Window to a New World

I’ve been mulling over this post for far too long, some would call it procrastination, nevertheless, I had expected to inform you of the glories of the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market, an annual two-day market featuring selected artists from all over the world. The market has an international reputation that lead to Santa Fe being named a UNESCO City of Folk Art. While this all sounds very impressive, I really didn't feel I could boast for an entire post. Don’t get me wrong, it was well worth the visit but there was something that wasn’t sitting quite right with me and I couldn't put my finger on it until this weekend.

As they pitched it, the market really is a 'window to the world', and I will say this, I loved seeing the artists in their national dress. Coming from a country where the national costume is a stereotypical vision of board-shorts, singlet tops and thongs (otherwise known as flip-flops) the elaborate attire on display forming a kaleidoscope of color was an event in itself. These people know what it is to be festive and festive they were. The market was heaving with visitors all clamoring to see, be seen and purchase. I honestly don't know how the artists retained their composure with the throngs of people fingering their painstakingly made traditional merchandise and crowding in on them with umpteen questions.

I understand the merits of this event, providing insight and exposure to other cultures, allowing artists from mostly developing countries the opportunity to engage with their brethren from other points on the globe while selling their wears to an influential art savvy community. But for me, while I loved the work, the music and the interaction, I would have felt like a fraud if I came home with an elaborate, floor length traditional Afghan coat that I purchased for $1000 from a market in Santa Fe. I mean really, where would one wear such a garment in downtown New Mexico. When I posed this question to my friend she looked at me as if I were completely naive before saying, “next year’s market of course.” There was clear evidence of those who had purchased from the previous years events.

My personal thought was, If I'm going to purchase an original piece of traditional art, especially with that price tag, I want to have a bit of an anecdote and some experience of the place to go with the trophy. But that's just me and that was the problem I had, why were all these people going berserk over objects that had no meaning to them – yes they were beautiful but didn’t they want the story behind it.

It was this weekend while sitting in a raft on the Rio Grande River just outside Taos, NM that I understood. I'd been bemused as to why those people were in Santa Fe filling up on traditional art from other parts of the world when there were communities so close to them that could use their support. I'm in New Mexico for an experience and who am I to judge. These people might need a bit of a release from their surroundings, after all Santa Fe is home to them while it's a whole new fascinating world to me. That guy sizing himself up in his new loud silken Afghan coat might've, only last year been in Kabul and since then has been kicking himself for not making a purchase of something that would remind him of his time there. The point is, I could be doing the same thing if a Navajo artist went to Sydney in the future when my days in New Mexico are long gone. So I will no longer judge and keep my mind focused on my own adventures.

I must say that while I don’t have much in the way of tangible articles to remind me of my life here (note to self: need to save up for Navajo rug, although looking at the price tags that may take a lifetime) I do have wonderful memories and this weekend will be one of the highlights.

In our promise to ourselves to be ‘outdoorsy’ people, I thought I should book in a few weekends of outward-bound activities before returning to New York to visit and report back on our mountain way of life. Whitewater rafting seemed like an adventurous outdoor pursuit (you don’t see much of that on the Hudson) so off we went in search of rapids. I was glad the say that we caught the tail end of the season so the normally 3-4 class rapids were now 2-3 class and I could ease into the sport gracefully.

It was grey and slightly cool on the Rio Grande and we were informed that an electrical storm was fast approaching. This was no deterrent for outdoorsy me as a sunny day in the desert can be unbearable if you can’t access shade. We took off in our raft of four, plus our guide, down the river watching the lightening strike in the distance through the crack in the deep canyon walls. The thunder echoed off the cliffs and I felt truly adventurous. I don’t want to get the clichés out but I could barely take in the beauty of this place. As the rain began to fall and we navigated our way through the large rocks I imagined I was Meryl Streep in The River Wild, except Mike, our guide, was far too chipper to play the role of Kevin Bacon and my Husband being an ex-rower was more adept at this sport than David Strathairn’s character and of course me.

The water felt lovely and warm on my leg but that may be owing to the fact that after 20mins of rain my body temperature had lowered significantly, made obvious by the extra-large goose bumps appearing on my arms and legs. But I was happy with this as it and the act of paddling meant I was expanding energy that could be replaced by indulging in a massive gourmet meal later that evening.

At one stage we needed to eddie out (that’s rafting lingo meaning to pull up onto the shore) under a bridge, a very old construction of wood and steel. I must admit, sidling up to a steel pole while in water didn’t seem the wisest of moves in an electrical storm and my sense of adventure did falter for a mere second to become terror but we were off and away in no time surfing rapids with inventive names such as The Toilet Bowl. Big Rock was my favorite as we spotted petro glyphs from ancient communities that had once lived in these lands. After three hours I wasn’t ready to finish except for the fact that maybe mild hypothermia was setting in. I loved rafting and I can honestly say that, whereas previous attempts at outdoor sports were just ok at best (this would include hiking up steep mountains at altitude after a night of too much wine). I’m raring and ready to tackle the 4+ rapids of the Taos Box.

I’m extremely lucky that I have the opportunity to travel and I have to remind myself that not everyone has these opportunities but it doesn’t mean that they don’t want to experience different cultures any less. And for those who appreciate beautiful objects for reasons other than their utility or tradition who am I to judge your helping to sustain a cultural heritage and that’s all good.

Paradise Syndrome - I blame Florence

I’m beginning to suffer from paradise syndrome (PS). I’m not entirely sure if it truly exists but I recall reading an article where Dave Stewart of Eurhythmics fame once described his battle with it. The symptoms consist of an ongoing feeling of guilt from the good life you’re living that you feel you don’t deserve. Fortunately for Stewart, his therapist only had to enforce the common knowledge that he, unlike me, had a talent that allowed him to do what he loved and make a good life out of it. I’m having a little bit of trouble legitimizing the fact that my limited talents aren’t in great demand in this job-poor climate. All I can do is share my pain. This recent bout of PS resulted from a trip to Tuscany where my husband was giving a lecture. Can I just state here, that I don’t make a habit of accompanying him on his exotic business trips, probably because they’re not all that exotic but really, how many times in my life will I be unemployed and available to benefit from these euro jaunts. Actually, the way things are going, I may be available for some time but that’s another story. So off I went in a pursuit of food and wine happiness and I have to say I found it, however, the PS come down has been brutal.

Tuscany at this time of the year can be hazardous, what with the massive throngs of tourists arguing over directions in the middle of the street and forming massive unsightly queues outside the major attractions. I mean really! I of course am the other type of tourist, the absurd kind who feels she can blend in with the local crowd if armed with the right phrases and attitude. The reality of this foolishness became apparent when my life was almost taken by an Italian stallion on a moped. How is it that foxy Italian woman can walk out into a busy street unfazed and not suffer serious injury? Probably because they're foxy and I am not. So, I can admit that no nation will accept me as their own within a few days but I refuse to believe that I can’t truly experience any city and it’s delicacies without being caught in the tourist trap.

In order to ensure that my husband was not negatively affected by my presence, I selflessly planned my trip in advanced in order to fully occupy my time. Out of sight out of mind led me to scenic Tuscan villages. I realized how I had taken Europe for granted when I lived in the UK, and now, seeing these villages with fresh eyes I could marvel at the ancient architecture, the pace of life and best of all the lack of hideous fast food chains. It became very apparent to me that the reason Italians don’t have an obesity issue is because they have fresh whole food in abundance. Their approach to food is also entirely different. Time is allocated to food and sharing in its pleasure.

I wanted some of this cultural pleasure. I didn’t want to be the one lured in off the street by the English-speaking maître de flapping the English/Italian menu in front of my frazzled tourist face. Florence was my ultimate challenge in assimilation and I think it went rather well for the most part.

I put together my first day’s itinerary allowing me to marvel at art and rejuvenate with food and wine. After disembarking the train, I headed through the streets towards the Duomo and its queuing tourists. Just past it I located the Museo dell’ Opera del Duomo. To my delight the place was void of people, allowing me to absorb all the works without frustration. This museum is a marvel, housing spectacular pieces by Michelangelo and his contemporaries that were previously housed in the Duomo itself.

It was Donatello’s sculpture of Mary Magdalene that had me transfixed. Her skeletal frame also made me hungry. I ventured out into the streets strolling towards the Uffizi where I smugly passed the queues as I headed towards tranquil Ino for lunch. Located in a tiny street off Lungarno Corsini, this hidden gem offers paninis made to order from the finest ingredients and the meal-deal comes with a class of wine – sold. I sat at the window and took my time reading my book (I was channeling the local vibe) as I sipped my wine and contemplated my next move.

The National Museum of Bargello was the target, set in a stunning building dating back to 1255, this ancient ode to sculpture is an oasis in the Florentine summer. The museum, again almost void of people, houses sculptural works which include further examples of Donatello’s work including his almost comical vision of David which was, I believe, a renaissance scandal.

After a several hours, I was ready for my afternoon café and dolci and I found a perfect place in I Dolci di Patrizio Cosi. The bite sized pastries filled with flavoured creams, were irresistible, I stopped at 3, only because I knew there was more fine food to be had. To walk off the cream puffs, I made my way through the streets heading for the south side of the Ponte Vecchio where I would rendezvous with my husband for our pre-dinner drink and cheese plate. We chose Le Volpi e l’Uva, this place is tiny and tucked away in the Piazza dei Rossi just far enough from the crowds passing over the famous Ponte. And even after the afternoon indulgence, I still had room for one of the finest cheese plates I’ve ever sampled, I managed to was wash this down with a glass of La Doccia Chianti Classico Riserva as recommended by the barman - hello taste buds.

Although my day was near perfect, I still felt I was missing the Florentine food market experience. I’d passed a market that morning and had desperately wanted to go in, sample and shop but my limited language skills destroyed any confidence I might have had, especially after the moped incident. I needed a food-in, someone to guide me in the right direction and allow me peruse with confidence. My research led me to the lovely Christine from Taste Florence. As a rule, I generally don’t do tours but this one seemed to be tailor made for me. Christine, a proud Florentine native and, like the majority of her fellow Italians, a foodie, took me on a food and wine odyssey that lasted several hours and included a breakfast at one of Florence’s finest bakeries followed by an extensive tour of the Marcato Centrale, the very market I had been too shy to enter the previous day. Here we sampled everything from bollito (boiled veal) to cheese, bread, wine, olive oil and the list goes on.  I don’t want to give away too much of the Taste Florence itinerary as they've done a superb job in crafting a wonderful day that included a visit to the most extraordinary gelatateria. This place had the same effect on me as sampling my first Jelly Bellys at the age of 10. I couldn't believe the flavours produced! This was then followed by a relaxing end at a beautiful enoteca where more wine was sampled and ancient adages told. I felt I’d spent the day with a good friend who had all the inside knowledge you can’t possibly get from any guidebook.

I left Christine with a food and wine high, wandering the streets deliriously happy and fulfilled. I managed one last meal in Florence. It was a recommendation from Chrisitne. Coquinarius is a small, unmarked wine-bar/restaurant on via delle Oche. It’s warm and relaxed atmosphere was the perfect end to my Florentine food and wine festival. How can you top traditional Tuscan food and a bottle of Carmignano Il Sasso, I don’t think you can but that won't stop me trying. Now I must suffer the symptoms of paradise syndrome as I continue to explore my new back-yard of New Mexico. Ciao!