A Dam Fine Meal

So off we went into Old Town Vilnus in search of dinner—Nate, Amy, Amy’s husband Ryan, and I. Luckily, I had a Lonely Planet book that covered Lithuania, which meant that I was put in charge of finding a restaurant and mapping our way. Bleary eyed and spacey from the 10-hour time change, I paged through the book. “How about this place, guys? They have traditional Lithuanian food, like spiced wine and, ummm, something about all kinds of hunting game.” No one had the energy to come up with an alternative, so traditional Lithuanian fare it was.

By the time the waitress came over to take our order, we had consumed enough beer to convince Nate he should order the Beaver stew. Billed as a house specialty, it looked kind of interesting and, after all, how could we (read: Nate) pass up a Lithuanian tradition?

Newly pregnant, Amy wondered if she should even have a bite. “Is it safe?” she asked. Fresh off my canoe trip through Minnesota, I knew where she was coming from. “Those things are like river dogs, with all kinds of bizarre oil glands and super powered tail muscles. I’d steer clear.”

Over dinner we swapped transport stories and learned what was in store for us over the next few days: a tour of Vilnus, a visit to a black current farm, the wedding, and then an all-night reception at a campsite with cabins and a sauna. “Oh, and Lina’s 6 foot 6 “baby” brother, Mendogas, is gonna be our tour guide of sorts throughout the trip. He’s a man of few words, doesn’t take no for an answer, and can knock back vodka like it’s lemon aid. Something is bound to go awry.”

By this time, we had finished dinner and moved onto vodka…and beaver jokes. “Well this certainly shaped up to be a dam fine dinner!” Ryan announced, slapping Nate on the back. Amy, completely sober, rolled her eyes.

When Nate called Lina later that night with the report on our first night out, she burst into laughter. Having lived in Lithuanian most of her life, she explained that she’s never once been offered beaver. “Damnit!” Nate responded, now experiencing the beginnings of a stomach ache. “Those bastards passed off their crap meat as a local delicacy and we played right into it. I’m gonna blame Lauren so she can deal with the scorn of your brother tomorrow.”

Lietuvos Respublika (Lithuania)

It’s been almost three months since I went to Lithuania for my friend Nate’s wedding. I’m not sure how that’s possible, yet here we are in October, my favorite month. I swear it feels like just last week that I was subsisting on all things pickled with the ever-curious bright pink beat soup the only respite. Here’s how three weeks in Eastern Europe went down.

A Bit of Background

Nate is a friend of mine from home. (Fun fact: we were born on the same day.) His little sister, Amy, is my little sister’s best friend. Nate, who’s a History professor complete with requisite glasses and beard, fell in love with Lina, a Lithuanian researcher at his University. The two of them held a traditional Lithuanian wedding on July 31st and a handful of us flew over there to cheer him on. (Woot!)

Touchdown

From the minute I arrived in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, it was clear that this country was gonna make me work for it. With no one speaking a lick of English at the airport (um, shit?) and zero signs to point me toward a downtown bus, I was lucky an Irish business traveler took pity on me. He must have noticed me pacing back and forth in a jetlagged daze, saddled with my 5-ton backpack.

“This country will drive ya mad with disorganization, you know,” he explained in his darling accent. “But if you’re looking for rich history and breathtaking countryside, you’ve come to the right place.” And with that, he pretty much threw me on the bus, paying for my ticket since buying one would have been a multi-step process requiring small bills, native language skills and at least 10mg of Valium.

Eventually I made it to the hotel and found Nate alone in his room, cursing in a pool of sweat. “It’s so effing hot in this hotel, I’m gonna kill someone. Why don’t you get yourself together and we’ll grab some food and beers? Lina’s at her dad’s house for the night, but Amy and Ryan are here…and starving. Let’s get the hell outa here.”

The Land of 11,842 Lakes (Part 2)

Top 10 from Our Trip to Minnesota (a chronological review)

1. Mo’s parents’ warm Minneapolis welcome. Not only did they prepare a quesadilla buffet spread that would rival some Mission taquerias, but following our dinner they also sent us on our way with fresh-baked cookies for the road and homemade trail mix for the canoe.

2. Duluth! Who knew it was such a cozy, charming city? It was a little confusing, I admit, to see “the ocean” before you and have to remind yourself that it was actually a fresh water lake. But we forgot all about that problem once we settled into a cute littler bar where this adorable hipster twosome was covering country and folk songs and where the bartender served us apricot IPA.

3. Learning everything we could about the great state of Minnesota, down to the fact that the official state muffin is “Blueberry.” As a former resident, Mo felt slightly disgruntled by this discovery never having been presented with the opportunity to vote on such a matter. He would like it to be noted that his vote would have gone the way of Chocolate Chip.

4. Beavers! What a fun surprise to find ourselves in the company of these curious little creatures. Paddling around the lakes, we stopped every so often to examine a new dam, each one with a distinctive arrangement of mud and sticks. In a true National Geographic moment, we watched as a beaver and a loon paddled by our campsite together, an interspecies watersport team on the go. Not surprisingly, The Boundary Waters was voted a Place of a Lifetime by National Geographic.

5. Marisa’s campsite service was nothing short of decadent. An early riser, she would hop out of our tent each morning, get her French press going, and serve Mo and me coffees and breakfast while we remained snuggled in our respective sleeping bags. The routine was that I’d unzip the tent window so we could watch Marisa pour, stir, slice and mix, all with a early morning view of a lake in the backdrop. We called this part of the day “the Minneshowta.”

6. Steering the canoe with finesse. Some people are skilled drivers and others talented artists. Still others are outstanding orators. And me? Well, I’m really good at steering canoes.

7. The view of the Boundary Waters from a canoe was truly something to behold. Paddling around small islands, through beds of Lilly pads, under tree branches and across glistening lakes was simply stunning. In fact, it was so beautiful that I forgot to be upset that it was raining for a lot of the trip. Even the rain was pretty...

8. Mo’s favorite dirty joke. Often, Mo would hold onto the canoe, push off the shore and jump into the boat to give us some starting power. Meanwhile, Marisa and I would be paddling our little hearts out. Since we couldn’t turn around to confirm he had actually made it into the boat, one of us would inevitably yell, “Mo? Are you in?” And his response would always be: “Ladies, no man ever wants to be asked that question.” Hahahaha...

9. Newfound nationalism. It’s true! This trip basically turned the three of us into flag waving torch carriers for the good ole US of A. Anything that George W. did to throw dirt on my American pride fire was undone the minute I saw a bald eagle swoop down from his nest to successfully dive for a fresh water fish.

10.Planning our Minnesota party. Yep, we're throwing a Minnesota party! We even have a planning committee consisting of real locals and people who lived there for at least a few years. So far, all we know is that we're going to play a lot of Prince and Har Mar Superstar..and say "Oh yeah, you betcha" in response to most questions. Perhaps Marisa's Native American bikini will be completed by then?

Check out the Boundary Waters! And if you ever want to take a canoe trip up there, I recommend the outfitter we used, based in Tofte. Not only did they hook us up with a great canoe, but they also rented us a tent, tarp, cooking gear, packs and more.

Land of 11,842 Lakes (Part 1)

I’m not exactly sure when it all started, but I’ve been obsessed with the state of Minnesota for quite some time now. I even own two different books detailing state highlights. You know, Lake Superior, Little House on the Prairie, Prince, the French fur trade, dog sledding, sugar beets, Loon birds and ice fishing…not to mention the butter sculpture competition at the world’s largest state fair (see above butter-Yoda). What’s not to obsess about, really?

Sownas and Hawkey
A few people have pointed out to me that Minnesota isn’t exactly the kind of place that one need long for in the same way that, oh, Uganda or Indonesia might be. Given that 1) I wouldn’t need a passport or special inoculations to travel there, 2) the level of civil unrest and political turmoil is really quite low and 3) the journey would only be a few quick hours, it’s kind of weird that I haven’t just hopped a Continental flight to Minneapolis by now. Fair.

Instead, I’ve just forced everyone I meet from Minnesota—all of whom are notably darling—to tell me every last detail about their experience there. Did you grow up playing hockey? Do your parents canoe? And ice fish?! Have you ever been to the state fair? Did you learn to swim in a lake? Did you buy your prom dress at the Mall of America? Say “sauna” again! (Note: people from Minnesota pronounce the word “sauna” like “sow-nah,” which is the Finnish pronunciation. Fun fact: There are a lot of Scandinavians in Minnesota.)

A Native Guide? You Betcha!
Then a few years ago, I met my friend Mo (of New Mexico ghost town fame). When he told me he was from Minneapolis, spent his childhood vacations canoeing with his family aaaand grew up playing hockey, I knew it was time to act. “Would you take me there sometime?” I begged him, almost desperately. “Sure” he responded, shrugging his shoulders as if this were a casual request. (Bitch, please.) It might have seemed odd that I was seeking a native guide to assist my journey through an English-speaking, U.S. destination known as “the Bread and Butter State” but if he wants to focus on Lauren-related curiosities, he’ll have bigger fish to fry than Minnesota. True.

Mo convinced me that the best time to visit the Land of 10,000 lakes (but really there are 11,842 according to Wikipedia) is in June after the snow has let up and before the mosquitoes outdo the local vampires…and I wasn’t about to question my native guide. It took a few years for our schedules to sync up for a June visit. And then finally, the stars aligned.

To The French Voyagers!
Anxious to lock down our trip, I secured a government camping permit, an outfitter reservation and an adorable high mobility cooler, recommended by Jen who’s reeeally good at recommending things. I also signed up Miss Marisa, my ever-spirited body double travel partner, for the adventure. Having heard me wax poetic about Minnesota for years now, she figured I must be onto something. Foreshadow: she was right.

Like any good wilderness explorers, we held some serious trip planning meetings at our neighborhood pub re: things like water filters and the pre-trip self-assigned reading list. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to read Last of the Mohicans before we departed, nor did Marisa finish beading her Native American leather bikini. So instead, we just dedicated the trip to the French Voyagers and off we went—Mo, Marisa and I—to North Country.

Purple Lifting Drinks

Remember how I helped my friends Dayle and Larry with their grape harvest back in October*? Well, over Memorial Day I got to experience yet another step of the vine to shelf process: wine bottling. I know that filling 2,000 glass containers with 750 ml of liquid each sounds kind of boring in comparison to sauntering down row after row of glistening grapes, picking the very best ones with love…all with a view of the Sierra Foothills in their full autumnal glory. But I can assure you it was just as satisfying. Here’s why: semi-automated machinery!

Who knew it would be so much fun to operate a bottling machine, a corking machine, a foil wrapping machine and a labeler, not to mention completing the steps in between? A group of us were literally holed up in Larry’s wine chemistry room (aka: the detached, windowless garage) for what felt like 15 hours each day. Yet it never got boring. In part, that’s because a lot of old school Madonna songs were coming on the radio but mostly it was because bottling wine is honestly fascinating.

So, here's how you bottle wine:

Before the actual bottling takes place, Larry and Dayle research, purchase and set-up all sorts of fancy machinery. Then they casually coerce their friends into kickin' it at the vineyard for some “Memorial Day fun.” Then said friends arrive and learn how to operate the machines. Each person gets to pick the one they like best and essentially becomes an expert operator by the end of the day.

Step 1, Break 'em out: Remove empty bottles from boxes and attach to the bottling machine. (Bottling machine video).

Step 2, Fill 'er up: Fill four bottles at a time with vino, making sure each contains the correct amount of liquid.

Note: Of all the machines, I like the bottler best. That's the machine that's connected to a huge vat of wine via a vacuum cleaner-type tube. The wine flows through this tube and into a metal container. Then it's somehow pushed through four separate small, clear tubes that each end in funnel dispenser. The machine operator (me!) snaps one empty bottle into each dispenser and watches the wine flow into the bottles through the clear tubes. There's a trigger that stops the wine from overflowing but occasionally the trigger would fail and it would be my important job to "manage the excess", which I was very good at. And my strategy? Drink it, I Love Lucy-chocolate conveyor belt style.

Step 3, Put a cork in it: Pass the full bottles to the corking machine operator and watch as the cork is smushed right in there. The best part was the Willy Wonka chocolate factory-esque noise that happens as the cork arm descends, plugging the "purple lifting drinks" with the beautiful Tryphon Vineyards cork. Note: Cynthia, in her Rosie the Riveter glory, is pretty much the best corking machine operator of all time. (Corking machine video)

Step 4, Top 'er off: Slide a foil topper onto the corked bottle. Depending on what kind of wine it was, we'd use either orange or green foil. (See green above, pre-smoothing machine).

Step 5, Smooth 'er out: Insert the top of each bottle into the foil smoothing machine. You can't imagine how wholly satisfying it is to see a crinkly, loose foil become smooth and fitted. Or maybe you can? (Smoothing machine video)

Step 6, Make it official: Run the bottles, one by one, through the labeling machine, watching them transform from a cute little pet project into an impressive-looking professional product. (Labeling machine video)

Step 7, Pack 'er up: Load the bottles back into case boxes, stack the boxes on a pallet and wrap the entire collection in plastic to prepare for transportation and storage.

Then all you have to do is wait for bottle shock to pass and it's go time. Let me know if you want to be part of the wine tasting at my house that will take place as soon as Larry says we're not in shock anymore. In the meantime, I'll continue to trip over the case of wine every time I walk into my kitchen.

*Note: the grapes we harvested will likely be ready for bottling 3 years from now. The wine we bottled today was from Dayle and Larry's very first harvest in 2007.

Just Another Ghost Town in New Mexico

A few weeks ago, my friend Mo told me that he had booked a plane ticket to New Mexico where he'd be meeting up with his parents and uncle to "take care of some family business." Having known Mo quite well since our Burning Man adventure in 2007, I could sense that there was a story behind this plane ticket--a rich story. Something about this trip had intrigue written all over it.

After some dedicated prying, I learned that in 1970 Mo’s grandfather, Armand DeJong, had purchased a town in New Mexico located about an hour east of Albuquerque. As the story goes, Armand had spotted an ad in the local paper for a "ghost town." After convincing his business partner that this land would be a solid investment as it had its own stop on the passenger railway between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, the two men purchased the town for a grand total of $25,000.

It's really not clear to me how the men planned to draw inhabitants back to the town, all of whom had vacated in the 1950s...or if that was ever their plan. What I do know is that Armand's business partner later decided that he no longer wanted his share of this investment, and Armond bought him out.

Flash forward about 40 years to the time of Armand's death. In the process of completing paperwork and finalizing the last of his affairs, his children (Mo’s mom and Uncle Peter) stumbled upon their dad’s deed to this town. Unsure what to make of it, they contacted an Albuquerque real estate agent, scheduled an on-site meeting with her and convinced Mo to join them on their investigative expedition.

Mo for Mayor!
It’s at this point in the story that I become aware of the New Mexican ghost town, begging Mo for information. “Do you think it will be haunted?” “What if there’s gold or oil there and your family becomes instant billionaires?” “Does anyone still live there? If so, are you automatically their new mayor? And if so, will you leave San Francisco in order to go rule over them?” “Oh! Do you think you should contact Ira Glass and have This American Life go with you to film the expedition?”

After what felt like an eternity, Mo returned from the trip and we met up for Thai food. He informed me that his family made it to the town and walked around for the afternoon. Much as he suspected, everything there was completely desolate and dilapidated, with the exception of a working water well that hadn’t been used in decades. There were a few abandoned buildings (see below pic), their adobe brick literally crumbling to dust in the desert wind, and that same railroad track traversing the town.

Only one building looked sound enough to enter. Inside they found an oil-powered turn-of-the-century knife sharpening machine along with some rusty beer cans that looked to be from the 1950s. It was as if time had been frozen and they could almost see a group of young railroad workers with James Dean and Elvis haircuts sneaking off on their lunch hour to knock back a few while they discussed our Russian enemies and the impending war.

More to the story?
Uncle Peter talked with the real estate agent about possibilities for selling the land, its value now estimated to be a mere $15,000. But was that really all it was worth? What if Armand knew something back then that we don’t? After all, his hunch about investing in Florida swampland turned a 10-fold profit when the swamp was later drained for a large-scale development operation.

As if on cue, a guy in a truck drove by at that very moment and pulled over when he saw Mo's family and the real estate agent, standing beside a crumbling building. He stopped for a brief chat, and it turned out that he owned a Gypsum rock mining company looking to expand its work area. (Note: I've now learned that Gypsum rock is used to make plaster of Paris and writing chalk).

With the town's passenger rail now operating as a freight rail, this land would be the perfect spot for his operation, he explained. The real estate agent took his number, and it's anyone's guess how this might play out. (Freight train pictured below.)

Was this guy for real? If so, will Mo's family strike it rich from plaster of Paris and writing chalk (which would be way more interesting than an oil fortune)? And if not, what does fate hold in store for this little ghost town? Perhaps one day Mo's grandkids will make a fortune when Hollywood offers to buy the town for the filming the No Country for Old Men remake. In the meantime, I’m going to celebrate the fact that there were real-life tumbleweeds there, blowing over the railroad tracks and through the town. (Win!)

And something tells me that Armand DeJong is smiling somewhere, watching his family come together to work it all out.

Girl Vs. Tineola Bisselliella

It takes a lot to gross me out. It really does. Like, I'm the person you can talk to about the intestinal parasite* you picked up in India or how your radius snapped that time when you wiped out skiing...and sliced through your arm. And my anti-freak out specialty is listening to messy birth stories. Blood, guts, and gory episiotomy details? Bring it. And I won't even make hint of the "Oh God!" expression, suggesting that your story might not be fit for sharing. Nope, I'm here for ya, friends.

But there are a few things I simply cannot handle. One of them is worms (and slimy worm-like creatures)--anywhere, any kind, any time--even slithering around through flower beds in a beautiful garden where they belong. The thought of them alone makes me kind of queasy. Snakes, fine. Ants, no problem. Worms? Hells no.

This aversion to slimy creatures (human newborns excluded) has made the recent moth situation in my apartment approximately, oh, 150 times worse. What moth situation, you ask? Well, about 6 months ago, I started noticing that some of my wool sweaters and dresses had holes in them. I convinced myself that the dry cleaner was responsible (how unprofessional!) or that I must have snagged the item on something sharp (that bitch on BART with her sequined purse!)...until I started seeing moths flying around. Then I had to face the music and dance around proverbially in a moth-bitten Go-Go dress.

So, I did my research and decided upon a 3-pronged eradication approach: natural repellent (see above), toxic battle chemicals and an extremely thorough spring cleaning. (See Gwen's recommendations here for how to "quarantine the scene.") After many, many hours of closet attack, vacuuming, scrubbing, spraying, and completing a staggering number of loads of laundry, I'd say I'm half way there. Visual: me vacuuming my apartment wearing leather boots, a nylon nightie and a bandanna tied over my nose and mouth. (Everything else was in the wash!)

Phase 2, just so you know, will involve opening bags of wool items that have been simmering in deadly moth ball vapors for a few days--the moth balls that I made my friend Mo carry to the counter in Walgreens. You see, I was too ashamed to hold them myself for fear of seeming like a creepy person with a dirty house (I swear I'm not!) or perhaps someone who doesn't quite understand the dangers of bio hazards.

And I was almost having fun with all of this, especially the part where I got to spend an hour with EJ, filling pretty little satchels with lavender and dried mint leaves that now guard my dresser drawers...until I saw one. There on my beautiful wool hand bag from Oaxaca was a slimy moth baby looking way to similar to a worm for me not to freak out. Eeek!

So now I'm kind of panicking about opening the mothball bags. What if there are slimy moth babies in there, squirming around? The plan is to rip open the bags, throw the contents into the laundry and pray for salvation, all while avoiding horrific damage to my nervous system via toxic vapor inhalation. But at least I could talk about that without passing out.

Stay tuned for results.

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*Unless it's a tape worm. Then kindly keep this information to yourself as it is not fit for sharing.

Curious about closet moth eradication? Check out some info here and here and here.