Gulch

Exploring The Good Life: Recent Updates to the Guides

My back was to the jazz trio; however, the cafe was so intimate that their slightly downbeat version of "Fly Me To The Moon" filled the room, combining and weaving with the conversations of the nearby tables to create a joyous energy.  In front of me was a slice of chocolate cake and a beer and I realized that I had stumbled into a bit of the good life. And, importantly, it wasn't located in some exotic or far-away place. Instead it was located less than a block away from where we live.

Jen and I started the travel guide section of this site, Gulch Guides, as a way to let readers find our travel recommendations without having to read through all of our, well, mental wanderings on this blog. Lately, though, we've been sticking close to home and have been happy to find a lot of the good life right here.  We are constantly adding to the Guides and I thought I'd cross-post some of the newest entries on what we consider the good life to be:

Detour Dessert Lounge (in Victoria)

Sometimes, only a late night slice of chocolate cake will do. Detour Dessert Lounge (14 Centennial Square / 250-298-8308) is an intimate place that serves not only delicious and moist cake but also a whole variety of other decadent treats. Combining a slice of cake (such as "the Lola", a chocolate cake layered with Bavarian icing and raspberry and topped with vanilla bean fudge) with a glass of wine or a beer while a live jazz band plays is a perfect way to slow down and really enjoy life. Detour has a large selection of vegan/vegetarian desserts and they have nicely balanced their menu to include sugar and gluten free items so that no one can use dietary restrictions as an excuse not to indulge.

In addition to desserts, they also have a small menu of regular food such as salads and nachos and they also serve good coffee. Most items are under $10. Detour is located in Victoria's Centennial Square and, despite the strip mall exterior, it has a sophisticated and hip feel on the inside and often features live music.

The Parrot Confectionery (in Helena)

The Parrot Confectionery (42 North Last Chance Gulch / 406-442-1470) first opened its doors in 1922 and has since reached near legendary status in Helena, across the state, and beyond for its handmade chocolates. The Parrot has been owned and operated by the same family since it opened and it feels like little has changed in this candy store/soda fountain/lunch café. There’s a jukebox, cozy booths, and a long counter behind which they serve up real soda fountain drinks like cherry phosphates and ice cream milkshakes.

The Parrot is most famous for their candy. They make over 120 different types of fine sweets and hand dipped chocolates, which they also ship worldwide. However, many locals go there for a different reason: they serve some of - if not the - best chili in town (it’s no sense asking, they keep the recipe secret). The Parrot is one of those types of special places that give a sense of permanence and stability that just doesn't normally exist in the modern world. So the next time it’s really cold and you’re feeling down, head to the Parrot and get a milkshake and bowl of chili, and the world will start to look pretty good again.

Sabri Naanwich (in Victoria)

Sometimes fusion food doesn’t have to be highbrow. Sabri Naanwich (1310 Douglas / 250-382-9668) combines the concepts of Indian food and sub sandwich shops in a way that works so well that one is left wondering why it isn’t more common. Sabri Naanwich is set up like many fast food style sandwich or wrap joints, only with an Indian flair: instead of bread, the whole thing starts with a warm piece of naan. Then, rather than deli meat as the main part of your sandwich, you get to pick from a number of different Indian-style dishes such as butter chicken, lamb and ginger, or garbanzo bean curry (at various spice levels). You then get to choose from an assortment of traditional sandwich pickings such as lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, and less traditional Indian condiments such as mango chutney or raita. The whole thing gets built before you and is served like a wrap. It is also delicious and cheap – most naandwiches range from $5 to $7 dollars.

Ordering a naanwich with butter chicken with jalapeños and mango chutney is a perfect combination of spicy and sweet and thus just might be in the running for the most perfect sandwich ever. Sabri’s advertises that naanwiches are fairly healthy - none of the meats are processed and there are many options for vegetarians and vegans. Be warned that the shop closes early - around 6pm - most nights.

In Which Travelocity Asks Me to Blether About One of My Favorite Places

The Internet café’s air conditioning was on full blast, making me wish that I was wearing more than shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt. Jen and I were in Tulum, Mexico on our honeymoon and had stopped in to check email. Buried amongst various messages from friends, family, and Nigerian businessmen was an email whose subject line read: Travelocity Podcast Interview. I clicked on it.

A few weeks later and back at home, I pulled on my Gore-tex raincoat and walked up the street and into the local CBC radio station.

“Uh,” I said, “I’m hear to record an interview.” They knew what I was talking about and showed me to a recording studio. A technician arranged for the international phone call from the interviewer to be routed to my mic.

And so, this week, I made my podcast debut on Travelocity’s Window Seat blog. Specifically, I answered some questions about the Mayan Riviera and talked about some of the places we recommend on our Gulch Guides for their Podcast Episode 4: Paradise. You can also scroll down for the specific section on the Mayan Riviera to hear the segment which features me. I’m also really happy to report that technology exists to edit out all of my “uh’s” and “ums.” Well, most of them at any rate.

Thanks again to Travelocity and the people at LA Podsquad for the opportunity. Here are some specific sections of this website that were relevant to the podcast:

• Gulch Guides to the Mayan Rivera
• Specific recommendation for Playa del Carmen
• Specific recommendations for Tulum
• Stories and writings about our travels in Mexico

Of Memory and Remembrance

My grandfather leaned slightly forward on his cane as he shuffled down the dark hallway. He was wearing a turquoise blue suit and his feet were bare. In the hand not holding his cane, he carried a pair of dark dress shoes. He shuffled into the living room and took his usual seat, a slightly passive maneuver in which he appeared to slowly lower himself until gravity took over and pulled him into the couch with a gentle fall.

Grandpa set his shoes on the ground next to the couch and leaned forward, both hands on his cane, his head hung down. After a minute he leaned forward, pulled a pair of bright blue socks, which matched his dress shirt, out of his pocket and began putting them on.

“What time is the funeral?” he asked and a wave of sadness crashed over me.

“It was two days ago,” my great Uncle Darrell called loudly from across the room. “On Wednesday.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” said my Grandpa. He paused and looked down at himself. “What am I getting all dressed up for?”

No one answered.

***

The room where the hotel sat up the breakfast buffet was strangely crowded on Christmas morning. Retirees and families with young children cramped around small tables. No one talked to Jen and me as we sleepily foraged for food, me trying to get the waffle machine to stop beeping and Jen searching out a healthy box of cereal buried amongst the pyramid of mini-boxes of fruit loops and corn pops.

We had flown into Nevada the day before, which the official calendar labeled Christmas Eve, but had been rebranded this year simply as Two Days After my Grandmother Died. My grandparents' house, a place that had been my childhood all-inclusive resort, had slowly filled up with relatives. For the first time in my life, I found myself staying at a motel in their hometown.

It was a shock to be back in Nevada and the void that my grandmother left behind was huge. I remembered how she felt so frail when I had hugged her for the last time back in May. She was so small and thin. I also remembered the sharp tug of pain on my scalp during the childhood haircuts she used to give me. Her strong fingers, which had been trained at beauty school, impatiently tugged my cowlicks as she trimmed my hair.

I would squirm.

“Did I hurt you?” She would always ask and I would shake my head no, and she would continue pulling and parting my hair as she snipped it with scissors.

***

That afternoon, two days after the funeral, we drove up to the cemetery. Grandpa sat in the passenger seat and Dad drove. Getting out of the car, we unfolded Grandpa’s walker from the trunk and insisted that he use it to walk over the grass.

The grave site was flat, squares of sod covered what had been a rectangular hole only two days before. The flowers which sat on top of Grandma’s coffin at the funeral now lay on the grass, slowly wilting. Jen took a picture of us looking down at the site.

The funeral home had placed a small placard on the ground next to the flowers. “Temporary Marker,” it said, followed by my Grandma’s name. “Serentiy LC, Lot 52145, Concrete Liner,” it concluded callously. The barren mountains of the Nevada desert could be seen in the distance.

Grandpa looked silently for a moment. “She was a wonderful wife,” he said abruptly, his voice breaking quietly. “She’s left me, but that’s not her fault, she had a weak heart.”

The ocean of sadness that I had been wading in all week swelled and crashed into me again. I struggled, unsuccessful as always, to hold back my tears.

“Oh sure, we had our ups and downs, but we always worked things out. We had a lot of wonderful times. She was a good woman,” Grandpa said. Tears formed behind his glasses and I could see his eyes were red. I looked away. Before this week I had never seen my Grandfather cry.

“You have to keep those good times and remember them,” my dad said, hugging his father.

I watched the blinking radio antennae lights on top of the mountain behind the mortuary.

***

In the picture, the young couple is sitting in the park. In front of them, a tow-headed boy of about three or four grins. The man has his shirt off and the woman is wearing a broad and modest swimsuit top.

The first thing I notice when I look at the picture is how good looking the couple is. Then I see the familiar pattern under the surface of the movie star couple: the eyes and high cheekbones of the woman, the chin and mischievous smile of the man. These strangers, who appear to be younger than myself, are my grandparents. The smiling boy wearing suspenders without a shirt is my dad.

The next thing I notice about the picture is how muscular the young man - my Grandfather - is. A mix of following the Charles Atlas plan and working as a welder has given him the type of muscles that you only see in magazines and movies. His arms look powerful and I wonder momentarily what this tough guy would think of me at his age: a stocky book nerd. I don’t wonder very long because even in this faded black and white image, I can see it. In that grainy smile, there’s a sense of his gentleness and of a good natured personality that are so tied up in my mind with the concept of “Grandfather” that I always feel a bit awed to know that’s what everyone sees in him.

***

The TV was on that evening, as it always was as my grandparents grew older. I smiled to myself as I remembered how my grandma used to like to watch Walker, Texas Ranger. “Chuckie-Baby!” she would call the star.

My dad sat in a chair across the room reading the newspaper, everyone else had gone to sleep. I sat on the couch next to Grandpa. He watched whatever it was tuned to, although it was hard to know if he was following the show or if he was somewhere else, lost in his personal fog. I sat there, dreading the approaching moment when I would say goodnight and thus goodbye as I was flying out early the next morning.

“Will,” Grandpa said suddenly, “Did your Grandmother pass on?”

The ocean of sadness was in me now, behind my eyes.

“Yeah, Grandpa, she died earlier this week.”

“Oh, that’s what I thought.”

“The funeral was a couple of days ago, on Wednesday,” I said. “You dressed up really nice in a suit and Mom gave the eulogy. Lots of people came from your old Church and Luther and Joanne got up and talked about Grandma. We went out and visited her grave today.”

I handed him the stack of pictures that Jen and I had rush-developed that evening. Grandpa took that stack and looked at images of himself looking at Grandma’s grave, of the flowers and the temporary marker.

He looked for a minute longer and then sat the pictures down.

“She was a good woman,” he paused. “I miss her.”

“I miss her too,” I said.

***

Shortly after the pastor finished the closing prayer, the funeral director stepped forward. “This concludes our graveside services,” he said. “It’s important to talk about her, especially to the young ones, so they will remember her.”

I thought about my Grandma’s lemon pie, something my Mom had mentioned in the eulogy. Lemon pie was something she always made when we visited.

“It’s too tart,” Grandma would inevitably complain after taking a bite.

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” Grandpa would always answer.

More Mental Wanderings

Looking out the window today, thick white flakes of snow raced sidewise across my view. Earlier this morning, one of Victoria's infrequent snowstorms blew into town. Like so many of the tourists that visit here, the intensity and pace of the snowstorm made it clear that it was going to try to cover all that Victoria has to offer in one day. Not wanting to miss this rare visitor, Jen and I pulled on our waterproof pants over our long johns, put on our hats, and hiked through downtown to the Inner Harbour. The flakes were wet and heavy and they stuck to us as we walked around the harbor. We were in good company though, as both statues of Queen Victoria and Captain James Cook sported soft white outfits over their normal metal outerwear.

As the dampness soaked through my coat and the chill seeped into my socks, my mind, as it often does when I'm cold, wandered to warmer places. Thus, I thought I'd just make a note that over the last week, I've slowly been updating my verbal map to the physical world. Amongst other additions, I've updated my guide to the Mayan Riviera, adding another underground river to swim in, some new restaurants here and there, our favorite places and pyramids in Izamal, and a nice cafe where you can get homemade bread and the local gossip in Tulum. Also, since I've been dreaming of warm places, I'll also mention that I posted pictures from our trip to the Yucatàn earlier this fall. While I probably won't be venturing anywhere tropical soon, I think I'm about due for a mini-vacation to the table next to the fireplace at the local pub very soon.

Editorial Waters

The bleak water rushed like a river between the hunks of rock that pushed their way out of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. On the larger of the two rocks, which could barely be called islets much less islands, the impressive Race Rocks lighthouse loomed above our small boat.

The name Race Rocks refers to a “tidal race,” where a fast moving tide passes through a constriction resulting in the formation of a hazardous current. The tide at Race Rocks can reach speeds of up to 8 knots or close to 15 kilometers per hour as it flows past the rocky outcroppings of the Race Rock Islets.

The tidal current that day seemed to be flowing at peak speeds. Our boat’s engine vibrated loudly as it fought against the current to keep us from being pushed from our position. I glanced up at the lighthouse briefly as I stood on the edge of the boat and then looked down at the swirling water, amazed at how fast it seemed to be flowing. I adjusted my scuba mask, took a deep breath, and stepped off the solid edge of the boat and plunged myself into that cold, black water.

In many ways, I would recreate that short plunge when I took over the Editor position for Island Writer Magazine. The former editor and publisher of this local literary journal retired at the end of 2005. This past spring, I looked at the last issue, took heed of the rapid currents, and decided to jump into those rushing waters and try my hand at being editor. Island Writer is published by the Victoria Writers Society, which that I have been involved in for the last year.

That rapid editorial current has caused the metaphorical waters on this website to be, well, a bit stagnant. However, I’m happy to announce that my first issue has finally gone to print and will soon be available. It’s sold in bookstores throughout Victoria and via the VWS website. I hope to soon be posting on this site on a regular schedule again.

It was, as most of the best things are, a team effort. As an all volunteer organization, the dedication of everyone who submitted, contributed, and worked on the magazine stands out like a lighthouse. Now where did I leave my scuba mask?

(Parts of this entry were adapted from my editorial in the current issue of Island Writer)