Are there no other female hikers with long, slender feet?

It appears not.

Standing 5’ 11”, it is not surprising that I have long feet to match – size 12AA Cdn.  But good luck trying to find a pair of women’s hiking boots to fit.

That’s what I was told when I called several well-known suppliers of hiking equipment in Toronto.  “No, we don’t stock that size,” were their repeated responses.  Size 10 is common.  Some styles go to 11.  But good luck finding boots the size of boats.

Maybe the clerks weren’t that blunt, but I am sure that’s what they were thinking as they tried to envision a woman’s size 12 foot.  It looks just the same as a size 8 foot on a 5’ 8” woman:  proportional.  Only size 8 is easier to buy.

Limited market demand may justify retailers not stocking size 12, but surely boot manufacturers have one or two styles for women with long, slender trotters.

Foiled again!

Email inquiries to three major boot manufacturers were met with polite apologies and promises to pass the suggestion to their product designers.  But that doesn’t solve my problem today, my second day of training for a two-week hiking adventure in Tuscany next April 2012.

I posed my problem to the owner of Tent City in Vaughan, Ont. when I stopped to buy a rain poncho to ward off the showers that were threatening to dampen our hike in Caledon Hills.

He had a solution:  Columbia’s Pole Creek™ Omni-Tech® men’s light-weight and waterproof day hiker.  Too narrow for most men, the owner was planning to return all his stock to the manufacturer.

“Not so quick,” I lamented, and set out for Caledon with plans to return to Tent City by the day’s end.

This particular 12 km stretch of the Caledon trail took us up and down hills, testing my mettle and confirming that training months in advance of my overseas odyssey was a wise decision.  It also taught me the importance of properly-fitting shoes.

I was surprised to find the ascents easier than the downward climb where my feet slid forward into my shoes.  What were comfortable walkers in the morning, were toe crushers by the end of the trail.

Back at Tent City, I slid my tired feet into a size 10.5 men’s Pole Creek.  Toe crushers on the decline.

“Don’t be concerned about numbers,” said the clerk when I reluctantly suggested a half-size larger.  The boots fit, not quite like glass slippers, but I don’t plan on wearing them to a ball.

First order of business:  trim toenails.

Beautifully manicured nails and soft-skinned soles may be vogue for the pampered classes, but they spell disaster when hiking the rugged Bruce Trail.

I witnessed the perils of long toenails last year during the 60km Weekend to End Women’s Cancers walkathon, when several walkers’ nails became infected, eventually turning black and falling off.  Today I was only embarking on what was considered a casual stroll by serious hikers – 10 km of the Caledon Hills section of Ontario’s Bruce Trail.  Still, I wasn’t taking any chances.

Trimmed toenails and calloused feet are the telltales of a seasoned trailblazer, along with hamstrings and quads that flex with every stride.  That was my goal, to have feet that snag pantyhose and muscles that purr while climbing a craggy cliff.  My feet already look the part, but the next nine months will be focused on toning my muscles for a two-week hiking trip through Tuscany, Italy in April 2012.

Today, July 26, 2011 marks day one of training.  Our route has been determined by our Toronto Bruce Trail guide, Andrew Wood, whose own goal is to hike the 70km Caledon Hills trail from end to end and earn another badge for his knapsack.

We set off at the intersection of Willowby and Escarpment roads at 9am and hike along forest trails, through tall, grassy fields and aside rows of towering corn nearly ripe for picking.  This is probably the least challenging stretch of the Caledon trail as much of it includes hiking Escarpment Side Road past country estates and horse farms.  It is a good initiation for my first hike, errrr stroll, of the season.

Andrew coaches me on hiking fundamentals like interpreting the white stripes or ‘blazes’ on trees, hydro poles and sign posts that demarcate the route.  If you need to relieve yourself (there are no toilets), he says to leave you knapsack on the trail pointing in the direction you’ve veered off-route for privacy.

He rattles off the essentials of a hiker’s pack while I make mental notes:  whistle, compass, bug juice, first aid kit, sun screen, rain gear, snack and hydration, including a nip of wine to round out the day.

Excited after a successful initiation, we make plans to continue our hiking in a day and further test my mettle.

Twenty-three years ago we bought a bush lot along the Rideau Canal in eastern Ontario.  For 23 years we’ve spent our summers and most major holidays at the cottage, through winter, spring, summer and fall.

The only road trips we take are to the cottage.

The route to the cottage is straight forward.  Take the 401 east to Kingston.  At Kingston, drive north on County Road 10.  When you reach Hutchings Side Road, stop!   You’re there.

It doesn’t get any easier.

PAUSE

In June my husband Al and I drove to the cottage for the one thousand, seven hundred and forty-ninth time.  After 23 years, you’d think we’d know the route by heart.  401 east to Kingston.  North on County Road 10.

We’ re driving on the 401, fifteen minutes east of Oshawa.  The car’s in cruise control.  The tunes are cranked and Al says:  “I think we need a GPS.”

I can’t believe my ears.  I look at him and ask:  “Dear, are you lost?”

PAUSE

What provoked Al’s comment was an article he read in the Globe and Mail earlier that week.  It was a story by a woman who reminded him of me, a woman who often lost her way.

The woman’s name is Cathy Grimwood.  It seems Cathy and her sister drove to Ithaca, New York for a family wedding.  Cathy’s husband joined them in Ithaca the next day.  And after the weekend of celebrations, the two sisters returned to Guelph in one car and the husband, Paul, in the other.  Before leaving the hotel, Paul and Cathy issued a challenge to one another:  Who would make it home first?  Apparently, Cathy has been known to make a few wrong turns.

When Paul exited the hotel parking lot, he turned left.  West.

Cathy turned right.

The sisters didn’t have a map or GPS, but they were confident they knew the route home.  After all, this wasn’t their first trip to Ithaca.  They put a Lady Gaga CD in the stereo and cranked up the volume.  They drove for a couple of hours, passed through toll booths, and stopped for snacks.

They couldn’t figure out why Paul said they’d be driving with the sun in their eyes, when they could feel it warming the backs of their necks.

After a couple of hours, the scenery changed dramatically.  Why didn’t they remember driving through mountains on their way to Ithaca?  But then it was raining and visibility was poor.  The sisters had an explanation for every anomaly en route, even the sign pointing to the St. Lawrence Seaway.

PAUSE

Paul called the sisters at the five-hour mark as he drove up the driveway to his home in Guelph.

“Hey, where are you guys?” he asked.

Just then the sisters passed a sign:  Welcome to Massachusetts.

PAUSE

When Al said we needed a GPS, he wasn’t thinking about our weekend rallies to the cottage.  Rather he was thinking about my propensity to get lost.  He was thinking of the time I drove 72 kilometers to meet him for lunch when his office was only 19 kilometers from home.  And then there was the recent experience in England.

My son Patrick and I travelled to England in May.  After a day of touring the Tower of London, Patrick wanted to see the dungeons and I just wanted to rest my weary feet over a leisurely glass of wine and nice dinner.  We parted ways, agreeing to meet after dinner at the home where we were staying in Wimbledon.

I took the underground to Wimbledon and walked to the Crooked Billet, a pub just around the corner from my cousin’s home.  The Crooked Billet was just a three-minute walk from a comfortable bed.

I ordered a traditional Ploughman’s dinner and glass of wine.  After dinner, I paid the bill at the bar and exited the put.  By the time I arrived home, Patrick had already been there than an hour.  And he wondered by I arrived home in a taxi.

I explained:  When I exited the Crooked Billet, just like Cathy Grimwood, I too turned right.

That’s why we need a GPS.

Help me pick which blog post to enter in a contest for travel writers.  Which article do you like best from Travel Adventures?  Please post your top pick under Comments.  http://janicehoward.wordpress.com/category/travel-adventures/

Many thanks, Janice

The mosque of the Martyr King Abdullah bin Al-Hussein in Amman, Jordan.

It’s 5am and we are awakened by the muezzin’s recorded call to prayer.  It’s being broadcast over a loudspeaker from the mosque adjacent to our hotel in Amman, Jordan.  I bury my head under the pillow and drift off to sleep, only to be wakened 10 minutes later by the muezzin’s repeated chant, as persistent as the rooster we encountered at the crack of dawn in Luang Prabang, Laos.

The muezzin is the chosen person at an Islamic mosque who calls the faithful to prayer.  He is selected for his good character, voice and service to the mosque.  In days of old the muezzin stood at the top of the minaret – a tall spiral that resembles a lighthouse – and in a melodic voice, recited verse from the Koran, beckoning the faithful to pray.  Today his voice is amplified over an electronic broadcast system and may be heard across this predominantly Muslim country five times each day:  dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, sunset and night.

In smaller communities like Wadi Musa, the closest village to the UNESCO World Heritage Site at Petra, there are an estimated 20 mosques.  Nestled in a valley, the muezzins prayer calls reverberate off the hillside in a cacophony of sound.  I take advantage of these early morning wake-up calls to write, which accounts for the number of blog posts this week.

The prayer calls pique my interest and my request to tour a mosque is granted.  I’m apparently not the only curious visitor as the mosque of the Martyr King Abdullah bin Al-Hussein in Amman boasts a souvenir shop and change room where we don a black abayas, a loosely fitting and hooded black robe, over our street clothes.

Much like a Buddhist temple, we remove our shoes at the entrance to the nave.  I am astounded to learn this particular nave is capable of housing 3,000 worshipers.  An open courtyard including a roofed gallery that leads to the nave accommodates 6,000 worshipers, and another 500 women may worship in a separate room.

The nave is carpeted in an ornamental, recurring pattern that demarcates each person’s allotted prayer space.

Pray facing Mecca
Upon entering the nave, the first thing I notice is the absence of an apse, an organ, pews, books of prayer or other furnishings common in a Christian church.   Instead, the nave is unfurnished and is carpeted in an ornamental, recurring pattern that demarcates each person’s allotted prayer space.  Congregants pray in rows facing Mecca and that direction may change depending where you are in the world.  They either sit with their feet tucked under their buttocks or pray prostrate with the forehead, palms, knees and pads of the toes on the floor.  For modesty, our guide explains that women generally pray in the back rows or in a separate prayer room.  Where I expect an apse is the paneled wall with a recession that marks the direction of Mecca.  The Iman leads the worshipers in prayer from raised minbar or pulpit.

Prayers are incorporated into a Muslim’s daily routine.  We’re told that shopkeepers in downtown Amman simply put a chair in doorway of their store, signaling to shoppers that they’re at the mosque and will return in 15 minutes or so.  In Jerash, we notice a father standing watch as his family prays at noon in a secluded area among some ancient Roman ruins.  I glance quickly at the family and don’t notice whether they have prayer rugs or fabric to keep themselves clean during prostration.  Minutes earlier we had heard the muezzin’s call to prayer, followed by the Iman’s sermon which was  broadcasted over the minaret’s sound system. It’s Friday, holy day, and there have been protests outside the Egyptian embassy in Amman the last few Fridays.  I’m told the Iman is preaching about “politics.”

I wish I understood Arabic.

Cyclo tour of Hoi An, Viet Nam

The day started with a cyclo ride through the streets of Hoi An, Viet Nam and ended with this Empress hiring a tailor to custom-make some new clothes.

Hoi An is a clothes-shopper’s haven.  The streets are lined with tailor and shoemaker shops where you can buy off the rack or commission a custom garment in silk, linen, cotton or cashmere wool.  Custom leather shoes are also available in every style and colour.

Each store showcases mannequins clad in traditional, embroidered Vietnamese costumes or contemporary dresses, blouses, skirts, suits, shirts and overcoats.  The samples give you a chance to inspect a tailor’s workmanship and ideas for your own design.  Bolts of print and solid fabrics are packed tightly into shelves that line the shop walls, offering a shopper maximum selection in this highly competitive market.  Hoi An even boasts a fabric market where you can actually see the tailors hunched over ancient machines.

This old tailor in Hoi An's fabric market wanted $1US to take his picture.

At 5’11” it’s impossible for me to buy ready-made Vietnamese fashions, so I opted for two simple silk blouses in white and blue with traditional mandarin collars and frog buttons.  Made to measure and delivered in two days after two fittings, the total bill was $40US.  All items required a couple of fittings to ensure comfort and appearance.  A pair of black, cotton slacks with side pockets looked like jodhpurs after their first fitting, which the tailor altered on the spot.  They were $25US.

Viet Nam and much of Asia is renowned for its embroidered silks.  A fellow traveller ordered a striking black silk jacket with yellow embroidery for $70US.  The embroidery was done by machine, hence the tailor’s ability to turn around an embroidered garment in two to three days.  In Cambodia I bought black silk fabric with a multi-coloured hand-embroidered border to make into a skirt sometime down the road.  It cost me almost as much as the jacket, the hand-embroidery accounting for the difference in price.

Take a guess who I am?

Dinner and dance
An evening cyclo ride in Hue, Viet Nam took us over the moat and inside the walls of the Citadel to the Imperial City of Emperor Gai Long.  We pulled up to the steps of the Duyet Thi Duon Royal Theatre where we dressed in lavish costumes of the royal court and were paraded inside with great pomp and circumstance.  To our great surprise, our group of 17 travellers from the Royal Ontario Museum were treated to a private dinner and performances of nba nbac or court music featuring bamboo lutes, zithers, fiddles and drums, accompanied by traditional dances.

To say we had a grand time is an understatement.


Many traditional Vietnamese dishes are prepared in an unglazed clay pot.  Recipes generally call for a small amount of water and, as the pot heats up, the pores in the clay allow hot air and moisture to combine and cook the food in a process similar to steaming.  The food cooks in its own juices, resulting in a nutritious, healthy and very tasty meal.

Vietnamese Eggplant in Clay Pot was one of several traditional dishes we made at the Red Bridge Cooking School in Hoi An, Viet Nam.  Our day started with a guided tour of Hoi An’s bustling farmers’ market where live ducks, crayfish, prawns, herbs, vegetables and cooking utensils were bartered.  Scooters, bicyclists and women carrying baskets balanced on wooden polls pushed their way through the throng of shoppers.  Ripe for pickpockets, a fellow traveller had her purse slit and wallet stolen in the flash of a minute.  It wasn’t until the empty wallet was found 30 minutes later that she realized it was even missing, testimony to the pickpocket’s sleight of hand.

After a half-hour boat trip on the Hoi An River, past fishermen casting nets, we arrived at the Red Bridge Cooking School.  The school is set on two acres of gardens, with three open air ‘pavilion style’ buildings.  It uses fresh herbs from its own garden, and fruit and vegetables from local growers.  Our menu consisted of:

Seafood Salad with Vietnamese Herbs in Half a Pineapple
Fresh Rice Paper Rolls of Shrimp
Fresh Rice Paper
Hoi An Pancakes
Vietnamese Eggplant in Clay Pot
Sweet and Sour Sauce
Peanut Sauce
Fish Sauce
Steamed Ocean Fish on a Bed of Mixed Vegetables

Below is the recipe for my favourite dish, but if you would like other recipes, simply post to this blog.

Vietnamese Eggplant in Clay Pot

2 tsp. peanut oil
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
2 tomatoes, quartered with inner section and seeds removed
1 lemongrass, finely chopped (keep stalk)
1 spring onion, cut into 3 cm pieces
2 Asian (long and thin) eggplants, cut into 4 cm long X 1 cm wide pieces
1 red chili, cut into thin strips
1 1/2 Tbsp. fish sauce
1 tsp. sugar
1 pinch of turmeric or curry powder
1 pinch of pepper
Basil to taste

Put medium-sized clay pot on heat.  Add 2 tsp. of oil and stir in garlic until fragrant.
Add tomato and lemongrass to the pot, but not the lemongrass stalk.
Add 2 Tbsp of water.  Stir.
Allow mixture to simmer for approximately 2 minutes.
Add fish sauce and sugar.  Mix well.
Add eggplant.
Pour in a cup of water.
Add another 1/2 tsp of fish sauce and sugar.  Mix well.
Add the tumeric or curry powder, pepper and lemongrass stalk.  Lemongrass stalk is a flavour enhancer and is not meant to be eaten.
Allow mixture to simmer for approximately 7 minutes until the eggplant is tender.
Garnish with basic, coriander, spring onion and chili.

Serve hot with steamed rice.

Enjoy!

Every month on the night of the full moon, the ancient city of Hoi An, Viet Nam transforms into centre stage where all the locals and tourists converge in the old part of town to relive the golden days of prosperity with music, plays and parties.  Shops and bridges are lit with colourful silk lanterns to bring good luck, and incense is burned to honour the Gods.  The overall effect is incredibly romantic.

The streets of Hoi An are closed to bicycles and motorized vehicles during the monthly festivities, leaving pedestrians free to safely stroll and browse in the silk, arts and crafts shops.  For $1US, you can buy two floating paper lanterns from the villagers in the shape of lotus flowers to set adrift in the Thu Bon River.

Hoi An is famous for its full moon celebrations and traditional silk lamp making.  The lamp frames are make of old bamboo, which is softened by soaking in water and shaping to resemble fish traps.  Silk is stretched and glued over the frames.  The process sounds simple, but I assure you from personal experience that it takes a lot of patience.

During the French occupation of Viet Nam, a peasant army built a complex system of underground tunnels 121km long at Củ Chi, just northwest of Saigon, now known as Ho Chi Minh City.  The Củ Chi tunnels are part of a much larger network of tunnels that underlie much of Viet Nam.  They were built with simple tools and bare hands, and were .5m to 1m wide, just wide enough for a slightly built Vietnamese to scamper though bent at the waist.  The tunnels were used for hiding and for launching counter-offenses against the French, and were doubled in length during the Viet Nam war.

The Viet Cong’s strategy was simple:  Ambush the enemy and disappear into one of the numerous rat holes concealed by the dense vegetation.  Tunnel entrances were virtually impossible to detect in the thick jungle and, once infiltrated they were difficult to navigate for the gangly Australians and broad-backed Americans.  Today, some tunnels have been lit and made larger to accommodate the Western tourist, but this one was too timid to venture in.

The labyrinth of tunnels connected villages and served as hiding spots during combat, as supply routes, hospitals, food and weapon caches, and living quarters for guerrilla fighters.  Here they lived in safety several metres below the ground as the thick jungle above was bombed, shelled and defoliated by Agent Orange.  During intense bombing by the Americans, the guerrilla fighters and their families were forced to stay underground where children were schooled and entertained by theatrical performances.

Life in the tunnels was difficult.  Air, food and water were scarce.  Most of the time, guerrillas would spend the day in the tunnels working or resting and come out only at night to scavenge for supplies, tend their crops or engage the enemy in battle.  Campaigns such as the 1968 Tết Offensive were planned in the Củ Chi tunnels.  The Vietnamese credit the tunnels with winning the war against the Americans who had superior weapon technology.

Women selling vegetables at the farmers market in Hoi An, Viet Nam

The conical hat evokes images of farmers sweating in rice fields, itinerant street vendors, and women selling vegetables and fish in the markets.  It is a symbol of hard work, and a national icon of Vietnamese women.

A well-made conical hat boasts 16 rings in the cone, making it rounded and durable.  It is constructed entirely by hand out of palm leaves and bamboo splints for the rings.  Making one is a time-honoured craft passed down through generations and takes about half a day from start to finish.  I bought one for $2US in the farmers market in Hoi An.  It has come in handy doubling as both a sun and rain bonnet.  Goodness knows how I shall ever get it home.

Chewing betel leaves
Another longstanding tradition is chewing areca nuts with betel leaves.  Together they are a mild stimulant causing heightened alertness, much like drinking a cup of coffee.  It is common to see older Vietnamese women sporting conical hats with teeth and gums stained by the red betel juices.

In Vietnam, the areca nut and the betel leaf are symbols of love and marriage.  The tradition of chewing areca nuts starts the talk between the bride and groom’s parents about the young couple’s marriage. The leaves and juices are also used ceremonially in Vietnamese weddings. The combination of areca nut and the betel leaf are practically inseparable, like an ideal marriage.