paris and raise you two bulimic models. My day concluded with dinner on Il Saint Louis before heading home to prep for my flight to Marrakech the next morning. I did, however, have a slight run-in with a Parisian man who decided to chat my ear off while heading home on the train. As I reached my stop, he began to double-cheek kiss me incessantly, reminiscent of SNL’s Bellissimo bit where Carvey, Sandler and Schneider are Italian waiters licking Kirstie Alley's face. Nice.

Au revoir for now possums.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

The Urban Cowgirl is hittin’ the road!

In the coming weeks, I'll be blogging via remote locations, such as the Sahara desert in Morocco (do they have Wi-Fi there?), the southern beaches of Portugal and over a pitcher or two of Sangria in Spain.

Ciao possums. xx

Napa is Crapa Compared to the Okanagan

Having just returned from a 5 day road trip to the Okanagan (B.C.’s wine country for my international subscribing possums), I’m left with sand in my shoes and an impressive wine rack. With my BF in tow, we hit up some spectacular spots, which inspired me to compile…

The Urban Cowgirl’s Favorite Places to Play in the OK

Sun worshiping at Skaha Lake is a must for soft, sandy beaches, crystal clear waters and the often obnoxious (yet entertaining) wake boarders whizzing by waling an eclectic mix of G-unit and Jimmy Buffet.

Hit the sleepy but quaint village of Naramata for lunch before embarking on your tour through the Naramata Bench wineries. Starting off at Kettle Valley for an out-of-the-garage wine tasting…very grass roots. They also serve Geverztraminer slushies which sounds tacky but is surprisingly tasty. Move on to Lang Vineyards for a glass of Optima, whilst enjoying stunning views of the vineyard and Okanagan Lake. Next up, La Frenz for the must try/must buy Chardonnay Reserve; delicious and creamy and oaky – oh my! Cap off your day with dinner at the Barrel Bistro at Hillside Estate Winery. We sat on the patio, surrounded by cherry trees with a grand view of the vineyard and the lake. The food, accompanied by the fabulous wine pairings, put us both into a culinary coma. Excuse aime moi monsieur, are we in Bordeaux?

Penticton offers up some delish dining options with Salty’s Beach House on Lakeshore Drive (the strip), a tourist fave for years, owned by a seasoned traveler who has developed his menu based on international cuisine. Where else can you order sangria, paad thai and seared ahi tuna all in the same sitting? Also, the Hooded Merganser (did you know that’s a duck?), aka ‘The Hood’ is situated next to the Lakeshore Resort, built hovering over the lake with a good atmosphere and food to match. Star sighting – Sean Kingston eating dinner with his crew before performing at the local club The Blue Mule. I use the term ‘star’ loosely.

Lastly, an Okanagan road trip isn’t complete without a stop in Keremeos to stock up on fresh fruit for a fraction of what us city slickers pay. C’est bonne.

Photo credits – Urban Cowgirl

Whistla, Whis-town, or whatever you want to call it

Over the weekend, I traded my stilettos for ski boots to head to the hills for a girls-only ski weekend with some of my fave females. Whilst en route, I noticed several touristy types snapping photos of the mountainous scenery as we weaved up the highway to Whistler. Having grown up a mere 30 minutes south of the famed ski resort, I realized how desensitized I had become to its natural beauty. ‘Why are they taking so many photos’, I thought, ‘haven’t you seen mountains and ocean before?’ After a while, it dawned on me that I do live in an exceptionally lovely locale. But wait…just as I was about to get sentimental, I discovered I had gone through all of my champagne road-pops. Ah-ha! Never mind, it was the booze talking.

Having arrived slightly sloshy and ready to ‘get my krunk on’, shall we say, I geared up for a weekend of skiing and debaucherous behavior. While the girls and I hit the town in search of the three B’s - bars, booze, and boys – I quickly noticed the demographic in the night clubs had shifted slightly. Not that I am of Nana status by any means, however, my fellow club-goers, let’s call them ‘krunksters’, seemed to be slightly younger than I remembered.

Upon arrival, I was approached by an attractive young lad who offered to buy me a drink. Lovely! Looks as though this Nana has still got it! Then, he inquired as to how old I was. Having already acquired my cocktail, I replied honestly and proudly to which he replied, ‘Really? Ah, ok…well, have a good night’. What the F.

Next up to bat was one of my foxy friends, who was approached by pre-pubescent hopeful #2. Ok, now we’re talkin’. He sits down next to her, and asks if he can INTRODUCE HER TO HIS FATHER who happens to be leering at us from the bar. Ummm…am I on Punk’d for real this time? Ashton? What the F.

Are my days as a bona fide bar star over, at the ripe old age of 29? Do I need to resort to cougar bars and leopard print hot pants? Come the f*ck on people. Allow me to offer these fellas a tip – don’t write off the gals in the latter part of their 20’s just yet dear krunksters. We could teach you a thing or two.

Aside from the 3 B’s, I was delighted to have a few celebrity sightings to cap off the weekend. Hometown hockey hero and wanted sex god Trevor Linden and I shared a lovely exchange while taking in the annual Big Air competition. Then later, in da club, Canadian R&B singer K-os was making his way in, as I was b-lining out…to which I made a cunning u-turn and stalked him about the bar until I was able to inarticulately introduce myself and try to engage in some sort of intelligent conversation. Nice.

Krunkster - pre-pubescent club-goer
Road-pops – slightly illegal alcoholic travel beverages that are acceptable while consumed on public transport

Bachelor Update: It's all over for my favorite Bachelor tartlet and travel companion, Robin Canfield as she did not receive a rose tonight and therefore has been voted off the show. Sniffle sniffle.

Photo credit - Blackcomb Glacier from the top of Whistler Mountain, Urban Cowgirl

Flirting with the Foggy City

I recently found myself in San Francisco on business, spending quality time with one of my favorite towns. Something about San Fran feels familiar to me, like getting together with an old friend you haven’t seen in years, yet it feels like no time has passed at all.

Despite the impeding fog and steep hills, making 4 inch stilettos near impossible, I always manage to stumble upon something of interest. And this trip was no different.

I decided to hike up to Chinatown, one of my usual stops, to barter with the local vendors and track down some chicken satay street meat. Being just days before Chinese New Year, the streets were lined with bright red lanterns and gold, waving kitties. After scoring a cool $2 t-shirt from some elderly ladies that spoke no English with exception to ‘You buy? Good price for you’, I continued on in search of a nice meal.

I stumbled upon a quaint Italian bistro, where the patrons were as colorful as the décor. I love dining alone in foreign cities…people feel compelled to chat with you. I’m sure they were thinking ‘poor girl, eating alone’. Poor in company, maybe - rich in conversation, absolutely. The bartender told me that Sean Penn and his son had left moments before I arrived, and sat two tables away from mine.

If you haven’t been, you must go. If you have been, you completely relate to my affectionate ramblings.

The Urban Cowgirl’s San Fran Top 5

5. SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) – blow your mind by perusing the innovative (or just plain weird) contemporary art exhibits.
4. Top of the Mark penthouse lounge in the Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill. Breathtaking views of the city and a menu of 100 martinis.
3. Haight Ashbury - the heart of the hippie movement and home to dozens of vintage shops. A people watchers paradise.
2. Fillmore Street – upscale shops and multicultural eateries, all housed in Victorian buildings.
1. Chinatown – the biggest in the Northern Hemisphere, and the best in my opinion!

Photo credit – San Fran Chinatown at night, Urban Cowgirl