Tag Archives: travel

Having the Dream

I recently visited Tanzania with a group of outspoken high school students and three travel-seasoned peers. I wanted to find my place; to follow the steps of my grandparents and parents to Tanzania, the central character of my family’s history. I took these notes at night, when only the Maasai guards who protected the camp would witness my mzungu headlamp-illuminated jet lag and delirium.

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We spend our first week camping at Meserani Snake Park, about 15 miles west of Arusha. Meserani is alive with sound. Late summer thunderstorms modulate the volume and intensity. Motorists honk on the nearby highway; herds of goats, cows, and camels chatter and bleat; birds coo in the trees, underscored by the grating call of guinea fowl families that wander the campsite; insects titter and chirp. Only the staccato of sudden rain drowns the sounds outside. Cool, damp air filters through the rain flaps as raindrops bounce off the tent onto wet blades of grass. Bass thumps from a bar outside the park’s gates; the party there is still going strong at 4 a.m. At dawn, a muezzin calls worshippers to pray.

Meserani is, for someone like me, a trial by fire. I’m not accustomed to sleeping in tents for extended periods of time; I don’t find living out of a backpack glamorous, rustic, hip, or especially fun. But, despite frequent nightly thunderstorms, my tent remains dry. I have access to clean water and food that far exceeds what I anticipated. We tour schools and Maasai villages: enclaves, or kraals, of circular houses with thatched roofs and walls made of mud, ash, and dung. Our Maasai guides recycle tires for sandals – an ingenious all-terrain solution against the elements, especially the blistering heat, which sears the skin even in early morning hours. By day three at Meserani, I learn a root lesson: Acceptance is a friend.


I also learn to look up, literally and metaphorically. When I feel alone, I shift my gaze and change my mood for the better. I become enchanted by the lovebirds at Meserani, who build their homes in the safety of wooden huts. I spend a disproportionate amount of time photographing them, and I am happy to do it. I discover hornbills and hanging nests. I don’t consider myself a textbook bird enthusiast, but it is not lost on me that the universe is sharing so many beautiful things that take flight.


Our second week urges us out of the park. We pack our already-economical clothing and sundries into even more conservative daypacks, readying for three days of safari. We drive further inland to Mto Wa Mbu, an entry point to the Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti National Park. After a night’s rest at Twiga camp, we drive along the crater’s rim, overlooking what the Maasai termed the “big hole.”


Lush rounded hills surround the crater – we could be driving through Idaho or Scotland, if not for the wandering tribes of giraffe, who feast from treetops off the sides of the road. I am not sure whether it is the giraffes or the elevation, but I feel buoyant.


We descend the crater’s base into a valley floor that exposes miles of uninterrupted horizon. I did not expect the entrance to Serengeti National Park to be so vast: tall, yellowing grass rustles in every direction as far as the eye can see.


We raise the top on the safari truck, giving us shade from the relentless sun and access to a welcome breeze. We drive towards our campsite at Seronera, roughly midway into the park. Zebras and wildebeests flank the road. Most of the noise vanishes; the only chatter here comes from the adolescent creatures inside the vehicle. Standing in sock feet on the truck’s upholstered seats, our bodies pliant and bouncing with the ruts in the road, we watch the late afternoon sun cast rosy golden hues in an all-too-short “magic hour” before setting into a long Equatorial night.


What soggy tents? What annoying guinea fowl? The Serengeti frees the mind of complaint. We wake up to elephant families, wandering languidly through the dewy landscape, and lionesses fending off hyenas from a recent kill. A herd of purple-grey hippos capitalize on a recently rain-filled pond. Storks line treetops. In the green passageways of the Serengeti, I consider pleading with our guide to let me out of the truck. This is my stop.


We return to the crater’s rim for the last night of safari. The amethyst sky explodes in milky, bright constellations. Several of us stop in our tracks on the dirt path to and from the restrooms, captive to the stars; our headlamps narrowly prevent our silhouettes from crashing in the dark. Baboons we cannot see scurry through the grass. Hyenas whoop and bark to one another. Lightning flashes in the distance. In the morning, fingers of fog mute the sunrise.


From the rim’s edge, thousands of animals below appear as slow-moving dots. I hear my father’s voice. He viewed the crater as a “special place, part of [his] secret, psychic African heritage.” This trip connects me to my family’s history through shared images and remembered narratives. I follow paths they traveled long ago: to the Lion Men of Singida; to the water buffalo that nearly gored my grandfather and his friend, a hunting trip gone awry; to the dusty, wide open spaces that Dad likened to his later home on the Wasatch front. I revel in the exhilarating morning air, and send my thanks out with each new breath: asante, asante sana. As Hemingway wrote: “I could not believe we had suddenly come to any such wonderful country. It was a country to wake from, happy to have had the dream.”


© 2016 Julia Moris-Hartley



Filed under food, literature, travel

Lessons From The Big Easy

On February 2, 2014, I ran my first race: the New Orleans Rock N’ Roll Half Marathon. I traveled to the Big Easy with three girlfriends: Lori, who ran the race with me as a fundraiser; Casey, a frequent conspirator in food adventures; and Alethea, who drove from Georgia show her support. Though the run loomed prominently in our long weekend, so did our determination to find the best meals the city offered. What are four hungry ladies to do in the heart of Nola? Eat, and eat well. These are the abridged notes from a weekend I won’t soon forget.


The adventure begins!

The ghosts of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, companions who famously toured the French countryside in search of culinary delights, lured us into the French Quarter the evening we arrived. We chose Acme Oyster House for our inaugural meal. Hopes high, we walked to the restaurant, located a short distance from our hotel, and assumed places in line for, what we were promised to be, “enormous plates of fried seafood.”  After 15 minutes of unsuccessfully garnering the attention of the hostess out front, our stomachs loudly rumbling, the hostess approached us, took our names, and led us past several other parties-of-four to a table by the bar. We did not question our good fortune. Hunger is a powerful condiment.

Our server, Will, a young L.L. Cool J, served me my first po’ boy: the Peace Maker, filled with equal parts of sweet fried shrimp and spicy fried oysters, and “dressed” with spicy mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato. L.L. Adorable also brought us our first – but not last – hurricanes, oysters on the half shell, gumbo with rice, and dark, savory seafood étouffée, also served with rice. Lesson one: Enjoying a meal in a new place with friends is a joy. Enjoying a meal in a new place with attractive friends gets you seated faster.

Arrive early on Bourbon Street, because after a certain hour, the crowds thicken and traversing them can feel something like salmon swimming upstream against the current. We enjoyed more neon hurricanes in the cobbled courtyard behind Pat O’Brien’s, where music played, fountains flowed, and heat lamps and colorful lights warmed the nighttime bar crowd. We found a table in the corner of the courtyard. One of our neighbors promptly hit on Casey. He slurred his way through two introductions, only to seem to reconsider, apologizing to her and offering her his beads in truce. (His friends, only marginally less inebriated, eventually hauled him out of the bar.), Lori donned a newly acquired masquerade mask for the rest of the evening, laughing with her whole being as her hurricane shrank in her cup. We left the bar around 11 p.m. to find that an Egyptian-themed dance party had overtaken the block. I started to nervous-sweat and begged my friends to remove me from the Isis-fest. Alethea received beads – Thoth beads – before we got away, as well as an invitation to a “pimps-and-hoes-nipple-painting” nightclub.  The three who remained without invitation tried not to take umbrage. Education: Inebriated men give beads freely. Drunken, apologetic men take a little longer to part with their beads.

Hurricanes... and that one crazy who ordered a Bloody Mary instead.

Hurricanes… and that one crazy who ordered a Bloody Mary instead.

Impressive beads... but still not Thoth beads.

Impressive… but still not Thoth beads.

At Laura’s Candies, off Chartres Street, two wizened shopkeepers informed us that pralines are pronounced “prah-lins,” like “naw’lins.” They encouraged us to share this knowledge with others. If only all lessons were so easily digested.

We made reservations for Saturday night at 6:00 at Commander’s Palace, the venerated Garden District establishment that nudged Emeril into the realm of culinary acclaim. We arrived by streetcar, with a cushion of time for allotted for exploring the neighborhood. As we roamed the quiet, tree-lined streets, admiring the architecture for which the area is renowned, we met a couple walking an enormous black mountain dog. G and P inquired about our attire (Commander’s Palace strongly recommends semi-formal dress), then pointed out houses of interest, such as the 24,000 square foot estate in which American Horror Story: Coven is filmed, and invited us to their home for after-dinner drinks. We felt giddy with possibility when we arrived at the restaurant.

Exploring the Garden District with three lovely friends.

Exploring the Garden District with three lovely friends.

Dinner at Commander’s Palace was everything we imagined… and more. Servers moved as elegantly as synchronized swimmers, clearing each course before delivering the next and coordinating their movements in unison, so that everyone at the table received their plates at the exact same time. Though Lori and I demurred from post-prandial libations chez GP, opting instead to rest prior to the race, Casey and Alethea joined the couple and had a famous night. They slinked back into the hotel room just after 2 a.m., buzzing with stories to share when we awoke. The take-away: Not all strangers want to stuff your pistol-whipped, half-mutilated body up their chimneys.

By race day, I suspected that the run had become ancillary to our epic meal docket. Nevertheless, we completed the race: Lori radiant with exuberance; me, hell-bent on finishing despite the searing pain in my right knee. I marinated in sweat and wrapped myself in a foil blanket like a sea bass ready for the oven. We hailed a cab. Kismet winked at me: our driver had two first names, a quirk I find endearing. Gary Albert (or was it Albert Gary?) enchanted us with tales of his six former wives and 15 children (all fictionalized) – a welcome distraction from sore muscles. I would have loved to sit with him, memorizing his deep, rolling drawl and seaside swagger, if only the fare remained static per quarter mile. Note to self: Find less expensive over-sized personalities to talk to.

Lori and I ran to support this very deserving young lady.

Lori and I ran to support this very deserving young lady.

While Lori and I cleaned up post-race, Casey and Alethea sought out snacks to tide us all over before a late lunch.  They found luck at Café Beignet on Royal Street, where one can purchase a trio of beignets (they are typically sold in threes) for $3.99, including tax.  Beignets, the state doughnuts of Louisiana, are squares of choux dough, which blister and puff while deep-frying in oil and are sprinkled with powdered sugar immediately prior to serving.  The powder explodes in flurries with each bite. Over the next two days, we visited the café several more times, leaving small avalanches of sugar in our wake. Lesson: If one beignet is good, three is better.

Where the beignet magic began.

You had us at beignet.

During our brief time in New Orleans, we also ate at Ernst Café (killer fried green tomatoes), the Green Goddess (truffle cheese grits, sweet potato biscuits, and a bloody Mary sufficient to make a girl swoon), Domenica Restaurant (thank you, GP, for securing our reservation last minute on a Sunday night!), and the Ruby Slipper Cafe, where we ate our last New Orleans meal prior to leaving. If we’d arrived ten minutes later on that Monday morning, our wait would have quadrupled: the line only lengthened during our meal, a testament to the quality and reputation of the institution. At the Ruby Slipper, “there’s no place like home,” a philosophy that appears on their walls and menus alike. Maybe that’s why our Irish coffees felt so invitingly warm on that brisk gulf city morning; or maybe it was the service, true to our every experience in New Orleans: honest, easy, delicious, and so very genuine.


Ernst: Crab Cakes.

Ernst: Fried Green Tomatoes.

Ernst: Buffalo Shrimp Salad.

Ernst: Fried Green Tomatoes.

Ernst: Fried Green Tomatoes.

The view from Green Goddess.

The view from Green Goddess.

Many, many thanks to Alethea, Casey, and Lori (and Maggi!) for sharing their photos in this post! When’s our next food adventure?

© Julia Moris-Hartley, 2014


Filed under food, literature, travel