The Road Less Traveled

I got up in the morning, had the free guesthouse coffee and a granola bar I’d brought from home, and got ready to go out. Kazo asked where I was going; I said Daitokuji temple (near the guesthouse), Shimogamo Shrine (recommended by Junko), then on the train to Nara. Instead, Kazo suggested I visit Nijo Castle, which is on the way to Kyoto Station. I took his advice and was happy I did. The castle had rooms where feudal lords were received by the shogun. The grounds were lovely, too. After Nijo, I got on the bus to Kyoto Station. On the way, we passed a great big building that looked like a temple or shrine. At Kyoto Station, I got off the bus and walked back towards that building. It turned out to be the Higashi Hongan-ji, a shrine which is the headquarters of the Otani branch of Buddhism. Even half- covered by aluminum during its restoration and renovation, it was the most peaceful and spiritual temple I visited on the trip.

I finally left around 11:00 a.m. and headed to the station to go to Nara. On the way, I stopped to by my first bento box (lunch box that comes in a cardboard box). For 800 yen (less than $8) I got cooked salmon, egg, shrimp tempura, 3 salads/pickles, 2 kinds of rice, and dessert. Although I probably could have eaten for less in a restaurant, I was happy to get so much variety and the convenience of portability for the price.

Nara

The express train to Nara only took 45 minutes, and the ride was free with my Japan Rail pass. I got out and walked along Sanjo-dori, a cute street of clothing stores and restaurants. I tried on some clothes, but a Japanese large is more like an American small or medium. Oh well. I walked to the information center and asked where I could rent a bicycle (another of
Manami and Koichi’s recommendations). They said the cheapest place was near the train station! I hadn’t even noticed it. They kindly called and asked if there were bikes left; there were one or two. I walked back to the train station with a map of where the rental place should be. I saw no shop. I even tried looking for a sign with a phone number that matched the rental agency’s phone number, but no luck. I asked a man guarding a “bike parking lot”, and he pointed me towards the train station (he was the first person I met all day who could speak no English). I went inside and asked at the train station information center, and based on that I found the rental agency. It cost 500 yen for the whole day. The bike came with a lock built in, and I was really happy to have a bike with a basket to put down my big bag.

At first, I was a very scared rider. Do I ride on the sidewalk or in the street? With traffic or against? (In Japan, they drive on the left, which complicates this last question even further). There was no one around riding their bike whom I could model my behavior on. All I could do was take a chance and hope no one got hurt. No one seemed disturbed by my riding; in fact, no one seemed motivated to get out of my way. The bell didn’t always work well either. By the time I got to edge of the city, I had to take a break. I parked in front of the 7-11 and went in to buy some Pocari Sweat, an odd name but a good drink. The clerk spoke English, then told me she is studying intercultural pragmatics in the university at Nara and hopes to get her Ph.D. We exchanged email addresses.

I made it into the entrance of Nara Park, and the first thing I saw was deer. Lots of deer. I kept riding until I reached the entrance of the great Buddha hall. It’s the largest Buddha statue I’ve ever seen in my life, and was definitely worth the journey. After the temple, I rode around the park grounds and was soon very glad I could enjoy it all from the comfort of a bike seat. I rode through the shadier part of the park and ended up at the entrance of another temple. I would have had to go up stairs, though, and I didn’t see any “parking lot” for the bike. I was too tired to walk up. I headed instead towards a place selling soft serve green tea ice cream (with an area to park a bike). A deer stood by looking at me while I paid for the ice cream, so for an extra 150 yen I bought a packet of wafers to feed the deer. It practically ate the first wafer right out of my hand. As another deer came over, I started throwing the wafers on the ground to get some distance. I saw another deer take a brochure right out of a woman’s hand; she managed to get it back but it was definitely dog-eared (or should I say, deer-eared). When the deer looked at me again after I gave out the last wafer, I gave it the paper that had been used to wrap the paper. The deer ate it right up. When I finished my ice cream, I gave it the rest of the cone complete with paper wrapper. No problem. Maybe we should consider domesticating deer to solve the environmental waste problem.

I hopped on the bike and rode back towards Sanjo-dori. This time I saw a pond with turtles and a view of the 5-story pagoda. I stopped there to rest and enjoy the view, then rode back to the train station. On the train to Kyoto, I recognized the Kyoto tower near the station before I saw signs that we had arrived. It felt good to see familiar landmarks in such a foreign place. I got off the train, looked at my arms, and realized I was sunburned. This was a mixed blessing—June is normally the rainy month but the sun was shining strong.

Dinner in Kyoto

I walked back towards Higashi Hongan temple. Even though the giant doors were closed, it was a great place to sit for a while and write my travel journal. I chatted briefly with a Columbian-Japanese couple on vacation from London who were looking at the temple and wondering what it was. I walked to the nearest bus stop, but soon realized the bus I wanted wasn’t going to stop there. I walked on towards Gojo street, where I saw a Japanese curry house. It’s thicker and not as spicy as Indian curry, but I have good memories of eating it with Manami in America and by myself in Korea, so I was happy to be able to have it in a restaurant. There was a wide variety of curry dishes; I stared blankly at the Japanese menu until a wise worker gave me a multilingual menu. I chose regular-spiced, regular-sized curry (not “lady sized”) with a fried cutlet of edamame, and some oolong tea. It was delicious, and worth 830 yen.

In the morning, Manami took me on the train to Shin-Yokohama (New Yokohama), where I could catch the Shinkansen train to Kyoto. Shinkansen is better known in English as “bullet train”. There are actually two bullet train lines: Hikari and Nozomi. The Nozomi makes fewer stops, but the Japan Rail Pass is not valid on the Nozomi and the Nozomi only saves you half an hour between Tokyo and Osaka. I didn’t feel deprived taking the Hakari train. Manami spoke with the attendant in Japanese to get me a seat reservation (free with my rail pass). My train was again leaving in 10 minutes, so there was no time for a long goodbye. At least we had had the hour on the train from her house to Yokohama to visit.

The train was sleek and smooth outside and comfortable inside. You can see pictures of the outside at: http://www.japanrail.com/JR_shinkansen.html. The view was also lovely, alternating between oceanside and rice fields. Two and a half hours later, I arrived in Kyoto. It was about 1:00 pm. I asked for directions to the city buses, and found enough English signs to direct me to the buses going in the direction of Guesthouse Bon, near Daitoku-ji (Daitoku Temple). I saw two lines of people waiting for two different bus numbers, only one of which I could take to the guesthouse. When my bus arrived, I watched to see which line moved and joined the line at the end.

I thought I had packed pretty lightly for a two-week trip: A wheeled carryon and student-sized backpack. On a crowded bus, though, they seemed enormous. Two elderly women took pity on me and motioned for me to squeeze in on the seat between them. Another woman still standing asked in English where I was going. She said she wasn’t sure this bus would go to my stop. She and the elderly women started chatting in Japanese. I couldn’t help but smile at the idea of all these people trying to figure out for me whether I was on the right track.

I found out later that the woman who spoke English was named Junko. She was from Osaka and visiting her son who is a student in Kyoto. She told me she had a couple of hours before she had to meet with her son, and she offered to go with me to check in at the guesthouse and go sightseeing. I agreed, and am eternally grateful that she made such an offer and I accepted. She helped me get the day pass for the bus system, and helped me understand that you board the bus at the rear and pay as you exit through the front (a very logical system, in my opinion). When we got off at Daitokuji-mae, we followed the guesthouse map along the wall of the Daitoku temple. But then the street ended in a T, which I couldn’t have comprehended looking at the map. Junko looked at the map and found the barber shop marked on the map. She asked and found the tofu shop marking the street for the guesthouse, which I also would never have found because the sign for it was not in English.

When we finally arrived at Guesthouse Bon, Kazo, the owner, came out with his infant son on one arm. I took off my shoes and he showed me my room, the kitchen, toilet, shower, and common room, all with the baby still on his arm. The layout felt like a traditional Japanese house with tatami mats on the floor and doors made of wood and paper. When I first heard about “Japanese style” sleeping rooms I thought I would be sleeping directly on the floor, but Manami had correctly assured me that this means sleeping on a futon. In Japan, “futon” means a firm flat mattress without a bed- or sofabed-frame. The futon was perfectly comfortable without a frame, though.

After I set my bags in my room, Kazo, Junko and I sat down at a patio table with a bus and city map of Kyoto. Still with the baby on his arm, Kazo gave us advice on what to see and how to get there.

Temples and Markets of Kyoto

Junko and I walked back to the bus stop and, following Kazo’s advice, went first to Ryoan-ji (Ryoan Temple). The temple is famous for its Zen rock garden. Maybe if it hadn’t been so busy with people, it would have been more impressive or meditative. Instead, I was impressed by the miniature version that blind people can touch, and another garden that looked like waves of moss-covered ground. It seemed to be a metaphor for life—bumpy but worth it.

We went through the inner sanctum of the temple, then walked around the gardens. Junko was surprised to see Buddha statues with a bowl in front. If you make a wish and toss a coin into the bowl, your wish will be granted. No luck from the Buddha for me, but I had all the luck I needed for the day anyway. We left, got on the bus again, and headed to Kinkaku-ji, aka “Golden Temple”. This temple has earned the title fair and square; according to an English-speaking tour guide nearby, 280,000 sheets of gold cover the temple. We couldn’t enter the temple, but we had a nice view of the temple across the pond and the grounds we walked around were lovely.

Near the exit, Junko stopped to buy me a souvenir. I was shocked; she was the one helping me, I should be the one to buy her something. For her, though, I was an English teacher helping her practice her English conversation skills. Compared to English teachers in Hawaii who charged her $50 an hour, buying me a souvenir was a bargain. She also bought me some kind of shaved ice with green tea syrup. Yum!

Once again we got on the city bus, this time heading downtown to the Shijo Kawaramachi stop. We walked past fashionable shops to Nishiki Market, a long, narrow covered passage with stalls where you can buy fish, pickled vegetables and fruits, tea, and more. Junko led me to her favorite takoyaki stand. Takoyaki is made from a pancake-like base similar to okonomiyaki, but the cook formed the dough into balls as it was heated. It was a good deal too-a set of 6 for only 180 yen ($1.50). I’ll never forget sitting on a bench in that small red stall, the heat rising both from the grill and the takoyaki that I had to pierce with a chopstick before eating so I wouldn’t burn my mouth. Even though it had been a warm day, I and many locals were willing to sit in that heat to enjoy this cheap street treat.

Junko walked me back to the main street, and finally we said goodbye. I went into one of the big department stores, Takashimaya, and was blown away by its style and sophistication. I was equally impressed by the underground food market, and understood better why Manami’s students said they missed the department store food floor in America. I’d had my fill of food at Nishiki Market, so again I didn’t buy anything. Instead, I wandered down Shijo-dori (Shijo street) to the Gion district, a shopping area with many lanterns and dark wooden buildings. (Sorry, I didn’t take any pictures). I later learned from Kazo that many Geisha still live in Gion, and around 4 or 5 p.m. you can see them walking to the teahouses to begin work. I didn’t see any, or if I did I wasn’t aware of it. There were occasionally people wearing kimono or yukata (a summer kimono made of cotton), but they didn’t have make up on so I don’t think they were geisha.

I walked through Gion to the Yasaka Shrine, a beautiful shrine set up into the hills a bit. There seemed to be more to see up the hill but it was dusk and I was exhausted. I walked back to the Shijo awaramachi stop. I just missed a bus, but that gave me time to watch the neon lights come on and watch the people walking by a little longer. I got on the bus, miraculously found my way back to the guest house even though the tofu house was closed up, and went to sleep.

I woke up around 5 a.m. and was surprised to see the sun was starting to poke out. I thought it was ungodly to get up that early, and managed to go back to sleep until 8:30. When I got up, Manami and Koichi had already eaten breakfast, and Koichi had been for a walk. I had the two pastries Manami had bought me at the bakery and supermarket yesterday, and Koichi made some coffee for me.Koichi unfortunately had to do some work that day, so Manami and I went into the city on our own. We took a private subway line to the Ginza district, the fashionable part of Tokyo. We walked towards the Printemps department store (I believe there’s a department store in Paris by the same name). Our first stop was lunch at Printemps department store–we left Manami’s late in the morning, and it took well over an hour to get to Tokyo from Manami’s. Manami treated me to lunch at the Printemps’ Angelina Café. It was a casual restaurant by Manami’s standards, but its cleanwhite walls and white chairs, large glass windows overlooking the people in the crosswalk or in their fancy cars (BMWs and Corvettes imported directly from Europe), and waiters and waitresses in black and white uniforms felt nicer to me. The Krispy Kreme truck driving through the scene seemed a little out of place, but Manami told me later that it’s the latest craze—some people line up for an hour to get a Krispy Kreme donut.

There was no English-language menu, so I was grateful Manami could translate the items on the “set menu”. For 1,570 yen (about$15), one could get an entrée with a salad and soup, bread, and coffee or tea. I settled on the fish plate—pieces of fried fish (the less fattening version of eel) atop a slice of Spanish omelette. Believe it or not, it seemed the most traditionally Japanese of the choices. Manami ordered the hamburger steak topped with cheese and eggplant. Yes, I said eggplant. The portions were veryreasonable (i.e. not supergigantic American sized but not tiny nouvelle cuisine either). And we enjoyed the view of Ginza.

Angelina Café is very famous for its mont blanc dessert. We decided to split a small version of it and have it with our tea. It is round and served in a paper cup like a muffin, but it’s consists of a sweet cookie crust, cold whipped cream, and caramel on top. Words do not do it justice, and neither do pictures. Here’s a picture from the Web site anyway: http://r.gnavi.co.jp/g999000/menu7.htm.

After lunch we walked around the department store. I have to admit seeing everyone in beautiful long flowing shirts or short dresses with tights and cute shoes put me in a shopping mood, but Printemps was a bit expensive. It was still a bargain compared to the nearby Coach and Armani stores, but that didn’t inspire me to buy anything.

We walked out towards the main pedestrian street of Ginza, which Manami called “Shopping Paradise”. There were many beautiful department stores here too. We walked into a personal favorite, Mitsukoshi, where Manami usually buys beautiful cookies in beautiful tins for me or my family when she comes from Japan to visit. Manami told me many Japanese students who visit the U.S. miss the food floor at Mitsukoshi, because there are so many samples of free
food. You can’t find that at a department store in the U.S. I sympathized with the students, but after my beautiful lunch I didn’t feel hungry even for samples.

After Mitsukoshi, we walked back to the subway. Manami made a point of taking me to the JR line stop instead of the private subway/train line she knows better so that I could make use of my Japan Rail Pass. We got on the train and had to change trains at Akihabara, the subway exit closest to the part of Japan where the horrible stabbings took place a week before.

Soon we were at the stop we needed for the Edo-Tokyo Museum, a museum about the history of Tokyo. Years ago I had seen an exhibit in D.C. about the Edo period–the early days or kind of cultural renaissance period of Tokyo, complete with shoguns. This museum not only had information on the culture and history of the Edo period, it also had replicas of major parts of life such as the old wooden bridge, a kabuki theater, and a printers’ shop. There were dioramas of the royal palace and ordinary people’s houses. There were binoculars so you could look up close at the models of people cooking or carrying things on their backs. There were interactive exhibits such as fire brigade signs, treasure chests, and water buckets you could try to lift. In the Tokyo part of the museum, one could see the development of the city. There was an interesting diorama of Ginza, which looked different from today but still seemed to capture the energy and style of today, with a touch of the “wild west” look of America.

After the museum, we got on the train back to Manami’s stop and stopped at the supermarket so I could get more pastry for tomorrow, and Manami could get salads and side dishes for dinner. We came back to the condo and had something to drink, and I tried my “cheese fondue” pastry. I think the cheese inside, though, was cream cheese. That made it even better. Koichi showed me pictures from their trip to Nara and Kyoto, which helped me get a sense of where I’d be going next.

Manami said I should rest while Koichi made dinner. He made okonomiyaki, a traditional Japanese pancake. I had had okonomiyaki before in Japan Town in San Francisco, but Manami said there are many styles of okonomiyaki. This variety contained lots of cabbage and noodles. It was still topped with the traditional greens, smoked squid shavings, a special kind of brown sauce, and mayonnaise. Yum!

I sailed through immigration at Narita Airport in Tokyo, but was surprised to have my photo and fingerprint taken. Japanese immigration suddenly seemed very American to me. I sailed through customs, hit the ATM machine, and went to the JR travel service center to exchange my rail pass voucher. Fortunately, the woman at the desk spoke fluent English. She got me a seat reservation for a Narita Express train leaving in 10 minutes! I had just enough time (and leftover yen from my previous trip to Japan) to call Manami to tell her my rail car number and get on the train.

The train went through the Japanese countryside: farms and trees and rolling hills and rice fields and the occasional apartment building with laundry hanging on the line. The train was very smooth, and in no time it seemed I was at the Shinjuku train station where Manami met me. This is as busy as the Grand Central Station of Tokyo, and as difficult to navigate. I was grateful Manami was there to lead the way.

When we got to the train station near Manami’s house, her husband Koichi just happened to be there—he had come from visiting his mother and got on the same train as ours by chance. It was a lucky coincidence. We stopped at the multiple bakeries near the train stop so I could pick out pastries for the next morning’s breakfast. I took a much-needed nap while Koichi prepared dinner. For dinner Kochi made cheese fondue. We dipped toasted bread and fried foods such as pork and potatoes. This was not a day to be on a diet!

Getting ready to leave raised some unexpected frustrations for me. First, I went to STA travel on Tuesday to buy a Japan Rail Pass, a special pass for foreign visitors (not foreign residents) that gives unlimited use on Japan Rail (not private rail) for 7, 14, or 21 consecutive days. My guidebook said I need to get the pass before leaving the country but it didn’t say that, unlike a Eurorail pass, the Japan Rail pass has to be ordered. The STA travel clerk said even a rush order wouldn’t arrive until Friday. I was leaving at the crack of dawn Friday morning, so that was no good. I went home and decided to call Auto Club, where I’d bought rail passes before. The travel agent said she would check and see if she could get me something by Thursday and call me back. After a couple of hours, I called back and talked to another travel agent who said they don’t even sell Japan Rail Passes! What happened to service in this world!

I started looking online, and found the Web site for Kintetsu International, listed on the JR official rail pass web site as one of the companies that sells rail passes. Although it cost me $60 more to get the pass from them ($35 for service and $25 for the FedEx), I feel they were worth every penny. They were very professional and courteous on the phone, and did everything as promised when promised. They sent it out on Wednesday, I got an email confirmation from FedEx, and it arrived safely at my house at 3:00 p.m. Thursday.

The second frustration was transportation to the airport. Originally, my flight was supposed to leave at 7 a.m., but it got changed to 6:40 a.m. That is way too early to be waiting for a trolley with luggage in West Philly. I called Lady Liberty shuttle, but they don’t start running until 5:30. Fortunately, I poked around on the internet and found that Old City Cabs has a special airport service (215-AIRPORT). I reserved a taxi for 5 a.m., and it was waiting for me 10 minutes early. Plus, it was CHEAPER than the flat airport rate of $28.50. I highly recommend it.

Finally, I didn’t know when I changed planes in San Francisco that I would have to go through security again to get to the international gates. I had spent $2.19 at the Philadelphia airport for water that I hadn’t finished. So when they tried to take it away from me in SF, I stood at security and chugged it.

Back in June I went to a conference in Hong Kong with two classmates.  Before that, I decided to stop in Japan and Korea to see a few sights and old friends.

The pictures of the trip are online in three albums Asia 2008-Hong Kong, Asia 2008-Japan, and Asia 2008-Korea) at http://s193.photobucket.com/albums/z72/reisefrau.

I went to the cafeteria again and ordered breakfast.  This time my Spanish failed me–I understood the server when she asked if I wanted my eggs fried or scrambled, but when she asked how I wanted my fried eggs (rico? suave?) I asked her to repeat it and she did–in English (over easy or medium).  A few minutes later, I had a plate of medium-fried eggs, bacon, fries, Cuban toast, and cafe con leche for $3.75!  Such a deal!

From the cafeteria, I took bus 27 north to 8th Street.  It was a short ride, but it would have been (or at least felt like) a long walk.  It was further evidence that a car might have been handy. 

Calle Ocho

I got off the bus and saw a sign welcoming me to Calle Ocho, the Spanish way of saying 8th Street and, in Miami, a sign that one is in the heart of Little Havana.  I walked for several blocks past Latin supermarkets and restaurants, music stores with salsa music pouring out of them, and clothing stores with dresses and shoes that are appropriate for clubbing and salsa dancing, but not for my doctoral student/teacher life.

I saw a tour bus and a sign indicating that there was a nearby historical Domino Club. At first I thought it was a music hall (a la the Cotton Club), but it turned out to be an outdoor park where people (mostly men) can play in domino or chess tournaments.  Out of respect, I didn’t take pictures.  I did  take pictures of monuments to various martyrs in the efforts to liberate Cuba from Castro.

My guidebook said that 12th Avenue is the end of the Little Havana section of 8th Street. It didn’t say that 12th Avenue is also named after the late President Ronald Reagan.  I can see now the split personality Florida has, and why it is so hard  for the state to choose a president.

A Curious Code-Switch

I walked up 12th Avenue to Flagler Avenue to catch a bus to Miami Beach (actually, the southern part of Miami Beach, known as South Beach or SoBe).  A man in the Walgreens parking lot saw me waiting and kindly told me that I couldn’t catch the bus where I was; he directed me back to 1st Street to wait. 

 I decided to stop in Walgreens to get some water and money, and found that my studies were not going to waste just because it’s spring break.  I’ve read some articles about code-switching (changing from one language or language variety to another). One article said that bilingual Spanish-English women in the U.S. will often speak Spanish to their children, but will switch to English when they are scolding or making a strong point. I’d never witnessed anyone doing this with a child, let alone with an adult.

As I was in line at Walgreens, a woman walked in with a shopping cart and told the clerk in Spanish that she was going to leave the cart near the front of the store while she went to the bathroom. The clerk gently indicated that that was not acceptable. Suddenly, the woman switched to English, saying “This is America! I’m an American! I know my rights! I know the rules and regulations!” She seemed to repeat these facts again in Spanish.  The poor clerk seemed shaken by the encounter.

South Beach

Half an hour later, I’d left this incident behind and arrived at the corner of Washington Avenue and Lincoln Road.  I saw in my guidebook that Lincoln Road was a pedestrian mall, and yellowpages.com said there was a bike rental on Lincoln Road.

Lincoln Road was a pleasant surprise.  Not only were there shops for all price ranges, there were several cafes with outdoor tables.  Most tables had umbrellas with a covering to match the restaurant’s awning–orange, blue, tan, etc.  After walking the length of Lincoln Road, I settled on Pizza Rustica. I got a huge slice (more like a square individual pizza) with a wheat crust, greens, veggies, and chicken on it for $5. 

After lunch, I realized it was well after 3:00, and I really didn’t have time to both ride a bike and lay out on the beach.  So I went straight to the sand.  I like a good Southern California beach, but I couldn’t believe how clean and clear the water was in Miami Beach in comparison.  The water wasn’t as cold, either. 

Evening in South Beach

After a few hours of splashing in the water and napping and splashing and napping (and not feeling guilty for a minute that I didn’t crack open a book), the wind started to feel “cold”. I packed up and walked to Collins Avenue, a street with many hotels and restaurants built in the Art Deco (1930s American) architectural style.  I walked into the nearest one, the Marseilles, and changed clothes in the bathroom.

Maybe because the doorman asked if I was checking in, or I was blinded by the lime green walls at the reception desk, or it was a small hotel, I felt guilty for using the facilities without spending money.  I went to the bar and had a couple of drinks.

At 7:45, Halle was still en route but I didn’t want to stay in the bar and drink all night.  I settled the bill and started walking towards 8th and Ocean, where we’d be meeting Halle’s former roommate Carla for dinner.  Along the way, I passed more Art Deco hotels. I also moseyed down Espanola Way, a narrow street of Mexican and Italian restaurants ending in a small cobblestoned plaza.

Around 13th street, I crossed over to Ocean Avenue, where it really started to feel like Spring Break Central.  There were lots of young girls in bikinis or dresses, some of them already drunk, and young men trying to talk to the young girls.  There was one bar with a frozen drink called “Call-a-Cab”.  At the same time though, there was an air of gentility on the street as well. There were palm trees and tall white buildings and restaurants with lobster, steak, and expensive stone crab.  It was busy but it wasn’t uncomfortably crowded. But then again, it’s probably early in the spring break season.

I made it to Lario’s, aka Bongos, the Cuban restaurant owned by Gloria Estefan.  I found Carla based on Halle’s description, and Halle reached the table a short time later.

 We started with mojitos (a Cuban cocktail) in souvenir glasses, and tostones–plaintains that are sliced, smashed, then fried.  The tostones were good but Carla said we should have had dipping sauce, especially after we asked.  We wondered if we weren’t getting good service because we were women and might not tip as much, or if it’s because a 15 percent tip was already included in the bill so the servers did not have as much pressure to provide good service.  (Carla said the tip is included because many foreigners come to Miami Beach and don’t know that it’s customary to tip servers in the U.S.). 

Halle said she had heard the food at Lario’s isn’t as authentic as that at Versailles, but that it’s good. I could not disagree with that description.  The grilled fish with garlic seasoning I had was tasty, as were the side dishes of fried plaintains and white rice.  The best part of the dinner, though, besides chatting with Halle and Carla, was the desert–tres leches (“three milks”).  According to Wikipedia, it’s a kind of cake that is soaked in three kinds of milk: evaporated milk, condensed milk, and whole milk or cream.  That explains why it was so sweet and so good (the fattening things usually are!)

Halle graciously picked up the tab, saying it’s a treat for her to have dinner out with friends.  We packed up the souvenir glasses as best we could, and walked back to Carla’s car.   As soon as we got back to Halle’s, I realized that my trip was all over except for the packing and getting the glasses back to Philly without breaking them (which I did). 

In the morning I took a cab to the airport.  There was a Versailles Cafe bakery before security. I ordered a pastry with guava filling, the last Miami experience for a while.  It was like my trip as a whole–short but very sweet.

After I left The Bookstore at the Grove, I walked down Grand Avenue to Bayshore Drive and turned left. I started walking up Bayshore Drive towards downtown. I stopped at a park, where I had a good and sunny view of Biscayne Bay. I sat for several minutes at a bench overlooking the bay, savoring the moment of being bayside in Miami.

Around 3:00, I continued walking towards Villa Viscaya, listed in my “1000 Places in the U.S. and Canada you Must See Before you Die” book (thanks Christie) as well as my AAA guide to Miami. Along the way I went down some side streets to see some homes that judging from their size and design were built for some very wealthy people. One house that looked like an Italian Villa I had to take a picture of.

From the AAA map Villa Viscaya didn’t look that far from downtown Coconut Grove. But it was getting close to 4:00 and I still hadn’t made it. I was beginning to think about taking the bus when I saw a sign that said “Viscaya 100 feet”. Finally!

I entered the gates and walked down a garden path with occasional statues along the way to the entrance. It wasn’t cheap–$11 with a $1 discount from AAA–but when I saw the house in the distance, I knew I had to go in.

If I had the trip to do over again, I would start at Villa Viscaya and end up in downtown Coconut Grove. As I said earlier, CocoWalk and its commercial neighbors weren’t quite awake at 11 a.m. In contrast, Villa Viscaya seems to be enjoyed best earlier in the day. I had already missed the last tour of the day (included in the price). I had enough time to enjoy seeing the house and gardens, but some of the exits were closed off as visiting hours neared the end.  I also would not walk, especially in new sandals. 

That said, Villa Viscaya, in my opinion, was worth every penny and blister and deserves its place in the guidebooks. The house is a 3-story, 22-room mansion with a huge stone courtyard in the middle. Most rooms have elaborate coverings of European-style tapestries or paintings (except the more modest decorations of the owner, James Deering’s, study and bedroom and the “Asian themed” rooms). Deering had a marble bath and sink. He had a dining room and a breakfast room, and two pantries. One side of the house has an opening right onto Biscayne Bay. The gardens have buildings that looked like they had been made from materials right in the ocean. My words are truly not doing it justice. Sadly, no photos are allowed inside the house, but I have many photos of the exterior on my Photobucket site:

http://s193.photobucket.com/albums/z72/reisefrau/Miami–Spring%20Break%202008/ 

I left Viscaya around 5:30. Despite the hours I’d spent walking, I felt refreshed. That said, I wasn’t eager to try to walk all the way back to Halle’s. Fortunately, there was a security guard in the parking lot who directed me to get on the nearest bus and take it to Viscaya Metrorail station where I could change buses and head down Coral Way to the intersection near where Halle lives.The bus ride was much easier than walking, and only cost $2. I was “home” at last–for a while.

When Halle got back from work, we put on our party clothes and called a cab. Our destination: Versailles Cafe. Not a French restaurant, but a famous Cuban restaurant in the heart of Little Havana.

It may seem strange to you that I say this (it didn’t seem strange to Halle), but when I walked into Versailles Cafe, I felt like I was in Jewish deli. There was a case of sweets right at the front door, many tables, mirrored walls like Brent’s at home, and a communal energy mixed with the promise of food for soul.

While someone could take the argument further and point out that both the American Jewish and Cuban communities are diasporas that dream of one day being reunited with their homeland, the sentiment is felt much more strongly at Versailles Cafe. Halle told me that people still picket Versailles Cafe with signs protesting the revolution, to which people respond cruelly, “Viva Castro!”. There is also a rock outside the restaurant with a plaque dedicating the rock to the Cuban exiles who are Cuban patriots and dream of returning to a free Cuba.

The food was also not Jewish (pork abounds) but it was darn good. I got the special– meatloaf, red beans and rice and fried plaintains for only $6.50. Halle got paella, which surprisingly had meat in it. We also got a side order of fried yucca with green dipping sauce (yum!), and Halle ordered a pitcher of sangria. Both the sangria and the food were very filling–Halle had her food wrapped up, but I had to scarf mine down because I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to eat leftovers.  We didn’t even have room for dessert.

We thought about walking around Calle Ocho afterwards, but, as Halle’s landlady/roommate Miriam had warned us, nobody walks around Calle Ocho at night. Not because it’s dangerous, but because it’s not a part of the city where people walk.  Halle spotted a cab and we took it back to the house. She slept while I drafted this blog.

I should begin by explaining how this trip came about in the first place. I am a student again, and had spring break coming up. I was trying to figure out what to do with this week of “free” time, when I got a Travelocity alert that fares from Philadelphia to Miami were only $103 round trip! I have a former Philly roommate, Halle, in Miami, it’s warmer than Philly, and I’d never been there. I emailed her, and she said it was cool if I came down (even though she was moving to a new place right before my arrival).  I booked the ticket (which of course had gone up since I’d last checked it), but it was still a good deal.

Arrival in Miami and First Cafe con Leche

I left Philly Monday night at 7:45 pm. Apparently, a Monday night in March is the best time to fly to Miami. Not only was I able to ask for and get an emergency exit row seat (it has much more legroom than a regular economy seat), I had THE WHOLE ROW to myself. Sweetness!

When I arrived in Miami it was nearly 11, so I took a cab ($20) from the airport to Halle’s house. After showing me the house, Halle suggested we go out and get coffee. Being old and having lived too long in places where either there’s nowhere to walk to (California) or it’s dangerous to walk at 11 p.m. at night (Philadelphia), it had never occurred to me to go out upon my arrival. But since it’s vacation and Miami is clearly safer to walk in, it seemed all right.

We walked down 27th Avenue. (Avenues and streets run perpendicular.) Halle pointed out a cafeteria (Spanish for “coffee shop/cafe’) she likes to go to which was already closed. I am using the term cafeteria because that is what the place was called, and because the cafeteria in Miami has Latin American coffee and food served by predominantly Spanish-speaking employees.

Instead, we went to a bright coral-colored building, a laundromat which also had a 24-hour cafeteria with a few tables outside to sit at. Halle wanted cafe con leche (“coffee with milk”), which she described as espresso mixed with milk. Since I didn’t want to be up all night, I instead ordered a smoothie. I was tempted to order a papa relleno (“stuffed potato”), a dish I had liked in Lima, but instead went adventurous and ordered a Cuban toast to find out what it was. It turns out “Cuban toast” is as simple as the name suggests–a long roll with butter, heated. Well, at least it was only 75 cents.

Halle suggested I try some of her cafe con leche. It turns out it is not made with ordinary milk, but with sweet cream. It’s like the hot Latin cousin of Thai iced coffee. I knew I’d have to get my own cup of it the next day.

March 11: Second Cafe con Leche

In the morning, I walked down 27th Avenue again to the first cafeteria and sat at the counter. I looked at the menu on the wall, and saw only coffee drinks and sandwiches. I ordered a cafe con leche and pan con lechon (“bread with pork”). It was good. As I sat at the counter, though, I heard the server say to a man, “Desayuno? (“Breakfast?”). I saw her bring out a plate of two fried eggs (yolks unbroken), and thick, meaty bacon. Ordering that went on my next day to-do list.

Coconut Grove

After eating, I kept walking down 27th Avenue until I saw signs for Coconut Grove. I followed them first to the harbor with its lovely yachts in the lovely water, then went to Grand Avenue, the main shopping street of Coconut Grove. I was impressed by the buildings with tilework or sculpture designs in the walls. There were also many art galleries with a wide range of art that was beautiful and expressive in many different ways. Too bad I had no money to buy any.

It was nearly 11 a.m., but workers were still cleaning the terra cotta floors of the open air malls and several shops were still closed. The restaurants seemed kind of empty also. I felt like this is the kind of town that stays up until 3 a.m. and hates you if you try to wake it before noon.

I meandered around the town nevertheless, finding my way to Main Hwy. I saw the entrance to the Barnacle, advertised as the oldest house in Dade County on its original site.  Unfortunately, it is open to the public on weekends only. On the same road I saw  gates that seem to guard a mansion, and trees with Tarzan-style vines hanging from them. (Halle’s friend Carla later told me these were banyon trees.)

Soon it was lunchtime. I was tempted to go to Senor Frog’s on Main Highway for Mexican food, but I felt I should try something more local. I settled on Cafe Tu Tu Tango at CocoWalk. The restaurant had a nice awning-covered terrace and more original artwork (and even one artist working at her craft) in the inside section of the restaurant. I ordered a reasonably priced (and tasty) sangria, and ceviche. The ceviche was good, though not as mindblowing as when I had in Lima. It was also kind of small for $9; the pizza would have been a better deal. Plus, I read the menu and found out they have restaurants in Orange, CA so it wasn’t as local as I thought.

Feeling poorer and still slightly hungry, I left Cafe Tu Tu Tango and headed to Bookstore at the Grove for a soy latte and homemade carrot cake. It was nice to sit at the table of a independent bookstore and read while I listened to jazz music.

I had to be in L.A. for the weekend for a family event. Being a student, I decided to cash in a free ticket on American Airlines.

I was sure I had booked it to return Sunday, the 10th; I had class at 1:00 p.m. on Monday that I couldn’t miss. I got a call from my mother, though. She was looking at the itinerary I sent to her and it said I was returning Monday night.

I looked at the email, and she was right. I searched through my records, but, unfortunately, I did not save an email or an electronic copy of the original itinerary (I changed the outbound flight in January, and I only had a copy of that itinerary). I called American Airlines—well, tried to, anyways. They were so backed up I got two busy signals, one “all circuits are busy message”, and twice was on hold for nearly 20 minutes before impatience or necessity forced me to hang up.

When I finally got through, the very nice man on the phone said he didn’t see any record of a Sunday return, either. The only thing he could do was change the booking. The problem was it was Tuesday and at such a late date, the only seat available for Sunday was at 6:00 a.m. 6:00 a.m.! I’d have to leave the house in the middle of the night to get to the airport for a flight like that! He tried to request an override, but was denied. He was about to suggest a “Plan B” when we got disconnected. I called again and spoke to a supervisor who was most unapologetic about the situation. Rationalizing that I wasn’t actually missing any part of the bar mitzvah by leaving on Sunday at 6:00 a.m., I asked the supervisor to make the change. The one good thing about American is, they don’t charge for changes (unlike United, which will charge you $100 even if the connections change). They also said I could go on a “confirmed standby”, but I would give up my confirmed seat and have no guarantee of getting on a flight. I am not such a risktaker. But I was so mad I wrote an angry letter by email (which was rejected because the trip hadn’t taken place yet). I swore I would never fly American again.

On Sunday I groggily said goodbye to my mother at 3:45 a.m., drove to LAX, and found some mercy in asking for an emergency exit row seat and getting it. I caught up on my sleep for a couple of hours and did some work on the plane.

When we landed in Chicago, the flight attendant read off the list of connecting cities and gates. I was surprised not to hear Philadelphia on the list. I was more surprised, though, to get off the plane and see my flight had been cancelled! No worries, though—there was a flight at 4:00 p.m.

Lucky for me, I had the sense to stop at the rebooking center and go to print out my ticket for the 4:00 flight. When I pulled up my itinerary, it had me leaving Chicago on Monday at 12:45 p.m.! I wasn’t about to take that. I went to the red courtesy phone to talk to an agent.

The next action was a pleasant surprise. The customer service agent checked and saw that my original flight had gone out of service. I suppose since it was American’s responsibility and not an “act of God”, that gave me more rights. All I know is he immediately agreed to call United to see if they could get me on a direct flight to Philadelphia. This must have cost American some money, because United is not even in the same alliance. Anyway, United agreed to take me at 4:10.

The action after that was not so pleasant. I had checked two bags. I really only needed to check one, but I thought as long as I’m checking one I might as well check the other and save myself some hassle. The agent informed me that a baggage locator search request would be put out so that United could find my bags and put them on their plane. As soon as I heard that, I knew that would not work. A more assertive person would have insisted that American merely bring the bags in and I would pick it up from the American terminal. But I am not such an assertive person.

I took my stroll from the American terminal to the United terminal, and that did seem much easier with only a backpack than with a backpack and a duffel bag. I saw that there was another flight leaving at 1:20, and I was tempted to ask for a switch. But then the gate agent announced that flight was delayed due to a cargo door that was frozen shut. (Did I mention it was zero degrees Fahrenheit in Chicago?) I took that as a sign I should stick with what I had.

I took advantage of the time to eat a real Chicago hot dog with mustard, celery salt, relish, tomato, cucumbers, onions, hot peppers, and a pickle. The United terminal is also very technofriendly—I was able to sit at a little booth to recharge my cell phone and my laptop, and get some more reading done in the process.

I got on the plane which took off on time and landed miraculously on time at 7 pm. I was one of the last people off the plane, so by the time I got to baggage claim, all the bags had been unloaded. Mine was not there. I went inside to fill out a claim form. The baggage attendant said things never come in from O’Hare. Suddenly, the image of the overhead bins filling up completely on the Chicago flight made much more sense. The baggage claim clerk, who was also unapologetic, said my bags would probably come in Monday, and that they’d have to come in on American.

Instinct told me I could not rely on United to handle this baggage situation. My roommate Anne had been kind enough to pick me up. I imposed on her a little bit more to drive me back around to the American terminal (I was at Terminal D, American is Terminal A). I went inside, and saw my duffel bag right there on the carousel! This was truly an act of God, because not only was it right there when I needed it, it was the bag I really needed for Monday—it had my makeup, my textbook, my hair dryer…I asked if my other bag had come in, and the baggage clerk said there weren’t any others and I’d have to check with United.

The next day, I called United around 3:00 p.m.; they had not found my bags yet. In the evening, I went online to www.united.com/bagtrack and there was still no evidence of my bags. Since the United recording said “most bags arrive within 24 hours”, I felt it was time to check again with American. I called American’s automated baggage number, and was extremely lucky to be able to talk to a live person. (With some airlines, and I believe United is one of them, this is impossible.) I gave them the ticket number for the bag that was still missing, and sure enough they had it in their system in Philadelphia. Excitedly, I drove to the airport even though it was 10:30 at night (the airport is only 15 minutes from my house).

I parked and went in to the baggage desk, where the same woman from the night before was working. I told her I had called and was told my bag was there. She looked up my baggage number in the computer, and a minute later she returned my bag to me.

The moral of my tale? 1) Keep good records of all your transactions with an airline. 2) When luggage is delayed, be proactive and persistent in tracking it down. 3) An airline that seems to be treating you like crap one minute can turn out to be very friendly in the end. 4) Even if you can’t always get what you want from an airline, if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.