The Taste of Travel: Hawaiian Delight

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Honolulu, Leonard’s Bakery is the home to a food that has enjoyed a culinary version of the American Dream.

Not unlike donuts, malasadas are deep-fried pastry puffs coated in cinnamon and sugar or stuffed with tasty fillings. Originally part of the traditional Portuguese celebration of Shrove Tuesday (Fat Tuesday), malasadas immigrated to Hawaii in the early 1950s, when Leonard DoRego opened his bakery, and were an instant success.

It took me seven trips to Hawaii before a local turned me on to the small establishment off the beaten tourist path. I’m not much for breakfast – usually preferring more sleep – but he convinced me over ahi tuna steaks and margaritas that it was something I simply couldn’t miss.

When I walked up to the front of the innocuous building the following morning, it had the look and feel of a local favorite. The workers greeted me and my family with an enthusiastic “Aloha” and let us look over the selection. They had the whole pastry spectrum covered, from Danish tea cakes to run-of-the-mill glazed donuts, but I was there for malasadas.

I don’t remember exactly how much they were, but it was something like 40 cents each. I went for the standard sugar-coated one and one with a cream filling. My parents and sister each got a couple, and we decided to eat them in the car on the way to climb Diamond Head.

I picked up one of the fresh-baked malasadas, feeling the warmth in my hand as we passed palm trees and beaches with Diamond Head looming in the distance. I took my first bite, and was instantly hooked. The plain one wasn’t too heavy, with a nice airy taste to it as it melted in my mouth. The cream-filled one was also excellent, but the original one was better. They were, in a word, delicious. They rival even the best French croissant.

After returning home, malasadas joined the sandy beaches and pristine big-sky feel of Hawaii in the corridors of memory. I had never seen them on the mainland, and didn’t expect to. It was, therefore, a surprise earlier this week when I was eating at an L&L Hawaiian Barbecue restaurant to hear that I could order them less than a quarter of a mile from home.

From a Portuguese tradition to a Hawaiian favorite, malasadas now grace the mainland, and I couldn’t be happier.

Schnell!

The German Alps rose in front of me, and I eyed the snakelike steel track winding its way down the hill before me. Schloss Neuschwanstein, (you can read my article on it here) was a picturesque accent on the slope behind me. Then I pushed the stick on my black plastic sled forward, releasing the brakes, and practically flew down the mountain.

The sled vibrated beneath me, and I was going so fast that I was riding up on the sides of the curves, but I wasn't about to slow down. My sister was in front of me, and as I steadily closed the gap, I shouted, "Schnell! Schnell!" Knowing I would sooner rear-end her than slow down, she sped up, and we reached the end giddy with excitement.

I'd heard similar metal luge courses were once coupled with the ski resorts in the Sierra Nevadas, 90 minutes from my home, but they were long gone by the time I was old enough to ride them. The Germans and Austrians, thankfully, have held on to the rides. The tracks are heated to melt snow, making them a year-round attraction. They are the perfect way to spend a quick half-hour after seeing one of the nearby monuments.

At slightly less than two dollars per ride, the thrill is well worth it. My first run was marked with timidity, but that wore off quickly. On my subsequent downhill dashes, I pushed the limit. When the inevitable happened and I went too fast for the track, I found myself sprawled sideways, with two of the sled's four wheels off the track and my knee and elbow taking their place. My jacket and pants had gray patches from the metal, and my knee was raw.

I could have spent all day there, but time was limited, so I settled for three rides, followed by a bratwurst and a beer at the adjoining food counter before heading North to Munich. I was delighted, therefore, to find an identical attraction a week later while visiting Salzburg's Lake District. I repeated my experiences from Germany, minus the skin removal, and found that it was one of the rare things in life that can live up to expectations the second time.

Perfect Like a Corona Commercial

Since I’ve never been standing on the dock watching the stern of the ship shrink in the sunset, I’m still of the opinion that most cruise ship shore excursions are a waste of money, since I see the only real benefit being that the ship won’t leave without one of its excursion groups.

Some activities, like riding zip lines or sailing outriggers, can’t be easily done without the crew’s organization and contacts. For the rest, however, I found it more fun and significantly cheaper to go it alone.

Such was the case when I was on the Carnival Glory, sailing into Charlotte Amalie, on St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. A late-night bar encounter with a cruise veteran had turned me on to the lure of Trunk Bay, on nearby St. John.

Hustling off the ship in the rush of passengers out to spend as much time as possible ashore, I soon found myself waiting at a bus stop on an ordinary stretch of road surrounded by ’60s era apartments.

After five minutes waiting for the bus to Red Hook, where the ferries to St. John made landfall, an elderly local told me and my family that there was only one bus, and no guarantee as to when it would show up.

Suddenly the $45 per person snorkeling excursion to St. John seemed like money well spent. But it was too late for that.

Fortunately, the woman suggested we take a safari, one of the many pickups converted to carry passengers in the bed. The fare to Red Hook, on the other side of the island, was $1 per person.

Arriving in Red Hook a half-hour later, we found the ferry and paid our $3 per person fare.

Riding in the boat, I felt like I had come straight out of a pirate movie. We sliced through the crystalline waters surrounded by lush islands rimmed in alabaster beaches. The sun warmed my skin through a cloudless sky, and there was even a Jolly Roger flying from the bow and a cigar-chomping skipper.

Upon docking, we skipped the taxi line and opted for another safari to take us to Trunk Bay, for the seemingly standard $1 each. The driver knew what we were there for, and paused at an overlook before descending to Trunk Bay.

Looking past the lush foliage, the white-sand beach stretched out for several hundred yards under a few clouds that had magically appeared from nowhere, and I could see why Trunk Bay was one of the top-10 beaches in the world. The water shimmered as it enveloped an island surrounded by snorkelers. The whole scene reminded me of a Corona commercial, and I jumped back in the safari for the final descent.

Once we reached the beach, our driver agreed to meet us four hours later to take us back to the ship, then we rented snorkel gear for a few bucks each. I put my fins on and sealed my mask to my face as the water gently lapped at my ankles. From where I was standing, I could already see schools of fish 30 feet out.

I swam just feet above brightly colored fish and clusters of coral clinging to the rocks dotting the otherwise uninterrupted white of the sea floor. Just as I was wondering what types of fish I was looking at, I spied a plaque on a rock detailing some of the fish species. Another plaque a few yards farther up identified the coral. I wasn’t sure what to think about the obviously manmade items permanently affixed to an area of such immense natural beauty, but it helped me understand what I was looking at, and that is the ultimate goal.

Once I had my fill of swimming, I ambled over to a shack and bought a sandwich and a margarita. As I sat on the beach having my lunch, a bus showed up and disgorged a group of 60 or so passengers from the Glory. They raced into the ocean like the charge of the Light Brigade and snorkeled furiously.

I finished my lunch, read a chapter in my book, and decided to head back in. By that time, the Glory folks were packing into the bus and taking off. I checked my watch to see that I still had another hour before I had to leave.

We snorkeled a bit more before meeting our driver in the parking lot and heading back to the ferry dock. Once back on St. Thomas, we paid our driver an extra dollar per person to take us the long way around the island, past the world-famous golf courses and within view of the homes of some of the rich and famous.

When we got back to Charlotte Amalie, we browsed through some of the diamond shops and liquor stores. I filled my pants’ cargo pockets with tiny plastic bottles of rum that the ships’ metal detectors wouldn’t find. Once I was back aboard, I searched out some of the people who went on the Trunk Bay excursion to hear what they had to say.

It was all I could do to keep a straight face as they told me a bout their (remarkably short) time at the beach on the (grossly overpriced) excursion. There is, however, something to be said for not having to plan a thing, and perhaps the excursion is worth the peace of mind to some.

The Taste of Travel: Apple Strudel

I wasn’t very excited to take a tour to the places featured in The Sound of Music, but it turned out to be a very nice visit to the Lake District around Salzburg, Austria.

As charming as Salzburg is, the beauty of the surrounding area beckons for a side trip. The tour I was on, aside from three Texan ladies who couldn’t stop repeating the same questions time and again, was enjoyable, with our guide offering information not only about the movie, but the history of the countryside in general.

One of the tour’s highlights, for me, was when we stopped in Mondsee. The stop was intended for visiting a church in which the wedding scene takes place, but thanks to my guidebook, I knew what the real draw was.

Diagonally across the street from the church were a trio of restaurants. A local answered a few of my questions to make sure I got the right place, and I sat down at an outdoor table with my family.

We ordered four Cokes, which were brought in glass bottles, and then we gave our server our order. “Feer apfelstrudel, bitte.” He smiled knowingly and returned several minutes later with our apple strudel.

The pastries sat in the center of the plates, steaming hot and dusted with powdered sugar. Garnishing the strudel were two petite scoops of smooth vanilla ice cream on one side, and a rich vanilla sauce on the other.

Our server took our picture, and as he framed it, the sweet scent of the sauce combining with the smell of warm apples was driving me crazy. When the shutter finally clicked, I snatched up my fork and dug in, mixing the strudel, ice cream and sauce together in every bite.

The taste alone would have made the food unforgettable, but the fact that we were in such fantastic surroundings, with the Austrian Alps towering in the distance and being reflected in the lake in front of us made it something special.

As we paid our bill, our tour guide trudged up to the van from the church, the three Texans chattering behind him. I’d been in probably 12 churches so far on this trip, and I realized I hadn’t eaten nearly enough apfelstrudel.

For the Love of a Woman

I found myself walking down a narrow, dusty road past armed guards and children hawking trinkets. A camel cart was parked to my right, and the camel eyed me suspiciously as he chewed and bared his teeth at me.

Getting there had been the result of a harrowing ride you can read about here.

But there I stood. I was a short line away from entering one of the most fabled places in the world – the Taj Mahal.

I remembered my first exposure to it in a Scholastic News article back in elementary school. I know that, at the time, I thought, “I’ll never see this.” This was one time I was happy to be wrong.

After a thorough frisking at the security checkpoint, I joined my friends inside the outer wall. Not wanting to rush ourselves, we took photos of the exquisite gatehouse. Constructed from red sandstone with marble and precious stone inlay, it is a sight in its own right. I thought of how many people from a multitude of different places had traveled there since the Taj Mahal was finished in 1653, and the number is unfathomable.

Unable to resist any longer, I headed toward the gate and caught my first glimpse of pristine white marble peeking through the arch, the thousands of precious stones inlaid into its surface only hinting at the detail from that distance.

I walked through the gate, and it was like I had entered another world. Built by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal, the Taj Mahal is perfect in every way. The turquoise pool lined by trees and full of fountains acts as a permanent red carpet to the fruit of the work of architects representing Persian, Central Asian and Islamic influences.

The main monument, which houses the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, is flanked by tall minarets on each corner. It amazed me to learn that each side is identical. From a distance, the intricate detail above the main arches looked like fine lacework. As I moved closer, I saw that it was really inlaid precious stones brought from all over India and installed by skilled artisans.

Taking a circuit of the monument, I ran my fingers over the smooth marble and tried to imagine what the area must have looked like with thousands of the most skilled craftsmen in the world toiling on the monument a man created to honor the memory of his wife.

Once up on the upper platform, with protective booties securely over my shoes, I gazed across the river to where, had Shah Jahan had his way, a matching black monument would have stood. Intended to house the emperor after his death, construction was never started, as his son managed to thwart what he saw as wasting resources.

Shah Jahan now rests alongside his wife, inside the Taj Mahal itself. The interior of the mausoleum was breezy, as marble screens took the place of walls to allow air and light to circulate through the room. The ceiling stood impressively high, and I thought it was a wonder that it only took 22 years to construct the whole monument.

The tombs of Jahan and Mumtaz sit side-by-side, and Jahan’s tomb has his royal symbol inlaid in precious stones over his head.

Emerging from the tomb back into the garden area, I took the time to look at the mosque, the Masjid, which is on-site and still used on certain days.

Walking around the Taj Mahal again, I paid attention to how the sunlight played on the marble from different angles. I have heard that the best time to see the light’s effect is at dawn, but even in the afternoon the sight is mesmerizing.

As I left, I couldn’t help but wonder what type of a woman Mumtaz Mahal must have been. To inspire such devotion from her husband, she had to have been something special, and I wondered if she would really live up to the beauty of the building she spends eternity in.

Air Canada, eh?

With all the news about canceled flights and airlines going under (aloha, Aloha), I thought I would write something positive about the industry that takes me where I want to go.

I love travel, but squeezing my 6'2" body into a coach seat for as much as 16 hours (Mumbai-New York) has yet to become something I look forward to. When I flew to Italy last year to visit my sister, I was prepared for a quasi-night of restlessness only to arrive in Rome in the morning ready for bed.

I flew Air Canada, and the trip from San Francisco to Toronto arrived on time. I ate my last cheeseburger for 10 days and got ready to board my plane to Rome.

It was delayed. All of us were sent to another gate, where our new plane supposedly arriving from the hangar never showed. Then we went back to the first gate and boarded the original plane - now apparently mechanically sound.

I got my boarding pass printed, and the ticket said, "5K." I tried to picture the layout that would allow 11 seats per aisle.

I was all the more puzzled when I saw the first 10 rows or so were first class. My ticket was for coach. With the feeling that I was about to be cruelly teased, I hesitantly approached the inexplicably numbered "5K," which sat in the middle of a three-seat row.

The "seat" looked like a small cubicle and had an electrically articulating seat, a real pillow and a down blanket, not to mention the flip-out TV screen.

I stood in the aisle, blocking it like an idiot. The flight attendant came up and asked me if there was a problem. I think I motioned to my ticket and pointed to the seat. She laughed and said, "Yes, this is your seat."

I wasn't about to argue. I sat down and snickered as all the other passengers trudged to coach.

Because the plane I had been ticketed for was in a different configuration than the one that actually pulled up to the gate, I was automatically bumped to the world of the wealthy. On the LCD screen that flipped out, I could watch more than 40 movies or set up playlists from more than 2,500 tracks.

But what did I do? I read for an hour, reclined my seat into a bed and didn't wake up until breakfast was served somewhere over the U.K. or France.

I was four hours late to Rome, but rather than resembling a narcoleptic, I was well-rested and ready to catch up with my sister in the Eternal City.

It Wasn't the Popemobile, but...

The line stretched around two sides of the wall enclosing the Vatican. There was nothing to look at, except the people who tried to cut.

I heard a helicopter overhead, and looked up to see the big white aircraft circling the area around us. The landing gear was down, and I realized it was the pope's chopper. I watched it circle and circle, but it still didn't land. I wondered what would be so important to keep the pope from landing, and then police officers ran down the street, ushering the crowds to hug the wall.

Suddenly I realized what was going on. The helicopter was part of a security detail, and was probably scanning the rooftops for snipers and keeping an eye on the route of a motorcade.

Two motorcycle cops sped past me, and, heedless of the police, I stepped past their line of control to look down the small thoroughfare.

That was when I saw the motorcycles flanking a pair of black sedans. The only camera I had was my point-and-shoot, and it barely turned on it time to get the first shot.

Unfortunately, as Pope Benedict XVI leaned forward and waved, my camera was not ready to shoot again, so I got a rather poor photo of part of his vestments.

But I still saw him, and even though I'm not Catholic, I thought it was a nice experience.

It even turned out that it was a fluke I saw him in the first place, as the Italian daylight savings time had taken effect that morning, causing me to be an hour late, and thus being in position to see the pope - and be an hour late to catch my train to Siena that night, which was just not good fortune at all.