Mexico y manana

We knew that when we arrived in Mexico our ‘holiday proper’ would begin. We’d decided to head straight to Puerto Escondido, which we’d visited three and a half years ago during a month-long trip through Mexico. Home to the Mexican pipeline, PE had drawn us in and installed itself firmly on our list of favourite spots for surf, sun and relaxation.

Back in 2008, we’d ended up at a quirky hotel down a quiet cobbled street leading to the main fishing beach, Playa Principal, north of the much busier Playa Zicatela, and this time we would be heading straight back.

 

Hotel Flor de Maria is run by the very laid-back and cool Paul and Joanne. Paul, from Slovakia, burst out from the communist state to become a rock photographer in California, misbehaving at the Chateau Marmont, and Joanne, from Toronto, ran a Peruvian restaurant. They’d met in Escondido when it was a small town of 600 with a campsite that attracted hippies and travellers and they had planned to retire here, buying a home in the hills above Zicatela, before the previous owners convinced them to take on the hotel.

Our arrival coincided with Easter, which is a very big deal in Mexico. Unlike the more pious parts of the country, in Puerto Escondido it seems that Santa Semana is very much focused on the fiesta, and the beach was awash with Mexicans. Playa Principal was dominated with families, boogie boards, huge picnics, people selling shaved ice, prawn ceviche, corn and fruit, and fathers standing beachside, proudly videoing their children playing in the surf.

Playa Zicatela was where the real party was at, with hundreds of teenagers on the loose, drinking Micheladas (essentially the mutant spawn of Bloody Mary and beer) by the litre, dancing at the Sol and Corona tents, throwing themselves into the violently surging sea and keeping the lifeguards busy.

 

Zicatela came as a bit of a shock to us. Everyone seemed younger, but perhaps we are just getting older. On one of our first nights, we sat in a beachside restaurant pondering the ages of our fellow patrons. It soon dawned on us that with ten years between us and a 24-year-old, 15 between us and a 19-year-old, it is feasible that we could be the same age as their parents. IF THEY HAD A BABY WE COULD BE THE SAME AGE AS ITS GRANDPARENTS!

As we walked back from dinner on Zicatela, we saw a group of young girls enter the local ‘nite’ spot, and pondered our situation. I asked Matt if he thought Acapulco would be more “sophisticated”, quantifying that by sophisticated I meant expensive and older. Matt, always eager to join a party, always worried he might be missing out on something, said that he was going to suggest we drop in for a nightcap but then realised he just wanted to go back to the hotel and to bed.

I guess in London we were part of a group of friends similarly stuck between being young and being grown-ups. Most are adopting the trappings of adulthood at an alarming pace, with marriage, mortgages and babies proliferating, but there are still plenty holding the line. Perhaps Zicatela is the harbinger of things to come – will we find ourselves similarly tribeless back in Gisborne? Has the whole of our generation in New Zealand wed and bred?

Oh well, in the land of manana, we’ll worry about that tomorrow.

Later in the week I stifled a yawn as the Corona tent kicked into full throttle - the three-year-old hanging out with her mum beside us was putting in a better effort than me.

Van & the island: the list

Best Western Sands, Vancouver

The Old House, Courtenay, Vancouver Island

The Black Fin Pub, Comox, Vancouver Island

The Crow & Gate Pub, Cedar, Vancouver Island

Middle Beach Lodge, Tofino, Vancouver Island

Wildside Grill, Tofino, Vancouver Island

Chau Kitchen & Bar, Robson St, Vancouver

Vij's, W 11th Ave, Vancouver

Granville Island Public Market, Granville Island, Vancouver

Bridges, Granville Island, Vancouver

The Pirate Pub, Burrard Bridge Bar & Grill, Beach Ave, Vancouver

Van & the island

We’ve spent the past ten days in Vancouver – the island, bookended with the city.

We headed down from Whistler on Friday to meet Mum and Uncle Rob, who spends six months of the year in Thailand with his family and six months working in Canada taking supplies up to Alaska along the Hay River. He happened to be back early this year for first-aid training in Vancouver.

We’ve been catching up with Rob in Thailand since 2001 – up until about 2005, we would head there every year – so it was great to cross paths. He and Matt love having a drink together and as Rob had already been subjected to one day of trying to keep up with Mum as she strode around Vancouver, he was happy to hit the Caesars with Matt as soon as we arrived.

A Caesar is a damn fine variation on the Bloody Mary – tomato juice is replaced with ‘Clamato ‘ (tomato juice with clam extract – trust me, it tastes a lot better than it sounds) and the glass is dipped in celery salt.

While Matt and Rob drank, Mum and I explored the Granville Island market – stall upon stall of glistening produce, smoked salmon and tuna, handmade pasta and cakes.

Vancouver has been ranked best city in the world in terms of ‘livability’ – not sure what the criteria are, but I’m guessing gorgeous architecture and a lack of meth heads and homeless people are not requirements.

It is a pretty cool city though, with lots of cool little shops and cafes and a walkable downtown, a great park, beaches and a beautiful backdrop of mountains. It also has great water. Good to drink, good to shower in. I wonder if this has anything to do with its ranking… we are 2/3 water after all. I thought the water quality was down to its mountain origins, but apparently the city spent $820 million on filtration.

Vancouver is also known for its great restaurants, so I wanted to ensure we visited at least one of them. For dinner, we headed to an “Indian-fusion” restaurant called Vij’s – according to my research Jamie Oliver reportedly credits Vij’s with providing his most exciting culinary experience during a recent trip to Canada. I had wine-marinated lamb cutlets in a creamy tumeric and fenugreek sauce. Matt had beef shortribs braised in yogurt, fenugreek and cumin curry, and declared it the best meal he’d had in the last 12 months. Big ups Vij!

Then we went back to our shabby hotel on Granville and Mum and I went to bed above a thumping nightclub while Rob and Matt continued their session.

The next day we caught the ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island where we met my Aunt Lynette for lunch. It was her birthday and she’d chosen a quaint little English pub called The Crow & Gate for the occasion. It was a little strange to find ourselves sitting in a wooden beamed pub beside a roaring fire, drinking pints, but it was nice nonetheless.

We also picked up our rental car, which ended up being a massive four-wheel-drive Yukon. Matt was in love. I was nonplussed until I discovered the heated seats – all concern for fuel efficiency and the environment mysteriously melted away.

The next morning, after visiting Lynette’s local waterfall, we headed up to Tofino, which is on the west coast of Vancouver Island. It was a wild, rainy day, through stands of colossal trees, vast lakes, rivers and snow-cloaked mountains.

Mum had arranged a room at one of the many lodges that dot the coastline as it was my birthday the following day.

After stopping for salmon fish and chips at a very damp Wildside Grill, we checked into our room and settled into the lounge beside a toasty fire with a bottle of Okanagan Pinot Noir and some fiercely competitive backgammon while the wind howled across the Pacific and rain thrummed against the windows.

After Tofino we headed to Comox to catch up with Oma – my grandmother – and cousins Cris and Yurii. It was a pleasant and relatively uneventful few days, finished with a lovely meal at The Old House with the cousins, followed by enough drinks back at Cris’s, which ensured a slightly bilious flight back to Vacouver the next day.

“Unlike women, men face reality; that’s why they drink” - Bored To Death

Round two with Uncle Rob beckoned. Matt had sworn that he would not be outdrunk by Rob again – or at least he hoped that Rob would have as much of a hangover as him the next day. We arranged to meet him on Friday – we’d also arranged to have a little walk along the beach and catch-up with cousin Tessa, her husband Tyler and their kids, Chase and Finn.

Chase was a bit sleepy when they arrived so found a secure possie, nestled on his dad’s shoulders. The day had started with blue sky and sunshine, but by the time we met up with the cousin and co, it had greyed over and was freezing.

As soon as we said goodbye, we headed for the nearest bar overlooking False Creek. In the bathroom, I discovered that my fingers were so frozen I lacked the motor control to undo my zipper - I had to defrost using the bathroom’s Dyson airblade.

We had a great evening of eating and drinking – after dismissing the majority of restaurants on Denman, we stumbled upon an excellent Vietnamese restaurant called Chau where we ate black cod fresh rolls, fiery chicken wings, beef with jicama in betel leaves, papaya salad and spicy ribs.  

Then we headed back to our hotel bar, overlooking English Bay, and indulged in more Mojitos than I care to (or can) remember.

We got talking to a guy at the adjacent table who looked like the bastard child of Joan Jett and Axl Rose. He actually had HOME tattooed across one hand, and MADE across the other. He had jet-black hair that had been ironed poker straight under a carefully tied blue bandanna.

He turned out to be a super-nice guy who was originally from Toronto but had fallen head over heals in love with BC. Matt bummed a cigarette from him and was joined outside by his 19-year-old companion who is responsible for the single funniest statement of the trip (though I did overhear G&R boy telling his companions that “It is illegal for Canadians to carry brains”, which comes a pretty close second).

I have heard that Americans think the Australian accent is ‘sexy’ which I find totally incomprehensible, but perhaps Canadians feel the same way about the Kiwi twang (I mean twung). So here it is, 19-year-old girl says to Matt: “I bet you get a ton of pussy with that accent”.

I am guessing that Matt experienced the following in equal measures:

1.     ego boost that a 19-year-old could think he was sexy - or at least that his accent was capable of attracting ‘a ton of pussy’

2.     shock and disbelief that any sane person could think that the kiwi accent is sexy

3.     amusement that she said ‘pussy’

I am contemplating initiating ‘Operation Human Shield’ to protect Matt from this ‘ton of pussy’ he is in danger of attracting. I spent the following day unable to leave our hotel room, glued to Bored To Death on Cuevana. Apparently the collateral damage was worth it, we had a great night and Rob was similarly bed-bound the next day. Mission accomplished, BC out.

The cult of Whistler

Matt was inducted into the mysteriously obsessive world of snow some years ago when he went to Val d'Isere with friends. From that point forward, I became somewhat of a snow widow.

It would start around September when Matt would wake up with a glazed look in his eyes, telling me he'd spent the night dreaming of boarding, detailing every turn he made, stunt he landed, and powder he carved. The talk would intensify through the autumn months until, come December, he was checking the snow report on a daily basis and plotting his escape to the mountains.

Although my preference is for sandy beaches, sunshine and swimming in warm seas, I was under pressure. I went to Meribel with Matt and some friends and attempted snowboarding - it was disastrous. I hated it and my ass bore the imprints of the mountain's reciprocation of my feelings.

So each year, Matt has disappeared to the mountains, while I've either headed for tropical climes or stayed in London. When we were planning the slow route home, Matt discovered that Mum would be in Vancouver around the time of our departure and suggested that we add British Columbia to our circuit. I saw through his thin veil of altruism to the dark heart of his intentions - the glazed look had resurfaced and he was navigating us towards Whistler.

Matt spent a season at Whistler three years ago at the tail end of a trip through Mexico, LA, Sydney, NZ, Fiji and Vancouver, while I returned to London to find a job. I am well versed in the legend of Whistler Blackcomb, the largest snow resort in North America. In a moment of weakness, I relented and Whistler materialised on our itinerary.

So keen to ensure that I would catch the snow fever, Matt joined me in ski school (he had come to terms with the fact that I would never be a snowboarder some years ago) for the first afternoon.

I confess, I really enjoyed Whistler. Despite myself, I took to skiing surprisingly well - this didn't last, once I was up and running, the transition from snow-plough to parallel was a labourious process. The resort is undeniably beautiful. We woke on the first day to a heavy dump of snow and the second day was apparently the best they've had this season - bright blue skies, sunshine and plenty of snow.

We met a couple of Mexican skiers during apres and after a number of beers and Jaegers, I awoke the following morning unsure of whether I had returned my rentals. Matt was unable to fill in the gaps and I had to return to the rental shop shamefaced, not knowing whether they would have my skis. They did - a friend Matt had met earlier in the season at Lech later confirmed that she'd seen us walking home, Matt carrying my skis, and had thought, Awww, how sweet.

People on the mountain seem to want everyone to share their love of Whistler. At the end of the second day everyone was partying at the base, the numbers swelling as the snow-drunk masses glided down their last run of a perfect day on the mountain. At one point everyone stood up to see a commotion on the home stretch - it was a small bear crossing the slopes.

A big group of skiers beside us concocted a bizarre game that involved heating the inside of a brandy glass and attaching it to their gluteous maximus (maximi?). After several men had unveiled their hairy asses, two women decided to represent - Matt was particularly impressed that the older woman was sans knickers.

 

There were quite a few cameras recording the posteriors for posterity. With the advent of Facebook, Twitter and Flicker, I don't think these bold-assed ladies can depend on the adage What happens in Whistler...

Three farewells & a civil partnership

The last couple of weeks in London rushed by in a haze of sleepless nights, movers, work handovers, boozy dinners, visa applications and vaccinations.

Add Matt’s little brother’s shotgun civil partnership and hurried flight arrangements to ensure his mum could get over from NZ in time to attend the nuptials - and ours was a ridiculously frenetic exit. The wedding was the day before our farewell, ten years on the nose since we arrived in London, and our dedication (read: overindulgence) meant that we struggled to muster the energy to say a proper goodbye to our friends at our party the following day.

Who could have guessed on that spring day on 1 April 2001 that we would still be in London ten years later, suited and booted and en route to Peckham Registry Office as best man and bride’s maid (the groom’s words) at Matt’s brother’s wedding?

Announced just a month before, little bro’s big day was a hastily orchestrated affair, the perfect challenge for an Excel-loving control freak.

There were drinks, canapés, speeches, cakes, flowers, photos and an after party complete with an albino chinchilla named Barbara Streisand, a white wedding dress, a pair of nine-inch patent leather platform boots, corset, kilt and tassled whip in the middle of a sprawling council estate in Canada Water. An old friend of mine remarked: “It all sounds pretty outrageous from where I’m sitting in New Zealand!”

My brother and his wife, who live in London, are taking a year off to hang out with their new baby, Elsie, in New Zealand. We spent last Saturday at their farewell drinks at their sweet little local on the Thames, talking it up with plenty of blasts from the past. And our friend Latex left on 2 April to join her man in New York.

Our farewell started with lunch at the Prince Bonaparte in Notting Hill – a fitting choice as when we’d first arrived in London and had just settled into our flat on Moscow Road, we went to the Bonaparte with some friends only to realise that we couldn’t justify the expense of the cheapest meal on the menu – bangers and mash.

At £8, they equated to 28 New Zealand dollars, and as gainful employment rested on a horizon beyond the vast, blue, jet-stream streaked London skies we contemplated each day as we lay on our backs in Kensington Gardens, they were well out of our price range. Along with our flatmate and cohort in crash-landings, Uncle Carlos, we opted out, wondering down Westbourne Grove to a kebab shop where we paid £3 to fill our bellies.

This time we had seafood linguine and lashings of beer with the many lovely people we've met since we've called London home. There was lots of reminiscing and plenty of declarations of I love you, man! - all in all it was a perfect but bittersweet goodbye.

 

We said our last goodbyes to Azom and Number 1 with a few beers and tears on Sunday at the Chesterfield. Azom is one of our oldest London friends, having moved in with us at 45e in spring 2002. He's a Swedish-born Indian (= Swindian) so it's an especially hard goodbye for us as he's likely to inhabit a different hemisphere to us from this point forward. Knowing we'll see each other this summer in Europe took the sting out somewhat - to further salve the wound, plans were hatched for a reunion in Ibiza.

Our old university friend Nick escorted us to Heathrow on Monday.

My brother and his wife met us at Terminal 5 so we had some final cuddles with my three-month-old niece Elsie (they flew out to New Zealand two days later so we won't see them again until we get home in September - I will miss the little munchkin very much indeed).

And away we went through security at Terminal 5 - with that, our trip began. To Vancouver and beyond.