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Mahahual – January 2022 Today, I woke up with a smile sneaking across my face as I stretched my long legs across the little metallic tent I’m staying in. I woke up to the wind whipping the tent’s tethers like a billowing sail. I’ve never really even thought about the possibility of camping while backpacking, but after camping in Valladolid on a honeybee farm, I’m searching specifically for camping on Hostel World and Booking.com. Sleeping on a foam mat on the silky sand, under rustling palm trees, and reconnecting with the Earth and all the natural elements I'm exposed to while camping has been really good for me—it’s exactly what I need. I wake up with the sunlight and feel ready to drift into sleep as she dramatically sets over the crisp horizon, the sound of the breeze beckoning across the sea. Almost all day is spent walking barefoot, watching crabs and crustaceans scoot into small silt-lined holes. Spotted Sandpipers circle the docks in musical movements, Pelicans are posted up on high piers, wings spread wide in order to dry, while always keeping a sharp-eye on the miniscule fish that float in with the tide. You realize a place is “chill” when all the dogs are calm, never barking, quietly rolled up in comfortable balls, snuggling their way into a warm womb of sand. The place to camp in Mahahual is on the beach at Lunas Restaurant and Bar. Everyone here is so friendly—a family owned and operated business that treats their guests like extended family as well. Seating around the bar is strung up on swings, and you can spend your whole day pushing yourself back and forth in the breeze while eating popular Mexican dishes and drinking ice-cold cocktail concoctions. I spent an entire day there, swinging and chatting with lots of interesting people that came through, from all walks of life, both tourists and locals alike, each with their own unique travel stories to express. A few cocktails and conversations in, a vintage Volkswagen van drove by, honking their harmonious horn with a “for sale” sign stuck in the window. I ran out to the guy to take me on a test drive, as I thought it’d be a great travel van for getting back to the USA. Mahahual is a well-known cruise-ship destination port. All the shops and seaside restaurants cater to an upscale cruise clientele: those climbing offboard and scuttling around this quaint and quiet beach town. A three-mile Malecon footpath runs along the entire length of the shore in front of hotels, restaurants and bars, ending up at a romantic viewpoint boasting a towering white lighthouse. Every morning, rambling along the perfectly paved Malecon, you’ll witness delightful merchant stalls popping up to peddle seashells, colorful cut-glass ornaments, decorative driftwood designs, cute coastal carvings, and of course, traditional Mexican artisan crafts and regalia. Couples stroll along the boardwalk, purchasing tacos from small street-carts, and ice-cold coconuts to sip on after a night full of fresh seafood and margaritas by the sea. Here, you can explore hundreds of sweet little rickety wooden docks stretching out over a thousand shades of soft turquoise water. Being seated beside the ocean, Mahahual is well known for their selection of delectable seafood dishes, including well-priced lobster and catch-of-the-day garlic-grilled “pescado. Watch closely, and you’ll witness fresh-caught fish being brought in from little dingy-boats that are scooted directly up onto the sandy shore. A friendly man selling painted hats pointed me toward his favorite resident restaurant with the best priced lobster and local deals found on the beach. I bought myself a glass of white wine to go with my lobster platter for a dreamy date to dine with my Mahahual friends. A caring fellow lent me his bicycle for the day while he worked trading garments for pesos between the multitude of gawking cruise-ship voyagers. I wheeled around, making sure I stumbled upon all the ins and outs and special crannies along the coast, stopping into several dive shops for shared jokes and laughter amongst newfound networks. Upon return, I tried to pay, but he wouldn’t accept saying, “Friends always ride for free – keep smiling chica!”

Every morning, I laced up my sand-covered sneakers outside my unzipped tent and set off for a long run along the coastline. Usually, the waters in Mahahual are crystal-clear-blue and make for perfect diving conditions offshore, however every year, “El Norte” winds whip through, preventing people from pursuing their diving addictions. Mahahual—"a little drinking town with a diving problem,” noted many hand-painted signs. Away from the paved Malecon, a beachy road stretches all the way down to Belize. My sunrise runs took me through hurricane-blasted homes and it’s crazy to see the distraction that nature can have. Palm frond thatched-roofs are torn off their foundations and strewn across the sand, rubble is eroding into the mangrove jungle, and many homes and hotels have been shuddered for good. The hurricane happened several years ago and took a noticeable toll on this little town, but locals mentioned, “It’s not all a sad history.” Hotels studded the shoreline, blocking views and public access. After the hurricane, the government, town and nature reservation institutes set new laws in place stating that “the beachfront is meant for public use,” so all future building structures would be pushed back, providing sightlines and cooperative-sharing of this magical place.

Always,

Alena Horowitz ∣ Miss Potato

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Mamma’s House

Drinking my daily coffee, peering out my bedroom window from my Mom’s two-story house, I sit overhanging a cliff to look across the wind-licked waters and snow-capped mountains on the horizon. The first snow of the season is falling and leaving a delicate sheet of white dust peppered across the ground. You can’t help but pause whatever you’re doing to witness the smoky purple sunset, over the dreamy distant peaks, through the bushy emerald greens of our coniferous forest.

I often forget how tall the trees are until I come home and have the same realization over and over again. Taking a deep breath outside, you’ll inhale a strange sense of familiarity, something that feels so comfortable and natural, like you’ve perceived it all before. Arriving at twilight to this lush wooded aroma, I’ve actually had a boyfriend break down into tears because of the nostalgia held by this natural world. It’s such a marvelous scent, much taken for granted. I realize here that I need to appreciate more. A lasting WILD frontier forever implanted in my mind.

The forest is always reminding us to breathe, and to savor the sweetness of each inhale.

The piercing yammer of bald Eagles billows through the air as they call each other back to their nested home among the giants. They built their home in a massive Tamarack next to our house, and have coupled-up there for as long as I can remember. 95% of bird species remain monogamous their entire lives, making them the most loyal members of our animal kingdom. How wonderful to feel the absolute freedom of “flight,” while still returning home at the end of each day.

Warm pie, pear preserves, and pickles always leave their essence in the air as we’re often using the goodness we’ve gathered from our garden throughout the year. Here, we’re quite close to being self-sustainable--raising chickens for eggs and meat, growing vegetables for fresh use or making winter soups, canning juice and fruit for a dose of antioxidants during the long frosty months. Living with mamma taught me the importance of growing my own food. She passed down the “green thumb.” I’m so motivated by seeing seedlings burst through their containers, catching the first little bud connecting to a tiny new fruit, or collecting all the goodies to make garden salsa or green salad.

We share everything with the natural world. This year, our potatoes didn’t come up because moles dug complex tunnel-systems in the soil below. They also popped carrots and beets backwards through the ground, leaving only a mysterious missing-veggie hole. Birds prey from the sky, grubs and other little monsters squiggle from the ground. Even our domestic-chickens scavenge, hopping the fence to access our private zucchini and squash stash. We participate in the environment simply as passerbys. No chemicals, no traps, no waste… the ground was made to be shared!

Out here, one can’t help but relax. Times are innocent. Life is easy as you forget about all the unnecessary commotion created by the over-agitated, all-too-“civilized,” human-world. Out here, you wouldn’t know anything inherently “bad” is happening unless you turn on the TV or check your phone… Knowing “all is well” when I don’t stare at a screen makes me want to refrain from the media forever. There is total simplicity in taking a step back from the world, doing only the intrinsically important things that we “need” in life, like cooking, cleaning, loving, reading, teaching, and eating. It’s good to be home.

Always,

Alena Horowitz - Miss Potato

The Running of the Mules (Santorini, Greece)

We started our morning off with a winding climb up to Fira from the port dock. What we thought would be a nice ascending hike, quickly turned into chaos when men with prickly salt-and-pepper mustaches were whistling angrily, yanking on tangled reigns, yelling in a language unknown to us, and striking at confused carrier mules with wooden paddles and muck-covered steel-toe boots. The massive frustrated mules stampeded toward us from all sides. They prodded up the hill with overweight passengers on their backs, and galloped down the zig-zagged roadway, hastily pushing passerby’s to the side of a shallow cliffside railing. Tourists screamed and frantically took cover as the hoards trampled their way through. All tied together, I was afraid one would lose it’s footing and cause the rest of the bolting beasts to tumble alongside it. A fearful boy almost hopped the cliff as he jumped over the railing for protection. Feet dangling over the edge, his mother fearfully clung to his tiny body under his flailing arms. My entire body was shaking with fear, but we made it out alive with only a couple scraped knees and elbows.

A 6.5-mile hike took us from Fira through several cliff top villages all decked in white. Prickly pears, furry cactus, yellow thistles, and large Capparis Spinosas with fleshy coin-shaped leaves lined the lava-rock walls we walked. In the distance, several other volcanic islands floated somewhere between the sky and the sea. The wind would pick up and all of a sudden, you could feel yourself becoming part of the surrounding blue, forgetting the sound of your tired feet on the ground. The houses were carved into the rocks atop the bluff, with half the house buried in the ground, and the other half protruding for a view. Reminiscing of Pueblo-architecture, the village houses were built with lightweight lava rocks that were almost the only existing geology of the area, covered in mud, and then whitewashed to bounce the sun back toward the abyss. In the distance, the milky villages and linear architecture that carved back and forth down the cliffs looked something like intricate patterns in lace.

Of course, we had to test some traditional food at a family-run restaurant resting out over the sea. The man welcomed us into his “home,” and served us local white wine from a glittering blue glass bottle. We ordered an extra-crunchy Greek salad topped with soft crumbles of feta, pit-in olives, and salty capers; beefy moussaka smothered in ricotta sauce, sour yoghurt and cinnamon; and a baked white-eggplant that was basically a roasted eggplant-boat that was stuffed with other healthy goodness, pink and yellow turnips and fire-blanched tomatoes that would pop and explode when placed in your mouth. Everything was so simple, yet full of life and flavor—Definitely the best Greek food I’ve experienced!

It’s easy to spot the locals because they’re all dressed in white, with leathered skin from the sun, deep-cut smile lines, dark eyes, and a constant lit-cigarette in hand. Tourists too, seem to have gotten the memo to wear all-white, blue, or yellow with stripes or lemon motifs, making for the perfect photo-opp. The evil-eye is widely used here, as Greeks (and myself for that matter) believe negative energy causes physical issues within people. Small shops, built into the Santorini rocks, sell this simple blue-eyed symbol, baked clay figurines, silver and iridescent opal jewelries, high-contrast linen dresses, flouncy sun-hats, abstract ocean paintings, driftwood mobiles, dream catchers, all-white resort wear, and (of course) select “crazy donkey” lines of beers and wines.

I’ll someday return to Santorini as half an “item.” We’ll stay in one of the many private apartments with infinity pools overlooking the array of bright white cliff-hanger houses. Working on my Craigslist personals ad: “27-year-old female ISO someone to feed me dates, pomegranates and olives, massage my feet, drink more fine wine than Dionysus, and fan me with a giant feather while we hang out naked on a shaded daybed by our private pool.” We could learn to squish grapes with our toes, try out all the cute little seaside restaurants, meander arm-in-arm through the layers of light city buildings, get lost in cute little breezy alleyways shaded by fruit vines and bougainvillea, and wind our way down to the small pebbled beaches for a soak in the Aegean Sea. Any takers?!

Sketchbook Stories (Koh Tao, Feb. 2019)

I think I’ve found heaven on earth, though watching the little island slip into the distance beyond the wake of the ferry made it feel as if it were all a dream. White sandy beaches are strung delicately between rocky pointed peninsulas and huge round boulders are perfectly placed along the shoreline. Softly, the ships are harbored in each bay. Skinny palm trees tower over the ridges of the jungle below, creating sketchy contrasted silhouettes against the sky. Colorful cabanas climb up the rocky cliffs and into the mountainous jungle. We imagined what must go on behind the scenes to paint this place like the fantastical Disney-princess movie set that it is.

Most travelers come to Koh Tao as it’s known as the cheapest place in the world to become a certified Open Water Diver. Divers are a very certain type of people. They’re like surfers of below the sea. Boys walk barefoot along the sandy Sairee beach trail, showing off their long limbs and perfect stature. They’re all tall, tanned and tattooed with shaggy sun-bleached hair and scruffy untrimmed facial-hair. Girls in ripped cut-off shorts bounce off the scuba boats and walk by with sit-marks of sand pressed in circles around their perfectly plump bums. It’s such a healthy lifestyle: salt, sea, and sun every day. In the first three days of being there, I already felt more full of life.

Smooth teal waves lap over layers of pink sandy pebbles. Rusty red fishing boats bob on top of the rolling horizon. Tropical storms roll in daily to keep the island’s humidity in perfect balance and clear away the energy from the day before. Drippy grey rain clouds hang heavy out over the ocean and the sharp black horizon line sits atop the yellowing sky. Furry blue beach-pines and rubbery reddish-purple leaves of almond trees stretch out across the sand, sheltering one from the afternoon sun. Thai mammas with tannika rubbed into their cheeks sweep the sand from their wooden porches. Tourists wearing tortoise shell sun-shades, lounging in slouchy beachside beanbags, stir frosty fragrant pineapple juices or full green coconuts, and pucker their burgundy lips around bamboo straws. Light flickers through the feathery palm trees, everyone smiles at you as you walk by, and life is beautiful.

In the iridescent glow of sunset, families play in the sand while packs of fluffy dogs snap at small schools of tiny silver fish trapped in the pools of low-tide. After the sun goes down, the branches above the beach are lit up with lofty lanterns and fabric tentacles that float delicately on the Siam Sea breeze. You feel a bit chilly, but your somewhat-sunburnt-skin radiates heat and keeps you cuddled in a perfect warm patch. Prickly plucking guitar sounds echo across the ocean air, “and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.” A day in the life: Candle lit dinners, circling toes in the sand, and crying spicy tears over cupfuls of thick red curry.

Beautiful couples enjoy shallow shady areas, tangled around in each other’s limbs, canoodling on top of colorful tapestries; Hands through hair, soft touches, and salty kisses; Interlocking pinkie-fingers while strolling slowly along the sandy beach path, sharing spoonfuls of each other’s homemade ice-cream. It’s truly a place of relaxation and romance. A place of calm and happiness, lazy wanderers and party people, burnt noses and half-priced liquor buckets. Healthy food, salty skin, plenty of vitamin sea and D, fresh air, natural wonders and view-points above sea level, and below an untouched abundance of aquatic life.

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

The Festival at Sandpoint (Sandpoint, ID)

Sneaking past the line of incredibly anxious festival patrons, some of whom pay local high-school students hundreds of dollars to hang out overnight to save the best spot in line, I arrived on scene as loose-ends were tied, and everything came together. The floodgates opened at 6:30 on the dot, allowing the happy people to pour in, sprinting across the lawn with piles of puffy blankets and rattling coolers of alcoholic concoctions. Blankets billowed as people waved them into square 8’x8’ seating arrangements for the night. I was surprised to see how fast the grass became tiled by textiles. I’ve never seen so many elderly people running so fast in my life! Pro-Tip: START TRAINING FOR NEXT YEAR! As an uninformed press agent, security pounced me on as I tried to save my own spot for sound-check. The band practiced prickly little hymns praising Sandpoint.

I love being barefoot in the grass, feeling the first sense of Autumn-chill that creeps into the air. “Festival Season” is the most happening two-weeks on Sandpoint’s calendar. On these early August weekends, visitors and locals alike are boating, hiking or spending the day lake-siding, then feasting, drinking and dancing into the wee-hours at The Hive’s curated “Aftival” party. Looking up at Sandpoint’s iconic stage, I realized how lucky I am to live in this little vacation-land surrounded by Schweitzer Mountain Resort, and the beautiful Pend O’reille Lake with its glowing orange summer sun that sets behind the smoky mountains. The colorful quilt of Sandpoint locals picnicking on the grass amongst friends and family is quite the sight, but there’s something about the magic that comes to life under the pink and blue lights projected upon the stretched-stage’s classic canvas canopy. The half-yellow moon was the perfect backdrop for the spidery sparklers set off into the night sky.

If you’re not munching on a homemade meal (on some blankets I saw unfathomable smorgasbords and astonishing 10-course meals that raised my standards for future picnic-expectations), there’s plentiful delicacy provided by some of Sandpoint’s all-time Festival favorites. Mai’s Thai ladled heaps of spicy curries over rice; The Pack River store sold colorful chopped-salads and wraps, Ola! prepared the most amazing gyros filled with savory meats and Mediterranean sauces; Farmhouse Kitchen loaded an entire pig onto the plates of people ordering barbeque pork ribs; and the Panida Theater piled mile-high mounds of ice-cream into paper bowls topped with chocolate syrup and crunchy rainbow sprinkles. Endless comfort food, and the fact that you can bring your own liquor in is absolutely epic, though the bartenders’ extra-strong drinks definitely aid in the fun.

Volunteers of all ages worked hard while grooving. Rubber-gloved children taught attendees how to compost and recycle—you GO kiddos! It’s truly a “family festival” with little girls happily stacked atop their father’s shoulders, belting the words to songs together, completely in sync. The electrifying National Anthem guitar-solo started the show off right on opening night. We were graced with three dance-concerts, and basically a fourth when Walk Off The Earth (my personal top-pick for this year), made everyone hop to their feet and boogie. People pridefully told out-of-towners, “I know them,” when the Shook Twins took the stage; I witnessed several sets of joyful-tears during the Avett Brothers’ positive-vibe provoking set; and even though Cool and the Gang was cancelled due to weather, by the last day of an 8-day festival, we’re all ready to give our weary livers a break, and honestly, Sandpoint NEEDED the rain!

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

#festival #sandpoint #idaho #summer #summerseries #concert #festivalseason #lake #river #tent #camping #lakestreetdive #walkofftheearth #news #travelblogger #blogger #travel

Back on the Camel (Jaisalmer, India)

Catapulted back in history, I’m sitting in roof top cafe overlooking Golden rock temples with highly ornate carvings of horses, cows, dancing ladies, Saints, and detailed sex positions—the Kama Sutra. Before schools existed, the church was the main center for education, so families would show their children down the colonnades to be sexually enlightened. Inside, nude statues of men and women were rubbed with greasy fingers in order to increase fertility and deepen the love within marriages. Someone told us that Jainism and Buddhism both stem from Hinduism?! We crawled through tiny passages that connected seven Jain temples, and avoided “priests” that begged for money by jingling change in an outstretched pan, despite the signs behind them saying, “Do not give money to men, place your donations in the box.” Our guide referred to them as “businessmen priests” or “mosquito priests” and got us laughing at his clever comparison.

In the whole of India, Jaisalmer has the only livable fortress, so we decided staying within the walled city amongst the 3,000 other inhabitants was a must. Slippery cobblestone roadways led to the old-town through a series of several massive marble gates. The narrow streets wound around the scalloped city wall where people hid inside their shops, away from the scorching heat. From one rooftop cafe, your line of sight connects you to plentiful other cafes and herb gardens. The sheet-metal or thatched roofs are all decorated with colored lights, billowing tapestries, tufted fabric tassels, and lucky bells that surround you with a constant magical clanging sound. Out of stark silence, air flurries through your hair and through the red tethered ribbons on the tops of temples. Jingling bells are hung all around “to wake up the Gods and make sure they’re always listening.”

Passing by a hidden storefront, a man spoke up, mentioning, “You’ve been colored by India.” He took a guess, “You’re in the business of helping people for a living.” He hypothesized my posture, presuming, “You’re the oldest of three children and you’re on a spirit quest.” Inspired by his speculations, I followed him into his shop. We sat on woven tribal carpets where the four wooden pillars around us seemed to turn into a temple. He read my palm, my eyes, and my soul and asked to help me with my energy blockages. Over the last few years, I’ve become aware of my weaknesses and have been ready for a dramatic change. Awareness is the first and most important step in any process. Prodding my third-eye chakra, I could feel the energy he pushed through the palms of my hands. His intensity scared me, but simultaneously made me feel like I’ve known him my whole life. 5 hours passed unexpectedly, and when I exited his shop, it was dark outside. Time was warped in his little sales-sanctuary.

Sipping a milk-coffee, looking out past the fortress, I watched the distance disappear as waves of sand rolled in on the desert wind. The low-lying town became suddenly swallowed up by a white sand-storm sky, making for sleepy eyes, gritty teeth, dust-covered skin, sandy feet, and a crusty brown sneeze. Anything left outside longer than a minute is instantly covered with a silty pink powder. Thick peeling paint, dirt-filled fingernails, stacked yellow bricks, blueing skin from oxidized jewelry, cracking purple lips, worn leather straps, and salty fraying hair fill the desert with texture. After my scary experience with a very angry, spitting/biting camel in Israel, I thought I’d never “get back on the horse” again. But, I’ve observed myself clinging to MANY fears, so I’ve decided it’s time to face them.

We took a 1-night Jeep and camel safari to the dunes about two-hours outside of Jaisalmer. My camel’s name was Johnny, and he was a badass! With scarified tattoos burned into his neck and legs, a spiked rocker-piercing running through his nose, and my fearful squeals piled atop his back, he waged war with our 1-hour ride. Riding a camel for an hour is actually SO PAINFUL and awkward. In my mind, I was pleading we’d arrive ASAP as I tried to reposition my cramping legs and stabilize myself upon his rocking hump. While our guides cooked a 5-course meal over a smoky campfire, we scuttled up the dunes and slid on down the vertical backside-slopes. We slept on springy cots under the open Indian sky, watched silver and green stars shoot through the heavens, checked constellations on an astrology app, and spotted Jupiter in her bright orange glory. Arriving home, tanned from a thick layer of desert sand (imagine festi-feet x10), I took the most welcomed 30-minute shower of my life and tried to imagine the “crustiness” of the 26-day camel safari that the village promoted.

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

Kosher Dillz

Thus far, India is unlike any place I’ve ever been. My expectations were nothing like the reality (as usual). In fact, many people warned me of India and put a bit of fear in my heart about the people here. “Don’t look men in the eye,” “Don’t smile at people,” “Never travel alone in India,” “Be inside with your room-door locked after sunset.” I was never really afraid until people put these thoughts in my mind, so showing up, I’ve definitely felt a bit on edge while in crowds. So far, everything has felt perfectly fine and the worries have only been holding me back from enjoying myself completely, so I’m putting these fears away.

At the airport, I hopped in a pre-paid police taxi (supposedly the “safest” option). All cars here are old fashioned models and are either black or white. License plates are not really a thing, as everyone has all their information hand-painted on their car with red, white and green lettering. Some people have funny sayings painted, and others have political or social statements inscribed. In a monsoon the night before, my taxi driver cleared the fog from his windows with a piece of cloth. The next day scorched, and without A.C., he used the same towel to wipe his dripping neck and forehead. He was so surprised I wasn’t sweating (mind over matter—the trick is to stay verrrrry calm and still), and kept questioning me, “How is it possible you’re OK, miss?!”

Of all places I’ve visited, India has the most mismatched religions. But somehow, all seem to live peacefully together, respecting each other’s viewpoints and sanctified structures. Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism, Muslims, Christians and Jewish people all come together to form a multi-faceted religious landscape. Freedom of religion is protected by law, and is seen as a basic human right. Cows are “holy,” and pigs are “dirty,” so no one eats either of these here. Big horny cows are caught moo-ing in the middle of an intersection and it catches you off guard to see them so out of place. It feels like you’re part of a cartoon when your little yellow rickshaw goes skidding around the slow, knobbly-kneed creatures.

You pass through puffs of garlicky flavored air-pockets and watch as mustached men knead, pinch, pull and rip at pieces of thick sticky white dough. Flapping the finished fraction against a sturdy surface, they fling the flattened batter into boiling grease basins and watch as it bubbles into lovely round rotis. Lentil soup and multi-colored curries roll and pop atop the fire cooking below their red ceramic pots or hammered copper canisters. The master chef ladles the steaming contents onto segmented steel trays. Basmati grains, or stacks of bread get their own compartment, pickled veggies get another, soup and curry account for several slots, and yoghurt full of dill, lemon and chickpeas helps to settle the spiciness. They eat only using their right hand (because they wipe their bums with their left hand). I haven’t yet become the master of my right hand, but I brought my own toilet paper, so we keepin’ it kosher.

In Chandni Chowk, our driver passed us off to a bicycle chariot because it’s unsafe for tourists to be alone in Old Delhi. “Santos” pedaled us down the narrow rickety streets where only foot traffic was allowed. Above the cobblestone walk, cobwebs of tangled wire smoked and sparked above dimly-lit pegboard signs. “Wedding street” hosted a complex network of shops selling highly decorated gowns, stationary, trimmings and tableware. Wandering into the city spice market, people covered their noses and mouths to protect themselves as we coughed and sneezed from the chili dust entering our lungs. Store-keepers shooed us toward pointed piles of powdered turmeric, cumin and curry. Dried dates and long golden raisins spilled out of brown burlap bags, garlands of pressed figs hung from red strings in the rafters, and white-bearded men wearing all-white suits and crocheted caps weighed spoonfuls of star anise and cinnamon.

The famous Dilli Haat Bazar was extra vibrant against the brick-and-mortar merchant stalls and sun-stained desert backdrop. Sellers are are sparked by our appearance and they excitedly welcome us to peruse their possessions. Amongst the arid dust, they’re selling bright bolts of fabric, wood-block prints, leather-bound journals, handmade paper, fine twisted tie-dyes, and batik fabrics like I’ve never imagined. The hawkers seem friendlier than in most countries I’ve visited. You feel like a princess as they try to impress you, offering sweet chai tea as they roll out goods on the floor in front of you. Even when you don’t buy something after their grand showcase, they end the session with, “No problem miss,” a head-bobble, and a smile.

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

Through Rose Colored Glasses (Jaipur, India)

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They call Jaipur the “pink city” because the entire old-town is a colonnaded street grid that’s carved from rosy local sandstone. Though everything is dusty and crumbling from the sands of time, the ancient architecture is truly amazing. Intricate details are carved out of the pink sandstone walls and lacy white lattice patterns are whittled into the windows. I think everything is actually a shade of burnt-red/brown, but in the heat of the day, when the sun scorches down and white-washes your perspective, everything softens to pink—the buildings, your skin, the surrounding foothills, the chalky desert sky. I now understand how Instagram created their “Jaipur” filter. Sitting in a canopied cafe, you can see yellow-bellied monkeys scaling sketchy, makeshift-bamboo scaffolding and scuttling across the rooftops.

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The central area is known for its marketplaces, especially the Bapu Bazaar. Stemming from the beautiful City Palace and the tiered birthday-cake-like Hawa Mahal are symmetrical market streets crisscrossing as far as the eye can see. Squatting men with purple hands are plunging fine fabrics into pots full of vegetable dyes; I obsess over bags of the cutest-shaped pasta that’s formed from potato flour (ABCs, flowers, stars, round-chips, waffles and wheels); brass cookware hangs and clangs in the breeze outside shop facades; and people sit on the cement floor selling keys and locks, tinkering with broken jewelry, shining soiled shoes, and repairing ripped garments. We drank thick milky “Lassi” from hand-turned ceramic mugs, sampled paneer cheese curds, chocolates and sapotes, purchased plumbs and mangoes (apparently India has over 100 types of mangos), and went to a walk-up homeopathic medicine stall where the doctor dripped liquid prescriptions onto tiny silver sugar-pills.

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I bought some simple strappy leather sandals for seven dollars where a greying man sat staining the supple leather different shades with a weathered horse-hair brush. Two beautiful hand-embroidered camel leather backpacks (they can’t use cow-leather here) also went home with me. I’ve gotten pretty good at shopping over the years, as now, I only choose to buy something if I REALLY want it or need it. Window shopping, or what I like to call, “inspiration shopping” is my favorite—“Look, look, no buy!” Buyers remorse hits me too hard if I buy something I don’t really need or love, but I love talking with the storekeepers while ingesting their collections. Though they’re probably only chatting with me to make a sale, I enjoy engaging with them. I joke around and mess with them, and though sometimes everything is lost in translation, saying anything with a smile always conveys your correct intention. Smiles and laughter = the world’s common language.

☺️

We’re like celebrities here, with a constant paparazzi of people pushing through to take our photo. There are no personal space standards, but the effects are beautiful because you see boys holding hands as they walk to school and women are snuggling each other in the streets. At the Albert Hall Art Museum, three fully-cloaked schoolgirls fixated on me from behind a ceiling-high display case. They stood pointing and whispering from under the sheer folds of fabric that covered everything except their eyes. After mustering the courage to come over to me, we took a selfie, and a girl in all-pink dropped her head in her hands, covered her eyes, and began to cry! A solemn man approached us to ask, “Why can’t we connect with tourists?” We replied that it’s hard for us to let our guard down when we feel like we’re constantly being bamboozled into buying something. Drivers follow us around asking where we’re going, someone at the train station will offer to show us to our platform and after demand payment, people put their outstretched hand in our face as if we owe them something for simply existing as a foreigner. The thing is, you can’t take anything too personally—you have to harden up and realize this is their “rat-race;” that giving feels good and is freeing for the heart; and that the more you give away, the more you will receive in return.

🎁

After a solid shopping day, we headed to the Raj Mandir cinema to finally behold a Bollywood film. I didn’t think twice before eating the peel of a random fruit offered as a sample by a market vendor, but I started feeling REAL weird on our way. The sneaky little buggers at ticket-sales tried to give us the wrong change, and moments later, the popcorn guys pulled the same trick, so we realized this must be a recurring hack here. Always check your change! I’ve never experienced a colder theater in my 27-years on this planet, so I layered on every new piece of clothing I purchased. I survived through the entire 3-hour saga, PLUS intermission with puke-bags prepared, shivering with a fever, and honestly felling like I might shit through ALL 4 pairs of pants I was wearing! Clambering up the stairs to my hostel bed, the cute little Indian check-in boys were so concerned. They came around quite often throughout the night and the next day to pet my head, check my temperature, and serve me lemon tea and “Maggi Noodles” (India’s famous cup-noodles).

🍜

Always,

Alena Netia Horowitz | Miss Potato

It Takes A Village - Trekking Sa Pa

The town of Sa Pa had us feeling pretty sad due to the high numbers of exploited children trying to sell us feelings of sorrow along with woven bracelets. They really had the “feel bad for me” eyes down as a six year old boy swaddled his baby sister, rocking her softly above the city sewer-system. We couldn’t help but wonder if these beautiful brown babies were birthed specifically to be sent out begging on the street. I hate thinking that, but soooo many small costumed children had an even smaller costumed child strapped to their back in a beaded batik sling. I wanted to search around the city more, but I felt a bit sickened with other tourists trying on traditional garb, laughing at themselves for a photo, and casting the items back on the tarps on the ground, un-purchased. Has tourism sent this small village culture spiraling into poverty?

On to happier places; The first part of the trek took us through a foggy little wooden village selling coffee, veggies and grain that they milled with river-powered milling contraptions. Some Red Yao women carrying bamboo baskets on their backs joined us for our journey, and sheltered us from the rain under their bright plaid umbrellas. We walked by many open homes selling beautifully embroidered jackets, blankets, home goods and trinkets. The tribal handcrafts are absolutely gorgeous, but they’re not so practical to modern-day travelers (their primary clients). Stuck in designing traditional (somewhat unflattering) shapes, I wish someone would think, “If I put this same beautiful embroidery on a more modern silhouette, I’d make tons of money!!” But somehow, I think only western cultures are trained to think in this entrepreneurial fashion. We walked by a beautifully greying elder tribal woman dressed in a blue plaid turban and a velvet purple robe. Hundreds of handwovens were strung around her house on bamboo tubes. I bought the most elaborately embroidered tapestry I’ve ever seen for 1,000,000VND ($43). Our tour guide translated that it took the sweet Black Hmong woman three years to complete.

The trek, (especially day two), was absolutely breathtaking. Firstly because we couldn’t catch our breath while climbing some of the hills and secondly because the views were incredibly delicious. The trail wound around slippery red-clay roads that cut through the mountainous jungle and surprised us when every so often we’d see a brave motor-biker making the journey. Giant beetles buzzed in the treetops, bird-sized mosquitoes tried to sting us through thick clothes, and hidden monkeys “whooped” back and forth. The rice paddies were an incredible man-made production, with miles and miles of organically shaped pools cascading down the mountain sides. Water Buffalo churned the soil and women worked to plant one tiny grain-stalk at a time. The springtime runoff, and beautiful yet simple inventions (aqueducts made from bamboo or hollowed-out trees), worked to fill the steps with different shades of foggy muddled water. Our guide pulled up “pee tea” leaves, plucked the legs off of/pocketed a giant beetle, foraged pungent pink fungus, and hog-tied a giant land-crab along our way.

Upon reaching our homestay, we kicked off our mucked-up shoes, complained about sore ankles, and sipped frosty Ha Noi beers just as an incredible lightning storm rolled in. I’ve never seen lightning like this before as it strobed constantly against the mountains without a single sound of cracking of thunder. Peering through a curtain of rain that separated the guesthouse from the family house, we ducked over to join our hosts for a home-cooked meal. The Red Yao women wore embroidered hand-dyed indigo jackets, comfy crotchless pants, and funny red hats that kept reminding me of Santa Claus. They set out a feast for us, everything harvested from their own land. White rice and several different varieties of stir-fry, including: Lufa (Asian cucumber), pork and onion, chicken green pepper carrot, steamed ferns... all topped with a super-lemony, peppery, garlicky chilly sauce and crunchy fire-roasted soy beans. YUM! The adults ate first, and the leftovers were offered to the children and animals in the next room.

Once able to walk, you’re able work in the village. Women crafted, sold things, and worked as trail guides; Men built homes, dammed the river, and fixed the road; Groups of tiny mud-and-booger-covered children led massive water buffalo to their feeding zones, away from the rice and corn fields. Getting further from modern civilization, the village houses became more and more, “less is more.” True tribal living, reverting back to using only what we really need to survive—a roof and walls for shelter from the elements, a semi-comfortable place to sleep, separate sanitary “bath” rooms with squatty holes in the ground for toilets, and a place to keep the fire for cooking—the spark of modern mankind, evolved. When we waved at people passing by, the biggest smile crept across their faces, with deep wrinkles creasing their cheeky grins. The tribes are simple village folk: arranged to be wed at a young age (men can be married up to three times), raising human and farm-animal families, cooking together, sleeping in the same little dark bunk room, walking an hour or two to the tribal schoolyard, tending their personal rice-paddies, and helping their community members in any way they can—“It takes a village.

What a beautiful weekend spent exploring Northern Vietnam.

All the best,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

Hem Spaghetti

In Ho Chi Minh City, there are almost 9-million people disseminating into 24 different districts. Like The Hunger Games, I live in District 3, Ward 5, bordering District 1. My location couldn’t get much better than this. On the larger scale, the patchwork of weird-shaped districts make up the city, but as you wander down the streets in center-city, you’ll see sweet little alleyways seemingly cut off from the rest of the world. They call these cozy little places, “hems,” and doesn’t the name just imply how comfy they are?

The air is cooler and cleaner down in the hem. Each one has an atmosphere of its own—a whole new world, a neighborhood unnoticed (unless you happen to live there or take the time to explore). Each little alleyway has new nooks and crannies, many you’d probably never appreciate, even if you drifted down that road every day for the rest of your life. Sometimes I sit on my rooftop, drinking shitty wine, and watching all the moving parts as they work as one.

The old architecture is composed of 3-4 story buildings with some definite French-influence. The tall skinny buildings are usually unfinished on the sides and only adorned on the facade, making room for other rising buildings to share their sidewalls. These shared-houses rise from the pot-holed passage, up through orange-glowing streetlights and a messy web of tangled electric wires. A pastel horizon of tiered roofs rises up into the smoky purple, light-polluted sky. Scratched-off posters, graffiti and molding paint create dirty murals that crawl up the walls. Everything is broken and peeling, rusting and receding, but the urban-decay gives each hem its own unique character. It has been well loved and used-up, and has watched many sunrises turn to sunsets.

Someone is selling noodle soup from the side of the street. Somebody peddles coffee and cigarettes from a small stand. Somebody sleeps on a cot beside bubbling pots of boiled eggs and snails. Someone is slinging slices of meat onto crusty “bánh mì” sandwiches. A family hawks costume jewelry and flashy folk-religion alter-lights. Women get pampered and polished as men lay back, in black leather chairs, puffing hand-rolled smoke as barbers shave their necks with steel-cut knives.

Little children ride tricycles, or kick themselves on scooters, practicing their balance in preparation for a lifetime of motor biking on the busy Saigon streets. Neighbors enjoy family meals from the floor of their apartments, babies coo at unusual cartoons, women wash their dishes in big metal basins and dump the wastewater into the ditches that feed down the sewer drains. People water their cactus-like plants, feed aquarium fish, and drink “ba ba bas” on their balconies.

In the mornings, families open up their gated fences and push grandma’s wheelchair outside so she can soak in the sunlight for a few hours. Walking by and waving at her, it’s as if she hasn’t been waved at in years. She’s startled, and her eyes light up as she struggles to lift her tiny trembling fingers to signal back. She smiles through her gummy toothless grin and life is simple.

It’s peaceful here. In the hem, life seems to slow. You can hear faint sounds from the surrounding motorways, but most noises are muffled within. Thick plumes of burning incense swirl around your ankles and dissipate as you stroll by. Roosters call from their confinement in circular cages, mom and dad are fighting—hissing at each other like savage cats, dishes clang, and baby cries. The hem is the epicenter of Vietnamese life: true local living.

It’s like a city within a city—the hem has a mind of its own.

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

“SHITmas with the Kiddos”

Can you believe my MOM came all the way to Vietnam to visit me?! Along with Doritos and new underwear, she brought me my Santa-suit that (funny enough) I purchased exactly this time last year when I was traveling through Vietnam. We had a biker-brigade that drove from Hue to Hoi An. I saw a costume store on the side of the road and immediately concocted a “Santa Squad” idea. We decided we COULD NOT, NOT purchase them. Biking down the coast of Vietnam in bright red Santa outfits—I’ll never forget the reactions we got from the locals. There wasn’t a single person we passed that didn’t take pictures of us and blare their horn while bellowing, “Merry Christmas!” We thought we were going absolutely viral in Vietnam, but we’re still waiting for our big-break.

As foreign teachers, we’re already celebrities in our school. We are escorted in and out of taxis that pick us up and drop us off everywhere we need to be. All the kids want to hug you, give you a high-five, touch you, or pull out anything they can possibly muster from the depths of their English language depository... but with a Santa-suit, the kids actually went insane. The moment the kids walked through the classroom doors and saw me, they started SCREAMING. At one point I almost got knocked over. I thought for sure I was going down because I had 35 screaming six-year-olds jumping all around me and trying to push their way to the front for a hug. I legit created a mosh pit!!!! It was LITTY!!!

We just learned the “sh,” “ch,” and “th,” phonics sounds… But Christmas happens to be one of the too-many exceptions to the English rule. Basically I had a bunch of children chanting, “MERRY SHITmas!!!” They wanted to show me they knew some Christmas songs in English, so some of them volunteered to get up on the teaching stage and sing to me. After one group finished, another group also wanted to perform. This time they sang a Vietnamese Christmas song for me. The third group digressed from Christmas music to “Happy Birthday,” so it was time to get back on track with the lesson.

I illegally downloaded Rudolph the red nose reindeer, 1964 version (I wouldn’t steal a car), because it’s still BY FAR the greatest Christmas movie ever created. Mic drop. When I told them we were going to watch a Christmas movie and make greetings cards for their family, they all jumped up and down shouting, “Cool teacher!” Cool teacher and happy Christmas elf, I pranced around the classroom giving out coloring worksheets, markers, and sparing amounts of glitter (because anyone who has kids or works with kids knows what a slippery-slope glitter can be). I loved watching their creativity (or obvious lack thereof) take place. A Waldorfian myself, I’m a huge proponent of play-based-learning.

My plan was to just decorate a 2D card, but my teaching assistant cut one child’s into 3D form. That was the END of peace and quiet, and life as we know it. Once one student gets something, the other students NEED to have it or widespread panic quickly disperses . The three-dimensional card was WAY too much for the youngins. As with anything (especially with kids), anything that can go wrong WILL go wrong... things you would never expect! Like—“What?! You don’t know how to cut with scissors?!” SO, we taught their little hands how to cut with scissors. *Add developing fine motor skills, rapid paper-folding, and glue-sniff patrol to the resume.*  We had sooo much fun with the kiddos!

Giáng Sinh Vui Vẻ!

Always,

Alena Santa-witz | Miss Potato

“Shoe Bandit”

With heavy rains, constant humidity and uneven cobblestone ground, I’ve had three pairs of shoes break in Vietnam already. On my walk to work, I realized there was a local cobbler that worked repairing shoes and handbags from a squatting position on the side of the road. Surrounded by scattered rusty tools, piles of new soles, and leather scraps of all colors and sizes, he puffed on a cigarette that was stuffed in the corner of his crusty purple lips. He wore a funky palm-patterned button-down, and his big brown eyes were enlarged by his vintage yellow tinted glasses.

He laughed and made a motion with his hands, trying to communicate how big my feet were. I sat on a little metal stool as he literally picked my foot off the ground and put his foot up to the bottom of mine to compare. “WOOOOOW,” he said. In Vietnam it’s hard to find big enough shoes to fit my enormous American feet. I walk into some stores and the owners literally shoo you away shouting, “Nooooo! Too big!!” It’s either this, or they try to stuff you into too-small items and say, “Yes, good fit for you” even when your toe is hanging an inch off the front. They get a bit angry when they discover you’ve outsmarted them and can figure out that—yes, they are actually too small.

He fixed my first pair of shoes for $3, so I brought him another pair a few weeks later, which he fixed for $2. I’ve walked past this man every morning and evening for the last two months and he’s always smiled and waved since the first fix. Walking by him made me happy because I had a buddy on my block... a friendly face to say “hi” to every morning. The entire time, I think he thought I was a tourist, but one morning, I witnessed him finally realize that I’m living here. He jumped off his low aluminum stool and bounced over to shake my hand. He’s always wearing the same yellow shades and seemingly smoking the same unending cigarette.

A few weeks later, he motioned to me to come sit with him and drink cup of his “home-brewed” (powdered coffee concentrate). I had to get to work quickly that morning, or else I would have accepted his offer. He was like a sweet little grandpa that would fix my shoes and flash me a smile every day on my way to work. We were friends. I left him with a 3rd pair of shoes the other day, and made the mistake of going back back after dark to pick them up. He was so drunk as he bumbled around, mumbling to himself and stumbling over his piles.

He asked me to sit on a stool while he searched. When he finally found my shoes, he stood over me and said “free!” I scrambled through my bag and pulled out 50k for him to take, but again he said “free” and started grabbing at my boobs and tugging my hand toward his crotch. He held my shoes behind his back, out of reach, as he grabbed my arm and wouldn’t release. Luckily, he was much smaller than me, so I finally yelled “NO!!” and yanked myself free. He was such a sweet little old man—I thought... But this little old man left such a scary feeling in my heart!!! I’m okay, just a little shaken up! My friend offered me some good advice: “Some people, even the ones we trust, can become ugly.” Sad to see someone I thought of as a friend act in such a way, but from now on, I will definitely will be avoiding his block on my walk.

Always,

Alena Netia Horowitz | Miss Potato

“Typhoon Fever”

Last Thursday evening, while eating at our favorite dumpling soup spot, we suddenly got a rather unsettling text. The freakiest thing was that everything was in Vietnamese except the word “TYPHOON.” So, I was thinking: “Amber alert? This can’t be good!” Soon after, my friend informed me of the oncoming tropical storm that was headed straight in our direction. Shows how much I pay attention to the news...

I hibernated all Sunday morning and woke up to cracking thunder outside my tiny apartment window. The storm had arrived! I turned on some National Geographic and faded in out of consciousness. Nat-Geo is one of two English channels available on my tv... but I can’t complain because it’s quite educational and I now know how to survive if ever I was left Naked and Afraid in the wilderness for 28 days. Though I didn’t want to get out of bed, I only had one potato left in my apartment, so I had to do something for food. I think all of my friends were in the same boat—totally out of snacks, sitting in our bedrooms, telling ourselves, “It’s okay, if I don’t think about it, I’m not hungry... maybe I just won’t eat today!” But then 3:00pm rolls around and you’re like, “Welp... I’m either staying here and eating this entire box of dry cereal, OR I need to get out of here!” We went to a cozy little Italian place in my “hem,” where we colored on tablecloths and drooled over all the amazing menu items. When I came home, I discovered my room wasn’t watertight. I live in a brand new building (which I believe I’m paying WAY too much for. I panicked and jumped into a lease too quickly, because I wanted to feel stable and know I had a “forever home.” I can be super indecisive and weigh my options to extremely unnecessary levels, or make spur-of-the-moment decisions, which I usually beat myself up over the subsequent results… Gemini). The one stream of water that was coming through my window quickly turned into five, and then a huge puddle started spreading across my floor. Not only were the cracks around the window leaking, but the actual wallstarted seeping through and swelling where there were no exterior openings. HOW DOES THAT EVEN HAPPEN?! The power went out for a bit, which was actually pretty scary because I realized we have an electric-based entry system, where you need a fingerprint and electricity to get in AND OUT of the building. Not safe!!! Upon coming back on, the few towels I threw down were not cutting it for water elimination duties, so I made sure all my belongings were off the floor and got the heck out of my apartment. I went to chill in a coffee shop (away from the stress of the rivers of rain-water that were running straight into my electrical outlets). Lots of imminent electrical problems/fire hazards in Vietnam. I feel like I’m growing to love this city more and more every day. Even watching the rain pour down while safe in the coffee shop was amazing. Everyone was so tranquil, and life just went on out on the streets, as raincoated motor-bikers sped by the fogged glass windows. Coffee is a pretty funny tradition here... while I’m getting HYPED on cappuccinos every morning... locals are using it to sit back and relax into the wee hours of the morning. Curled up on the comfy couches, I wrote and read and relaxed for hours. School was cancelled the next day, we safely survived the storm, the landlords patched my leaky walls, and all was good and well in my world.

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

#saigon #hochiminh #hochiminhcity #flood #typhoon #hurricane #travelblogger #travelblog #experientialblogger #experiential #learning #coffee #coffeeshop #coffeehouse #vietnam #englishteacher #teacher

~ Coracle Beach Music Festival ~

We boarded a 45-person party bus after scanning out of work on Friday. Wearing funky shirts, blasting music on a portable speaker, standing up and dancing in the isle, smoking cigarettes inside, and asking to stop for a pee every 20-minutes ended up taking us about 3-hours to get from HCMC to Bien Ho Tram beach campground—our weekend destination for Coracle Music Festival. I think we all just assumed there were “no rules” on the bus, because everyone was being absolutely ridiculous. At one point after a pee-break, the bus driver went on strike and sat on the curb of the road, crossing his arms and refusing to board the bus. Some girls begged him to finish the journey. Upon arriving at the first hotel, the driver refused to take us to our hotel, we left our stuff in someone else’s room and started walking to the festival.

Maybe the bus driver felt bad, (or maybe he was tipped $25 extra), but he ended up picking us up along the way. Getting to the festival was an absolute ruckus: Someone rolled their ankle, someone lost their suitcase, and some people forgot their tickets in the hotel… BUT we finally made it into the venue for the last song of Oddissee and Good Company’s set, closing down the main stage. From here, we moved to the “dance stage,” which was bumping all night. This stage felt like a little forested nest that was cradled by furry blue beach-pines. The festival grounds were pretty DIY, with simple white Christmas lights wrapped in tonal plastic foils… Somehow when the sun went down, the illuminated hovering colors were beautiful. Friendly volunteers smiled as they filled drinks and nitrous-oxide balloons from behind thatched tiki-bars.

On Saturday, the ATM in our small town was out of money. We killed two birds with one stone and took money out in the next town over while picking up our stuff at the boys’ hotel room. I knocked the first time I entered to make sure it was okay to proceed. When I left, I realized I had accidentally taken the wrong bottle of alcohol, so I barged back in and definitely caught someone scurrying across the room, bashfully trying to hide their bare bottom. Naked-ass in the morning—not the worst thing to wake up to. Besides nudity, on Saturday, “trop tops,” were all the rage. I love the easygoing styles of Vietnam. It’s like the weirder/funkier your prints… the cooler you seem. Everyone looks festive, colorful and comfortable. And let’s be honest, whose jaw doesn’t drop at the sight of man in floral? Actually, I buy all my trippy t-shirts from a men’s clothing store, where I can find the coolest patterned shirts for 80k ($3).

My favorite Saturday set was an ethereal Japanese “traditional mixing” group (Daichi Mo-waii) that actually gave me chills as the wind washed their sounds up the beach. Their sounds were so bright and prickly that the hair on my entire body stood on end. A jazz symphony, composed of expats from Hanoi rocked the main stage, with crisp horns and saxity-softness floating across the waves. After an all-day-build-up and watching a group of drag queens paint their faces on for three hours, the most fanatical spectacle was Gender Funk. They hosted theatrical events and dance-offs while cranking classic angsty girl-powered throwbacks. I saw the terrified look on the faces of all the guys around us as we scared the living daylights out of them with how hard we raged to “Who Run The World,” and “I Fink U Freaky.”

I’ve never been to a beach festival before, but I have to say there’s something magical about running around with bare feet… shoeless, traipsing footsteps across the cool sand. All weekend, people relaxed on embroidered mandalas, took warm swims in the ocean, observed the wind as it wrested with enormous octopus and clownfish kites, rested in giant woven wicker baskets, and caught some needed breaths of fresh oceanic air outside of the city. After seeing the sweet setup of the campsite, I wish we had camped, but it was nice to wake up in comfy hotel beds. We roused, revived and ready for our next week at work… sandy grime coating every corner of our bodies and purple glitter caught in unfathomable places.

Always,

Alena Netia Horowitz | Miss Potato

#beach #beachbar #beach festival #music festival #festival #festival season

Self-Care Sunday

After a wonderful breakfast and some thrift-shopping at a super trendy artist-lounge in the heart of expat country (D2), we decided to rid our minds of the Sunday Scaries by pampering ourselves at a famous Korean Spa, “Golden Lotus Spa World”. We walked down an obscure, enchanted alley where banyan tree tentacles and lanterns hung all around us. The walls were muraled with sweet little street-scenes and colorful depictions of Vietnamese culture. At check-in, elegant ladies gave us three tiny towels along with a set of yellow cotton pajamas to wear around the facility. Local families made funny looking hats (like doughnut-shaped ears) out of their towels. We were having a spa-day in Star Wars, surrounded by hundreds of Princess Leias.

Feeling like Orange Is The New Black in our jailbird pajamas, we tiptoed upstairs, excited to see what the spa had in store for us. We started in a negative-ion sauna that had red mineral-mud walls and wooden beams, sweet herbal smells, and wooden blocks on the floor to rest our heads. Next, we cooled off in an igloo-ice-room, where fragile ice crystals grew on the frozen piping system and sheets of marble held in the cold. Our third stop was an infrared sauna where bundles of curled cinnamon bark released spiced aromas as they cooked on the walls. Here we stretched and worked up a sweat before moving to an oxygen-therapy chamber (basically a sleeping-room because everyone in there was out cold). I was excited to catch some zzz’s, but the surround-sound-snoring wasn’t working for my picky-sleeper preferences. Asians can literally sleep anywhere. You see them fast asleep, sprawling atop their motorbikes, balancing with their feet on the handlebars—I don’t get it.

Surrounded by thick leaves and Plumeria trees, we soaked our feet in a hot outdoor footbath. We chilled and chatted in four different color therapy rooms, where we left Yellow like, —“Okay, that’s enough soaking up self-esteem for me for the day!” and Indigo like, “My intuition has grown too strong!” There were designated sleeping rooms for men and women, meditation pods, a “family cinema” a “kid’s TV cubby,” where kids could literally climb through tunnels in the wall to enter their little lair, and heavy logs in the main hall where some people stretched, read or watched movies on their phones. At this spa, people relaxed, ate, drank, caught up with their friends, sweated out their weekend, and rejuvenated their bodies with all the amazing saunas… it was the ultimate relaxation package ALL IN ONE!

I read the “health benefits” plaque on every room before I entered, so I could focus my mind on the healing (or placebo-effect of healing) in each room. Maybe it’s a bunch of bologna—but I eat that shit up; and I have to say, I’ve slept like a baby, had more energy, and felt more overall happiness ever since. The Mineral Mud-Room had the following benefits: Mineral mud is a natural product of the Earth’s biological degradation of organic substances that takes place over 40,000 years. The chemical composition of the mud contains sulfates, phosphates, iron and sulfur minerals that interact with the steam, heat, herbs, negative ions and infrared rays to help detoxify, burn fat, rejuvenate cells, reduce muscle and bone aches, improve sleep and increase productivity of the brain. Sounds pretty good to me!

The Himalayan Rock Salt Room was almost too hot for comfort. Cubes of rose-colored rock were laid like bricks around the heat source, giving the room a warm flickering glow. The benefits included: Under high temperatures, minerals in rock salt help to reduce fatigue, anxiety, depression, fatigue, insomnia, allergies, migraines, colds, asthma and lung disease. Rock salt helps strengthen the immune system, supports the activities of the heart, and regulates the adrenal gland (responsible for sex and stress hormones). The light cast off the pink rock helps with mental stability and stress reduction. It improves the body’s PH, thus smoothing and clearing up the skin, treating skin-related diseases, and increasing dermal elasticity. Of all the saunas we tried (we were in this place for nearly 5 hours!!), the Volcanic Ball Room was my favorite. This room was filled with tiny beads of Volcanic rock, that kind of looked like cat-food at first glance, but felt like we were in a 5 Gum commercial. People dug their bodies deep into the ball-pit, allowing the effects of acupressure (pressure to stimulate, disperse and balance the flow of energy) to take place. Acupressure helps the body eliminate toxins, excrete waste, purge heavy metals, guard against air pollution, enhance metabolism, boost overall immunity, and relax muscles and blood vessels to improve blood circulation. Rare-earth chemicals, found within the balls, also released antioxidants, which help increase natural healing and delay the aging process. For our last activity, we decided to be brave and enter the plunging-pools full of naked ladies. At first we were shy about getting naked, but then we figured, when else would we ever get to do this?! Clothing optional was suddenly, “No clothing allowed.” We stripped down and ran to the first pool, frantically covering our naked bodies. After being around a bunch of other unclothed people for a while, it somehow becomes comfortable. You realize your confidence and stop caring who sees because no one else cares! All bodies are NOT created equal. We all have blemishes, imperfect areas, funny nipples, strange scars, and awkward proportions… but somehow it’s all beautifully human. The only thing that makes us “the same” is our differences. Always, Alena Netia Horowitz | Miss Potato

Halloween in Ho Chi Minh

I rocked a unibrow as Frida Kahlo the weekend before Halloween. No one else was really dressed up, so I got a few people asking me if it was real. A guy we went out with actually ended up scrubbing it off my face because he “couldn’t stop staring at it.” Since we had class on actual Halloween, I wanted to dress up for my kids, but I figured none of them would get the Frida reference. I found some glittery cat ears for $1 at my local market, and tested out some cat makeup the night before, but decided the dark makeup and purple lipstick was too sexy for my first graders, not to mention, my morning walk to work would turn me into a melting-sexy-cat.

Most of the girls in my class were some version of a princess. I had a “pumpkin princess,” a “spider princess,” a “rainbow unicorn princess…” you get the drift. The boys were pretty much all unrecognizable with full-body costumes, scary masks and morph-suits. Even their Vietnamese “form teacher” dressed up (the form teachers are known for being super-strict hard-asses that crack the whip in class—literally, they crack rulers on the desks when the kids are misbehaving, so I was surprised to see her dressed up. She was a corpse bride and was actually terrifying!! Fake blood and guts painted every square inch of exposed skin, and she even blinked her bloody eyelids over some super-scary clear blue contacts. I was even scared of getting close to her as I walked in. A boy sat in the back of the classroom, open-mouth sobbing, throwing his head back, tears streaming down the neck of his collared shirt. I asked why he was so sad and one of the moms in the classroom said, “he’s scared of his teacher,” as she scrubbed the gory makeup off her body and peeled the creepy contacts out of her eyes. Bless his soul.

Everyone took their costumes off before class, which I was pretty surprised about. I guess they did it so it wouldn’t be a distraction, but it seemed like a pretty huge production to only last the first hour of the school day. I played them a Halloween song (which by the way… songs/videos for early learning purposes are hugely under-represented… if you’re a videographer/weird person that wants to make children laugh and enrich the minds of our future leaders—this market is open for you!). I also practiced a magic trick, where I snipped notches into a flat piece of paper and once all eyes were on me, I unfurled it into a perfect spider-web right in front of their eyes. They went insane.

Energy levels were high as I’m sure lots of candy was consumed. Lolly-pop sticks hung out their sticky little mouths as they jittered about the daily classroom activities. I have a thing in my class where I say: “What’s the rule? No toys!” “What’s the rule? No candy!” My teaching assistant usually suggests that I get candy for kids as a reward, but I’m pretty anti-candy, especially considering most of their baby teeth are already a rotten-blue color… like get these kids a banana or something! But somehow, their little rotten smiles are endearing. Today was an exception on the candy rule though, but usually I say “If you play with toys and candy, what happens? I’m keeping them forever!! Muahahahaha!!” I ask them, “Do I like toys? Of course I do!” “Do I like candy? Yes I do!” Today when I said “Yes, I like candy,” hoards of kids came running to my desk with candy offerings for “teacher.”

We flipped through our weekly vocab, one word being “cat,” at which I watched their eyes light up as they made the connection to my sparkly ears and said, “teacher it’s youuuu!” As a teacher, you sometimes feel like the kids have no idea what you’re talking about in class, with blank stares and beady little eyes, but sometimes when you see them make a connection between your class and the outside world, it’s magical. It happens quite often as a teacher, especially with the younger kids, and it gives you this sparkly feeling inside; like, “I DID THAT!!!” Beautiful and spooky at the same time.

Happy Halloween, BOO!

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

Mekong Delta Bike Tour

This weekend I got out of the city and did a two-day motorbike trip around the Mekong River Delta. On Friday, just as I was getting off work, two buddies who I had met traveling exactly one year ago in Thailand, texted me saying that they were in Ho Chi Minh City. They told me they were going on a motorbike tour and that we should meet up when they got back to the city, but I jumped on board the fun-train and decided to tag along. Staying out until 3:30am for a coworker’s birthday probably wasn’t the best idea when meeting the crew for a 6:45am departure was on the itinerary, but with a little Vietnamese coffee, I was good to go. We slept a bit on a local bus to Ben Tre where we picked up 5 automatic bikes and scooted off toward Happy Family Homestay for the night. Our journey would take us 60km to a tiny crook in the Mekong, about 6km from the nearest town of Vinh Long. The only way in to the guesthouse was by scooter, road-bike, or riverboat.

Our tour guide took us down a maze of back-road Mekong wilderness, on little roads that were only wide enough for bikes fit. The cracked cement path zigzagged over the many canals on 2-foot-wide rickety hand-built bridges. Trunkless palm trees grew straight out of the water, and we were shaded by giant racks of green bananas, super-leafy canopies and big bright orange and yellow flowering trees. Children dressed in colorful pajamas would run out to say, “helloooo,” and river-folk fished with bamboo-rods in the muddy brown waters outside their shaded country-homes. The tiny white back-roads were super fun to scoot along for the first few hours, but after 4thhour of twisting and turning on craggily/slippery swamp-roads in the heat of the day, I started to feel restless. My neck hurt, my hands were fully callused, my entire upper body was shaking with the hum of the motor, and I had a solid farmer-tan setting in. We got lost a few times down random roads and had to turn back, cutting across sandy fields, muddy alleyways and twisting gravel paths that were only wide enough for our tire-treads. In the end, I was so exhausted from sharply maneuvering my scooter that I lost the strength to control my bike and ended up falling 3x in slippery mud and deep sandpits. Luckily, I stuck my landings pretty well, landing on top of my bike rather than under it. At least I wasn’t like the guy on the tour the week before that launched his bike off one of the little river bridges.

When we arrived at the guesthouse, we were so ready for the hammock chairs and the cold beers that were provided. The place was so safe and remote that we left our bike-keys in our ignitions, immediately took off our shoes and wandered barefoot around the peaceful property. The big white house was set between a jackfruit forest and a fertile flood-zone of floating hyacinth on the Mekong. Thatched roof cottages, thick-cut traditional wooden furniture, colorful statues of Buddha, dragons, and intricate paintings of traditional medicine, chakra charts, and zodiac mandalas adorned the lovely estate. We hopped in the pool and headed straight to the stilted open-air restaurant that was built over the river. Two sisters cooked us an amazing array of Vietnamese cuisine including, fried rice, satay chicken, Banh Xeo, root vegetable stew, steamed cabbages and (the best)—a jackfruit curry. The brother showed us how to hollow out a banana to make a shot-glass for what he called, “happy water” (rice-wine moonshine). The food was absolutely amazing, but we decided the rice-wine tasted like a cross of plastic bottles and barbecue sauce. For 30k/bottle, I guess you can’t really complain. We played cards, drank about 6-bottles of “happy water” and then jumped off the roof of a boat into the Mekong.

In the early morning, we took a riverboat ride and then hopped ship to smaller canoes that were paddled by petite purple ladies wearing traditional silk Ao Dai. Saying goodbye to our hosts was actually quite sad as I felt so at peace within their sheltered wooden abode. They were such a sweet little family that worked together, cooked together, welcomed guests into their home with bright eyes and big smiles, and enjoyed the simplicities of life from their little dock on the Mekong. We hugged them all goodbye, thanked them for opening their home to us for the night, and headed back along the river-bridging bike path.

The way back took us through several river villages, where bikes were the only mode of transportation and a surprising amount of rural weddings were taking place. Colorful tent-structures housed happy brides and grooms, while drunk relatives and neighbors swayed back and forth, gargling the words to the blasting countryside Karaoke. We stopped at a roadside café where I was thoroughly amused by the “restroom.” A woman grabbed my hand and dragged me through the jungle behind her restaurant. Showing me the way to their toilet, she pointed to an actual pond with two cement foot-piers leading out over the water. Out here, a foot-tall metal box (equip with a waste-bin) was where you squatted and watched as your excrements trickled into the pond below. Turning back around on this little potty-pier was quite a process, as one wrong move, you’d be in deep shit.

On our drive, hundreds of furry red Rambutans (my favorite fruit) clung to the tree-branches of irrigated farms that were dug into the Mekong clay. I was hoping to find a branch where I could pick some for myself, or buy some. We rode past a harvest where locals sat in their straw hats, picking through the red berries. A lady saw how excited I was, ran up to me clinging to a fistful of ripened branches, said something excitedly in Vietnamese and shoved them into my hand. I somehow have really good “traveler’s luck,” I like to call it. At first, I thought the $85 fee for the trip was rather pricey, especially for Vietnam, but as we crossed the Mekong delta on the last wooden bike-ferry and a Vietnamese baby smiled and waved at me, I realized that our trip was worth every penny. Over the last two days, we scooted through incredible countryside, ate one of the best meals I’ve had in Vietnam, rekindled old friendships and made new friends and family to last a lifetime.

Always,

Alena Horowitz | Miss Potato

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