Tagged : Essays

in Travel
Athens-Greece-Parthenon-Kid

Athens Greece

The constant din of the chirping cicada bugs is second in annoyance only to the searing heat of the pavement.

A young boy plays the accordion for the passing tourists, telling jokes and working the crowd of onlookers.

George, the tourist hustler, dressed in a grey sports coat with a teal blue polo shirt underneath is conversing/hustling a young male twosome in the same way that he had worked me the day before. Thankfully I hadn’t fallen prey. Later I had found out that this guy does this on a regular basis, he lures you to a bar for a friendly drink, beautiful women are introduced, and then the bill is skyward bound with you obliged to pay it. I think about rescuing these two with some clever save, but realize that if they aren’t smart enough to get out of this situation themselves, than they’re likely not smart enough to realize that I would be trying to help them. Continue Reading

in Media Culture

Back to 1991 – A Time Capsule and a Dream

I wonder where my head was at in 1991? What was I into? I have a pretty good idea I think, but I’m sure there’s something I’ve forgotten about.

I almost even forgot about the time capsule.

I pursued its whereabouts back in 2001 and a little bit beyond, but was stonewalled, and then today, out of the blue, comes word — pick up your time capsule.

Rumour has it they were never buried — probably left for dead in a pile of junk at the bottom of some dusty storage room, but I have it now. Continue Reading

in Misc Bin

Dressing Like Your Neighbourhood

As I am writing this I’m in the South Main area of Vancouver which was once referred to as Mount Pleasant, and is sometimes referred to in local marketing  as SoMa. This is an area that has experienced rapid change and gentrification over the past 10 years or so.

Once riddled with seedy characters and prostitutes, this area is now home to a burgeoning urban culture and boutique fashion scene. This is a favourite hang out of the hipster, and what seems interesting to me is that much like other similar neighbourhoods in New York, or Portland, people start to look like their neighbourhood.

It’s a bit strange, but spend enough time where you live and you start to reflect the style of your neighbours. In Vancouver the difference in looks between neighbourhoods is very apparent.

South Main is dominated by a thrift-store based grunge fashion. The people of the area seem to opt for cool sneakers, often somewhat retro style. At times I feel like Where’s Waldo was the basis for their fashion which includes skinny jeans, striped tight t-shirts, toques, cardigans, and old school hats.

Opposite to this is Kitsilano. That neighbourhood, only a few kilometres away shows off the fabulous rear ends of the pretty Vancouverites who opt to spend Saturday afternoon in Lululemon yoga pants and fashionably sporty attire. You don’t see as many stripes and checkers, and most people seem to be wandering around with a latté in hand. It’s a decidedly more yuppie scene where refurbished single-speed bikes are replaced with brand new knock-off retro beach cruisers and BMW convertibles.

Take a jaunt over the bridge to North Vancouver and people again all start to dress the same. Stop in at a coffee shop around the base of Mount Seymour and the patrons will likely have just finished a trail run or mountain bike ride. The fashion is outdoor apparel from the likes of Arcteryx or Mountain Equipment Co-op. Again, reflective of the neighbourhood.

Obviously this is not exclusive to Vancouver. My travels elsewhere have indicated similar trends. Whether it be in Manhattan or Marrakech we are what we eat and we dress where we live. Despite our desire for individuality we as a people, regardless of location, dress to fit in and adopt the “uniform” of the people around us.

in Travel, Wine & Food

Keeping it Real in the Okanagan

The wines of the Okanagan are becoming truly world class, but with that, has come a sort of world class feel. Our wineries are becoming fancier and more elaborate, our wines becoming more scientific and more structured.

Wine consultants from France and California now make their way to many wineries in the Okanagan on a regular basis to help us create great wines, and our winemakers in turn have learned many lessons of the land over the past couple of decades. All of this has put the Okanagan on the map as a wine region, but I can’t help but feel that the current measure of good wines is creating a bit of uniformity in the wine world. In essence, wines are all starting to taste the same.

Of course this is a bit of an overstatement and there are still many subtleties in taste, but what is considered good now is largely based on a scientifically influenced palate. I guess you could call it “The Robert Parker Effect” as many other people have also done.

That’s why over the course of the recent Okanagan Spring Wine Festival I was so happy to visit a couple of wineries that stayed the course and kept their wines true to the history of farming and agriculture here in the Okanagan.

After experiencing what I would call tasting room burnout ending up at the winery equivalent of Possum Lodge nearly made me jump up and down like a grade-schooler. Fairview Cellars is a small winery producing some great wines on a relatively small property in an off-the-beaten-wine-path part of Oliver, British Columbia. It is technically located on the Golden Mile, but the extra five minute drive into the hills to the tiny log cabin tasting room made it feel like an epic journey into a different part of Okanagan wine country.

Fairview Cellars Tasting Room

Bill Eggert is the winemaker and proprietor at Fairview, and rumour has it he rules his vineyard with an “uncompromising zeal for grape” attitude. This is well reflected in his red wines, which are nice too drink, but have bold characteristics that are slightly uncommon and refreshing — a punch to the jawline of what I would call the “new world taste.”

A friend in our group this day grew up an orchard kid in Oliver and knew Bill from his childhood, so I feel like we were lucky to get a bit of an inside scoop and chat with Bill about wine making.

It was great to hear the stories behind the wines, and from the get-go Bill was very unassuming, and an absolute farmer in every way. Everything was about the history of the area and the grapes from so-and-so down on Road 16. That connection with the local farming community was nice to hear. It means that this area hasn’t necessarily changed as much as I had thought, despite the increased land prices and big city investment in grapes.

This wine thing is clearly something that he enjoys as we continue to talk, but I can’t see Fairview ever building some crazy tasting room with granite counters and dangling halogen lights. There is a lot of humility here and I think it might stem from years of working the land more-or-less solo.

The sense I got from Bill was that wine is a labour of love for him, and the recent increase in “cool factor” for the Okanagan hasn’t changed too much for him, despite being well regarded in the wine community both here and in Vancouver. In fact, Bill still wears suspenders and plaid, and his hands are weathered from endless days in the vineyard. These are both things I admire.

The vineyard at Fairview

As far as wines go, the Fairview Cellars 2007 Cabernet Sauvignon was my favourite from this winery, and at $40 per bottle it is not particularly cheap, but is on par with other top-tier wines from the area. What is different though is that this wine is produced in extra small quantities (roughly 400 cases) and has a “real” personality. There is something genuinely interesting about the flavour profile of this wine. It’s big, it’s red, it’s jammy, and it’s smooth on the palate, but it’s lacking that scientifically refined characteristic that would make this a textbook perfect Cabernet Sauvignon. I can’t quite put my taste buds on it, but I love that this wine just tastes  a bit “wild.” Like a dog to its owner, a wine should be reflective of its maker, and the wines at Fairview Cellars really are a spitting image.

After another round of manicured tasting rooms we end up the following day at Van Westen Vineyards, a place that I have begun to hold in great reverence. The tasting room at Van Westen is actually the anti-tasting room. There is absolutely nothing fancy about this place. Tastings are held a little haphazardly in a cold storage facility (read warehouse) sandwiched between Elephant Island Winery and Joie Farm off of Aikins Loop in Naramata.

The new sign at Van Westen Vineyards

That may sound a bit unappealing, but what makes this place great is Rob Van Westen — a man of massive proportion and personality. He’s a big guy with a big heart and a big laugh, and you can’t help but love his wines as a complete mirror of himself. The tasting room is open on a kind of random as necessary basis, and if you’re lucky you will get to sample some vertical vintages from both bottle and barrel. This is where the real action happens, not in the tasting room, but in the barrel room/everything else facility.

Tasting here gives you a real sense of where this wine comes from. You meet the man, you see the land, and you see where it all happens, and it is humble.

The wines of Van Westen Vineyards possess loads of character. They are big, bold and unapologetic. There is nothing about these wines that says “love me Robert Parker,” and like them or not for their taste, you almost have to like them for their individuality.

They are so different and I can’t help but think that this might be what is meant by “terroir.” The whites are probably more palatable for most, but I can’t help but love the Van Westen Voluptuous, a blend of Merlot and Cab Franc, for its raging individuality.

Amongst the many other reds in the Okanagan that are approaching technical perfection the Voluptuous is a stand-out.

To liken it to something else I would say the Voluptuous is more Kerouac than Wordsworth, more Tom Waits than Eddie Vedder, and more Marilyn Monroe than Pamela Anderson. It is a big bold red, daring, unabashed, and ready to give your palate a hard knock.

It has what I would call “über-tannins,” and despite being a little rough around the edges, it tells a story and is a pleasure to drink with the right food. That is how the winemaker intended it, and in the spirit of anthropomorphism, this is a wine that clearly doesn’t care what you think. The name really says it all — “I’m Voluptuous.”

Inside Van Westen

For whatever reason I am starting to see that this is the real deal. I look over and see a plaid jacket hung on a doornail next to a stack of red and green label Pilsner. Something seems familiar about this. We start talking the history of Van Westen Vineyards and the name Bill Eggert comes up as one of the initial inspirations to start making wine.

I crack a joke about Possum Lodge — probably my fortieth of this weekend. This time, rather than it falling on def ears, Rob retorts with a remark about duct tape and wine. Finally somebody gets what I’m talking about. A Red Green fan in the vineyard. This is where it’s at.

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably wondering when I’m going to get to the point of this article, but to disappoint you, I will tell you there is no real finite point other than to tell the story until I don’t have anything more to say about it, and that in itself, might just be the point.

In this world of totally refined everything, it is nice to know that there are still some people out there who are doing it by feel, or in this case, taste.

The wines of Fairview and Van Westen are not going to be favourites for everyone, but what they are is reflective of their respective wine makers and of the region from which they come. In a completely unbridled and unpretentious way they are what you could call genuine Okanagan wines. Something created of what may now be a bygone era of farming and individuality.

The Okanagan as I knew it as a child was about going cherry picking, and playing in the lake, and chasing geese, and farming the crops. It was about real people doing real things with the land, and it is something that seems to be getting lost in a sea of outside investment and wine tourists.

It is my hope that there are parts of this area that don’t change, and that do stay the same. Thank you Rob and Bill for keeping it real.

Duct tape forever.

Fairview Cellars
13147 334 Avenue
Oliver, BC V0H 1T0
(250) 498-2211
fairviewcellars.ca

Van Westen Vineyards
250- 496- 0067
vanwestenvineyards.com

in Travel
Jemaa-el-fna-marrakech-1

Jemaa El Fna Market Marrakech

The sights, sounds and smells of the Jemaa El Fna market (pronounced Jem-ah el fenna) are one of the great treats of a trip to the desert city of Marrakech in Morocco. If you enter the giant square from the west you’ll play “human Frogger” to cross the many lanes of traffic to get to the square. Enter the park area, pass all of the tour buses, the Club Med hotel, work your way through the crowd and you’ll find a world of snake charmers, street hustlers, vendors, and food stalls. It’s like going back in time.

This is a place where mothers ride motorbikes carrying three other people and a load of supplies, where donkeys still pull carts, where snakes are still charmed, and where if you’re not careful you’ll end up with a monkey on your back.

The high pitched whine of the snake charmer’s pipe drones on in the background as I walk through the food stalls in search of something delectable. Everyone here is your friend, and the hosts for each food stall can be extremely pushy and annoyingly charming. They’ll call out to you in every language thinkable to try and get your attention — particularly if you ignore them. On numerous occasions at different carts I was told that their chef was Jamie Oliver. These guys must have all gone to the same sales school!

Picking a place to eat can be rather daunting, and on my first night in the square I had a great time, but likely chose the wrong cart. My meal was less than a few dollars American, but I have a feeling I still paid too much. There were a few other tourists at my table, which was basically just a long collapsible wooden table like you’d find in a school gymnasium, but there were not very many locals.

Across the way I notice that one stall’s host is arguing with the neighbouring stall’s host. It appears that the first stall doesn’t like the second one’s pushy sales tactics, and thinks that he is driving away his customers. I observe for a while and he’s kind of right. The first stall is cooking up some type of potato dish in a tagine, and the people at this smaller stall all seem to be Moroccan. Virtually every seat is taken and everyone is sitting at a bar like square around the chef. The stall next door looks like the one I’m sitting in and is mostly empty with the exception of a few tourists.

My advice for people looking to eat at Jemaa El Fna is to seek out the busy small food stalls that are packed with locals. There is an added level of assurance in this that indicates a high level of quality and food turnover. I look at my stall and there is a large stack of unrefrigerated meat kabobs sitting out in the plain air. They look fresh enough, but it is tough to say what will happen to these if nobody eats them tonight.

While I’m not one for tourist attractions, the Jemaa El Fna market is a truly special place. Unlike the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building this place is brimming with culture and it’s here that the locals and tourists congregate in the evenings. The scents and sounds of this place are of another time, and though it can be intimidating, this is probably one of the safest places to be in the evening.

Eating in Morocco is a treat and the Jemaa El Fna is a great place to start. Nearby to the square are a bunch of coffee shops including the Glacier Café. From a few of these places you can get access to a rooftop patio and take the ubiquitous picture of this market — not unlike that shot of the Eiffel Tower that everyone takes.

There were perhaps some more authentic things to be seen around Marrakech, but I seemed to always end up back at the Jemaa El Fna. There is something a bit magical about it that will keep you coming back over the course of your trip.

in Travel

Romancing the Shave

I have a thing about shaving. As a man it is a daily right of passage and should be treated with respect.

I probably started the same way that most men did…or maybe not for that matter. I don’t remember my dad teaching me the finer points, and I think I may have stolen some of my mother’s pink disposable Bic razors and dry shaved that first awkward sign of manhood away. It certainly wasn’t anything poetic.

At some point my parents started buying me electric razor after electric razor. All of them sucked. I now shun automation in the form of electric razors at all costs and exclusively use a manual razor, but even that seems a somewhat manufactured experience.

To this day my idea of shaving has been shaped mostly by the imagery provided by Gillette in the mid to late 90’s, and the message back then was clear — be a man — be the best man.

I’ll tell you now, if you’re not already familiar, that the best man always shaves in black and white, and here’s how it would go if I were at my best.

I wake up, but you wouldn’t see that part — too messy. My face is pre-lathered in perfectly applied shave cream. Perhaps I woke up this ready to shave.

I start shaving with an 18 bladed razor with all kinds of rubber gimmickery attached to it. In fact, the razor looks more like a fighter jet than a shaving apparatus. I’m surprised they even let this shit onto airplanes these days. It looks like a weapon. Some of them even vibrate which is probably just to freak my hair follicles into submission — forcing them to surrender without contest.

I effortlessly clear away the shave cream and am joined by either my perfect magazine model children, or my beautiful, just homely enough wife. In our massive bathroom we are intimately close. They touch my face and remind me how much I’m loved for my rugged masculinity, and of course my “buttery-smooth-like-a-baby’s-ass” face.

After all of the face touching they leave and I am now dressed sharply in a nice suit, but with no jacket, because that would be constricting, and then — I touch my own face.

Damn is it smooth.

My face is actually so smooth that I have to stroke it repeatedly from the back of my jaw to the front of my chin with my head cocked to the air, and slightly to the left, showing you, the silent observer, my impossibly smooth jawline, and most importantly — my good side. Did I mention I have a subtle bum chin?

It’s one of those rare free moments that a man should take to himself. A daily ritual of sorts, but it’s not usually anything like the commercials make it out to be.

Normally, if I’m in a hotel, I’m shaving awkwardly in front of some sink/mirror combo that makes this more difficult than usual. I probably cut myself at least once, and the hair on my face has probably not reached that perfect balance of soft and wet that seems to only come after standing in the shower for at least 10 minutes.

If I’m at home I’m probably late for work. No perfect children or wife come to see me and nuzzle up close to me. I’m a bachelor. Even if I did have a wife and kids they’d probably be annoying. They’d be asking for money, or wanting to play play fight, or worse yet —they’d be crying — screaming actually.

My wife would probably be tired, look like shit (I mean really, it’s first thing in the morning somewhere in mundane middle America), and let’s face it, I would certainly look no better.

I’m either tired from working late, or hung over from dealing with yesterday’s work — also late. Either way the scene is far from perfect.

My bathroom is a mess. There’s toothpaste stains on the mirror, a couple of half empty bottles of cologne and hair product strewn about, and I bet the sink looks gross. That pointless aloe strip on my razor, if it hasn’t vaporized, is all gummed up and soggy.

This is probably the day I should change my razor blade, but I’m honestly not sure how long it has been, nor am I sure how long these flimsy things are supposed to last.

All I know is that I always try to make them last too long because they are so damn expensive, and for some reason the thought of going back to pink coloured, single-bladed disposable Bic’s makes me cringe.

However, back in my reality, I am not at my best. I am rarely ever at my actual best, but there are days when it does all come together in a fairly adequate fashion.

I shave at home in the shower and I’m in there for longer than 2 minutes. I remembered to clean the shower mirror yesterday so I can actually see what I’m doing. I’ve just replaced the blade on my jet-fighter razor and I’m not in a rush. Maybe it’s Sunday and this doesn’t feel like a chore. This is my time to reflect — even if it is only for a few minutes.

It’s not the perfect picture that Gillette has painted for me, and what’s oddly on point is that I don’t even use a Gillette razor. I’ve been a Schick man for my whole adult life.

I’m sure they had some equally cheesy commercial ad campaign, but I felt a bit rebel and somehow more educated when I chose Schick. In the end it was probably the lesser of two evils, but the point is that I chose Schick, whereas at the time, Gillette would have chosen me.

It was a point, probably in my late teens or early twenties, where I started to subtly define my individuality, not just as a consumer, but as a man.

The fact that I still think about those old Gillette commercials means that they did do something right. As cheesy as they seem now, I wanted The Best a Man Can Get. I chose a different product, but ultimately that idea of what shaving should represent still resonates with me. It’s as if Don Draper came up with it himself.

It may not always be the perfect scene, but there’s something about the male shaving ritual that sets the tone for the day, and you can bet when it all works out well, that I’m out there walking around with an extra bounce in my step.

And to be honest, I probably do stroke my face from the back of my jaw to the front of my chin with some reverence for what a great day it’s going to be.