Cave. Man. Cooking.

We don’t eat out at restaurants very often, but we do love eating ashore.

We’ve cooked breakfast in a volcanic steam vent, found secret grottos for picnic lunches and dragged our BBQ up a river to cook sausages beside a fresh water swimming hole. If there is a beach around we’re planning dinner over an open fire or cooking bread on hot coals. We’ve even popped popcorn over a bonfire just so we had snacks to enjoy with our sunset drinks.

Palau is short on beaches due to the typography; steep limestone islands. The few that are around are in National Park areas so open fires are not permitted. This, of course, put a serious cramp in our beach bbq plans. Which was rather disappointing because it had been a really long time since we’d felt comfortable cooking ashore. Continue reading


Throwback Thursday; Quiero Que Me Quieras

I started writing Letters from Kate as a weekly newsletter to family and friends in 2008 when we bought the boat. They went out as emails and when I got organized appeared on a page of the website. In 2014 I changed format and started using a more modern blog platform to share our “Letters”, thus removing the newsletter page from the website. I thought I would share some of our past adventures with you in a Throwback Thursday series. I hope you enjoy! H

It becomes a sort of ritual for us while we are in Mexico, spending the late afternoons at the zocalo, the old town square. We are drawn to these places, the everyday spots where life happens. Even in the busy-ness of Acapulco we sit in the zolaco almost every afternoon with our beers hidden in flimsy plastic bags, each absorbed in our own daydreams and thoughts.

We watch a woman making giant soap bubbles with her special plastic wand and a tub of water and dish soap. Her rainbowed orbs of imagination float effortlessly across the square, tempting children who doddle over with their parents following close behind. We watch men in suits and patent loafers getting shoe-shines. They sit perched in stone chairs built into the walls of fountains and flower beds, reading the paper with their shirt sleeves turned up and their collars unbuttoned. We watch a troop of street performers cajole and tease passers-by until there is enough of a crowd to start the act.

Between our evening sundowners and watching the word go by I dig out our guidebook. It is almost ten years out of date but still full of useful tips, and we don’t mind the adventure that it sometimes causes. I leaf through its worn pages to the section about the city and find the listing for restaurants around the zolcalo.

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