Sigh.

Seattle is trying – however pathetically – to cling to the last few days of summer. It’s not really working. For the record, even I, the girl who loves wearing a sundress more than ANYTHING, already bought a pair of waterproof winter boots.

On the plus side, they’re kind of badass. And I’ll probably be wearing them very, very soon.

But enough about shoes. Let’s discuss the week that was.

————

In a “You have got to be shitting me” move, fate attempted to make the state of Louisiana its bitch once again, as an oil rig exploded in the Gulf. Fortunately there were no casualties, and no environmentally devastating oil leaks. But still.

————

If I could be guaranteed that this was the result, I would install a cat door in my home immediately. Even though, you know, we don’t have a cat.

————

As I copywriter who loves cake, this doesn’t bother me at all. BECAUSE I LOVE CAKE. Even more than coherent copy. (via @TheTravelTart)

————

Rand sent this to me ages ago, but since it’s making the rounds on the internet again, I thought I’d share it with you folks. A writer for Gourmet tries to get into some of New York’s hottest restaurants. He doesn’t have a reservation, but he does have a stack of bills, and a healthy does of confidence. It just goes to show you, no door is closed to you … as long as you have money and power. Sigh.

————

Remember those Bratz Baby Dolls I found in San Francisco last week? They make an appearance again on the 14 worst toys for girls. It’s a horrifying list. (via @DeannaNMc, who should just write my blog for me).

————

James Hance’s work is absolutely killing me. He metes out clever and cute in equal doses, and often with Muppets. While I’m no fan of A.A. Milne, Hance’s recreation of Han Solo as Christopher Robin, and Chewbacca as Pooh bear might be the best thing I’ve seen in ages. At least, until I saw his painting of The Beatles running from a T-Rex (entitled Help!), and the brilliance that is The Meep.

————

Apparently there is one Chilean miner who may not exactly be thrilled to get out of the jam he’s now in. Why? Because the one that waits for him on the surface might be even worse. Yonni Barrios wife and his girlfriend met when they were both holding vigils for him outside the mine in which he was trapped. So … AWKWARD.

————

As if you needed another reason to think Kristin (the lovely gal behind Camels & Chocolate) was adorable, she’s now blogged about her trip to a wildlife park in Tasmania. Spoiler: SHE FEEDS KANGAROOS. (Aaaaand, CUE JEALOUSY!)

————

Happy Anniversary to my friend Laura, who’s all kinds of amazing. You and Sean are going to be such adorable crotchety old people. I’ll grab Rand, and the four of us will learn to play bridge or something. I can’t wait.

————

And because everything from the 60s is suddenly new again, I am fascinated by this old video of Italian songstress Rita Pavone. I would also kill for the dress she’s wearing, her hair, and, while we’re dreaming, her waif-like figure. Alas, I’m one of those Italian girls who owes all that you see to spaghetti. Ah, well. (via my bro, @EdwardDeRuiter)

————

Alrighty – that’s it for me. I’m off to enjoy what’s left of summer (KEEP SHINING, SUN. DO YOU HEAR ME? SHINE, DAMN IT!)

After my many attempts to find Presidio, certain historical accounts, both fictional and non, started to make sense to me.

I understood, for example, a bit of how Moses felt, wandering the desert for 40 years.

I have a better inclination of what drove Dorothy down the yellow brick road in the company of three gay mutants.

And perhaps the greatest fictional work of young souls leaving home in search of themselves, (I speak, of course, of Britney Spears’ Crossroads), was now more achingly beautiful that it had ever been.

After a day spent pulling out my hair and kicking the innocent, I met up with my husband and we had dinner with some friends who lived outside of the city. I told them about my mishaps.

“Why the fuck would you want to go to the Presidio?” they eloquently inquired.

I told them about the views. I might have omitted all the stuff about Duran Duran and caramel apples. One of our friends shook his head, explaining that most of the Presidio wasn’t that great. I should just go to Golden Gate Bridge. And when I asked him about the bridge and surrounding park in further detail, he explained something to me that might have made my head explode. All the positive attributes I had accredited to the Presidio? They applied to Golden Gate Park.

So, naturally, I decided to go there.

The next day, I embarked on my third attempt. I may have the innate sense of direction of a lame duck with an inner ear condition, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Once more, I stopped by the concierge. I asked her how to get to Golden Gate Bridge. And again, she told me to take the 30 to the 28.

If you remember yesterday’s post, you’ll recall that taking the 30 didn’t actually go that well. It dumped me (and the rest of its passengers) off at Ghirardelli Square. But I decided to do the exact same thing I did before, and hoped for a different outcome. Which was Einstein’s definition of insanity, for those of you following along at home.

And so I hopped on the 30. And guess, darlings, GUESS WHERE IT DROPPED ME OFF?

GAAAAAHHHH!!!!

-

Don’t lie: you totally saw that one coming, didn’t you? To be honest, so did I. Which is why I promptly walked over to the concierge at Ghirardelli Square (yes, they have one, and yes, she’s awesome) to figure out what I had done wrong.

She explained that there were two 30 buses. Not only that, there are two 30 – Stockton buses. And considering that was all the concierge at the hotel had told me, there was little chance I’d get on the right one. I had hopped on the 30 – Stockton / Van Ness, when I needed the 30 – Stockton / Brockton to Beach (or something). She kindly told me where I could catch the right one, and told me to get off at Chestnut. As you can see, the handout from the InterContinental doesn’t specify which of the 30s to catch.

I maintain that this little sheet of paper confirms I'm not crazy.

-

I wandered out of the square, ridiculously hopeful, and somewhat curious as to how I would fuck this up. In the end, I’ll just tell you: I missed the Chestnut stop.

Yeah. I’m an idiot. And the bus driver wasn’t calling out the stops. But mostly, the idiocy.

When I realized I had missed Chestnut, I frantically pulled on the cord, and stepped out into an area that was equal parts adorable and foreign. I had no idea where I was, and I was starving. Seriously, that could be the theme of this blog. “The Everywhereist: Lost, and probably hungry.” Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t get permanently lost.

There is no reward, folks.

-

I needed to find the 28 bus. But more importantly, I needed food. And it was at that moment that I saw this:

I want to go to there, but I have no idea where "there" is.

-

Now, it might have been the starvation and complete and utter exhaustion talking, but Tacolicious was friggin awesome. The staff was friendly. The food was delightful. It was my oasis in the desert. And, hello? IT WAS CALLED TACOLICIOUS. I considered staying there forever and building a new life. I mean, I love Rand and all, but this place had TACOS. Besides, Rand was, by my estimation, several thousand miles away in our hotel room.

New rule: all meat should be braised. Always.

-

But, alas, the 28 was still out there, calling to me. And while I highly doubted I would find it (and if I did, I am sure it would take me instead to someplace in rural Nevada), I still had to try. I asked the waiter for directions, and he kindly informed me where to go. I followed his instructions to the letter, and the craziest thing happened:

No way.

-

I … I had found it. And unless the entire city of San Francisco was messing with me (which could have very likely been possible at this point) it was headed towards the “GG Bridge.” This was it. THIS WAS THE BUS I HAD BEEN SEARCHING FOR. Still, I took no chances. Even though the marquee at the front of it said it was headed towards the bridge, I asked the driver for clarification. And he confirmed that yes, it was, after looking at me like a lunatic (Really? You’re a bus driver in SF and that was the craziest question you’ve been asked today?)

And then folks, then the real craziness happened:

I repeat, NO WAY.

-

After a day and a half of trying, and three attempts, I had found spectacular views of Golden Gate Bridge. Sadly, there were no caramel apples, or piles of shoes in size 6.5. Sigh.

And if you want to know what happened after I finally arrived, stay tuned next week. I’d have posted about it earlier, but, in the blog as in reality, I didn’t think it would take me so long to actually get to the bridge.

After the complete and colossal meltdown of that morning, and a realistic assessment of the poor parenting I provided for my imaginary children, I was able to pull it together a bit.

A sushi roll, a handful of blueberries, and a quick pep talk from my utterly confused but well-meaning husband (”Um, why don’t you just take a cab?”), and I was ready to give it another go. I was once again determined to take public transportation for a multitude of reasons:

• My aforementioned belief that Duran Duran sings Mysterious Ways. In other words, I am stubborn.
• The Presidio was too far away. I am pretty sure a cab there would have cost me several thousand dollars.
• I love saving money.
• Taking public transportation builds character.
• Hopping into a cab seemed somehow tantamount to cheating.
• I find the rantings of crack addicts interesting.
• I had already spent so much damn time trying to get to the Presidio,  that I felt compelled to waste a little more.

This was the basis of my haphazard, somewhat illogical reasoning, but in the moment, it made sense. For the second time that day, I marched out of my hotel room, determined to get to the Presidio (note: my outfit was now significantly less cute). But first, I stopped at the concierge’s desk and asked her for some directions. She first tried to tell me about the PresidiGo Shuttle, and I violently slapped her in reply. Pressing her hand firmly against her now-red cheek, she meekly advised me to take the number 30 bus towards Stockton. I’d transfer at the stop at Chestnut, catch the 28, and that would take me straight to the Presidio!

I could have kissed her, but given the violence I had just inflicted upon her, it seemed inappropriate. So I politely thanked her and headed out to catch the 30.

And I caught it. And it was heading in the direction that I needed it to! I was going the right way! For a few brief moments, anything was possible. I sat, staring out my window, incredulous that I was headed in the correct direction. But we passed Chinatown, just as we were supposed to!

Look! Things are right where the map said they would be. I'm not an idiot after all!

-

And then Washington Square. There was no way I could mess up now.

In retrospect, I should have asked the guy on the red little zippy cart for a ride.

-

I sat back, happily. It was still quite a ways to my connection, but I had finally managed to do something right. The entire fiasco of the morning had started to dissipate. Then, the bus driver’s voice cut through my haze of happiness.

“I said, last stop! Everyone out!”

Wait, WHAT?

We were not at my stop. But this was the 30 Stockton. It had to be the right bus. Before I could process what was going on, I stepped off the bus, and the driver sped away. I watched him disappear into the distance.

Well ... crap.

-

I stood, unsure of what to do, and completely clueless as to where I was. I started to roam around a bit, frustrated. Where the hell was I? I wandered through a park near the beach. It was beautiful, but I was grumbling. Could there be at least one frigging sign explaining where I was?

Oh. Okay. Thanks.

-

I suppose I could have gone back to the bus stop and hoped that the next #30 that stopped there didn’t dump everyone off at Ghirardelli Square. And in that same fantasy, the 30 would have taken me to the 28. And the 28 would have then taking me to the Presidio, which was every bit as awesome as I had imagined (in addition to caramel apples and panoramic views, my vision of the place had expanded to include sample shoe sale kiosks stacked in only size 6.5). But now? My nerves were shot, as was my faith. I trusted no one and nothing.

As I kicked a few toddlers out of my way and resolutely stomped on a puppy, I wondered if perhaps I should try to enjoy my surroundings. It was, after all, kind of lovely …

Please ignore the shirtless fat guy.

-

And since it was well into the middle of the afternoon, and I had to meet Rand in a few hours, I had accepted I wasn’t getting to the Presidio that day. In the end, I made the best of it. I didn’t get where I had planned, but I did end up exploring San Francisco’s Maritime National Park, which turned out to be pretty damn cool (more on that next week).

-

Was I disappointed? Yeah, perhaps a smidge. But I’m starting to accept that things don’t turn out the way you plan – especially with travel. Sometimes you end up getting miserably lost. Sometimes you let down your imaginary children. Sometimes, an ornery travel writer kicks your puppy because she can’t find the Presidio. And sometimes, you just have to go with it. You don’t end up where you expected, but you occasionally find some place new and interesting. And you’ve got to appreciate it for what it is. In my case, there were no caramel apples. But there was chocolate.

And sometimes that’s enough.

As for the Presidio, I probably just should have accepted that I was never going to get there, right?

-

But, as indicated by my tendency to include U2 songs in the Duran Duran canon, I am a stubborn girl. So, believe it or not, I tried one last time to get to the Presidio. I know you’re absolutely dying to find out whether I made it or not, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for that one. Because if it took me forever and a day to get there, just imagine how long it will take me to tell you about it.

And after a few minutes editing Wikipedia, I could actually be right about all this stuff.

Occasionally, I get a crazy idea in my head that turns out to be correct (like the time I got into a screaming match with a kid in middle school, after I claimed that spiders weren’t insects. Take that, Vipul Shah). This is awful, because then I start to lack the necessary dose of self-doubt that people who entertain crazy notions should have.

So, when I got the idea to go to the Presidio because, I assumed, there would be amazing things to do, fantastic views of the Golden Gate bridge and lots of food vendors giving away free caramel apples exclusively to girls named Geraldine (what? It’s my fantasy), I never for a second questioned whether or not it would be a worthwhile trip.

Let me just say, my excitement was ill-advised.

However, as I left my hotel on that faithful morning, I was brimming with confidence. After all, even if things went awry, it would make for a good story. And, in a way, it did … especially if you find tales of me pulling my hair out entertaining (and many of you apparently do, because you keep coming back).

It was a six-block walk to the transit center from the hotel. It was here that I planned to catch the PresidiGO!, the shuttle which travels from downtown San Francisco to the Presidio. I checked the shuttle’s website, and learned that after early August, I would need to head to the new Transbay Terminal to purchase my pass and catch the shuttle.

So far, so good. Until I arrived at the terminal. Which looked like this:

Well ... crap.

-

It was AN EFFING CONSTRUCTION SITE. Okay, so clearly I wasn’t in the right place. This couldn’t have been the terminal mentioned on the website, right? Except …

Well ... crap.

-

This was not a problem, I told myself. My blood sugar was up. I had an adorable outfit on, which was going to look adorable in the 500 photos I intended to take of myself in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, which I assumed would loom in the distance. Everything was going to be fine. (In retrospect, I should have probably gone to the website listed at the bottom of that sign. But I was a little distracted with the bulldozers and all).

I strode up to a nearby Starbucks, and asked if they knew where the PresidiGo stopped. They had absolutely no clue.

“I see people lining up on the street just outside here,” one girl said, noncommittally.

I headed out to where she had pointed, but found nothing. So I headed back to the construction site. After all, I couldn’t be the first person with this problem, right? I found one of the gentlemen working there, who looked somewhat official. I mean, he had a badge. And a reflective vest. And pressed slacks. Clearly, a man of knowledge and authority

I politely asked him where the PresidiGo stopped, and he told me I needed to go to the old Transbay Transit Center.

Of course! Since the new one wasn’t operating yet, it made total sense to that it would stop at the old center. So I walked over a few blocks to where the old transit center was supposed to be.

And found nothing.

By this time, I had been walking for well over an hour. And thanks to San Francisco’s schizophrenic microclimate, I had taken my jacket on and off roughly a dozen or so times. I was starting to sweat through my adorable shirt. I was getting cranky. I didn’t understand where the hell I needed to go.

I popped into another store and asked the gals who worked there if they knew where the Transbay Transit Center was.  They didn’t, but supposedly it was close by. One girl noted, however, that it was closed.

Wait, CLOSED? No, that couldn’t be right. I wandered out onto the street. I was relieved to finally find a sign indicating the terminal was close by, but apparently the directional arrow had been scratched off. This did not bode well.

Well ... crap.

-

Finally, I managed to stumble upon the old TransBay Terminal. It was an abandoned wasteland.

Well ... crap.

-

A banner was draped over one side, with composite images of the newly renovated center, and a sign that read: “Opening 2017.” A polite but territorial transient stood at one entrance of the old terminal, directing people towards the construction site. Apparently many of the buses were stopping there. Had I asked anyone else at the construction site, I likely would have found this out, but instead, I asked the one guy in nice slacks who also happened to be full of it.

I sighed. And headed back to the construction site.

I won’t lie: I was on the verge of losing it. When I got back to the construction site, I saw a small, unfinished building at one end. I politely asked two supervisors if that was the information desk, and they informed me that it was.

“And I can just walk across the lot and get there?” I asked. I wasn’t taking any chances: I had just seen a guy get yelled at for doing something similar. And I was not in a mood to be yelled at.

“Of course!” they replied. “Just walk over and you’ll be right there.”

So I started to head towards the information desk. And was promptly yelled at by other construction workers, who screamed that I couldn’t cut across the lot. I threw up my arms in exasperation. “THEY TOLD ME I COULD,” I yelled, as I headed back to the sidewalk and cast looks of death at the guys who had provided me the misinformation. They apologized profusely. It wasn’t their fault. I was at the end of my rope. (On a side note, I felt like a New Yorker for a few brief moments, and it was AWESOME).

I slowly started walking around the block, along the sidewalk, in order to reach the building (that was only about 50 feet away had I been able to cross where I wanted). Sometimes, when I get hopelessly lost, I imagine what would happen if I had a kid with me. They’d get impatient, and cranky, and wonder why their mom was such a colossal screw up. This came to mind as I walked around the block. I remembered something someone had said to me months ago: a quick, seemingly-innocuous jab referencing the fact that I didn’t have kids. At that moment, as I considered my ineptness, and those words, I wanted to cry.

I was standing now, in front of what I thought was the information booth, but upon further inspection, was a Greyhound station. I wondered if the two places could be one and the same, but instantly dismissed this idea. Later, I’d find out that I was in the right place (the Greyhound station was serving as an interim PresidiGO stop and info center). But right now? I was hopeless.

And with that, I may have had a meltdown of epic proportions.

There might have been some sniffling. And some foot stomping. I may have made a few phone calls to my husband, telling him that he was married to an idiot who was a terrible mother to her fictional children THAT THANK GOD WERE ONLY FICTIONAL.

And the scene of this lovely display? AN EFFING CONSTRUCTION SITE.

Slowly, I walked back to the hotel. I reached our room 2 hours after I had left, now sweaty, tired, and emotionally distraught for no good reason. I took a few deep breaths. And a shower. I had a much needed reality check (the things upsetting me were not problems. There are people without food or homes or legs or eyes and THOSE are problems. Not finding a transit center is not an effing problem. It means I am very lucky because I get to travel and write. Even when things don’t go as planned, they’re pretty great).

I regrouped.  I had a snack. I left a determined note for my husband. It declared that I was going to the Presidio. It may not have happened that morning, but still: I was going.

Or was I? To Be Continued (tomorrow) …

Dum dum duuuuuuuum!

I once thought that I was immune to such ugliness. When searching for comfortable shoes online, there were so many options, I’d simply skip over the unappealing ones and straight to the cute. My brain has its own filter for this sort of thing. And yet, there are times when a shoe is so unsightly, it will not be ignored. It screams to be noticed. “LOOK AT ME!”, it shouts. “I WAS DESIGNED BY DRUNK KINDERGARTNERS!”

Some of these shoes are impractical. Others are baffling.

All of them are very, very ugly.

Here are the top twelve worst pairs I’ve encountered while digging through the bowels of Zappos. Enjoy.

-

1. Arcopedico N42

Seriously? N42 is what you are going to call the shoe? Sweet Jesus. Put in a little effort. Give it a name. May I suggest “The Bertha”?

Also, they appear to melting.

Ugh. These look like what the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man would wear when he wants to get laid.

-

2. Clarks Wallabee

These look like they’ve been whittled from a chunk of driftwood.

Mmm. Splintery.

-

3. Trotters Blast Two

Let’s ignore for a second that this brand is called “Trotters”, a name that instantly brings to mind pigs in footwear. Instead, let’s try to think of a practical application for these:

"Klondike hooker" is the demographic they're targeting here, I think.

They looked like they were ripped from the wardrobe of a holiday-themed adult film (a genre which, if it doesn’t already exist, needs to immediately. May I suggest the title Jingle Balls: Dashing Through the Hos?). But other than the rare occasion when Mrs. Claus gets frisky, I’m at a loss as to who, exactly would wear these.

-

4. Hush Puppies Classic Walker

These are the footwear equivalent of a coma. They aren’t that unpleasant, but you deserve more out of life, and everyone around you is saddened by them.

Sorry. Your shoes are making me drowsy.

Bonus! For some reason, the back of these shoes has a rather cryptic message.

WTF.

“The Body Shoe”? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

-

5. Softwalk Lago

These shoes are ugly, yes, but more importantly, they defy sense: if they’re open at the back, WHY DO THEY NEED A STRAP ACROSS THE TOP? That’s like getting a cavity filled on your dentures.

MAKE MORE SENSE.

For reasons that boggle the mind, they’re also available in lavender.

-

6. Walking Cradles Alicia

You know how sometimes you’ll see, like, a really old biker? And they try to look badass in their leather jackets, but really, they’re just little and old? And the whole scene is kind of off?

These shoes are kinda like that:

This is how Harley Davidson does orthopedic.

And yet … I KIND OF WANT THEM. I know. I’m scared, too.

-

7. Easy Spirit TravelTime 15

Ever wonder why McDonald’s Grimace is the only one of his kind? Supposedly he had a family, but we’ve never seen them before.  WHY? BECAUSE THEY WERE SKINNED TO MAKE THESE:

Made from 100% pure whatever-the-hell-Grimace-is.

-

8. Crocs Malindi

Are Crocs heinous? Absolutely. They might be the worse thing to happen to fashion since Rachel Zoe and her expressionless face convinced us all that anorexia is the new normal. Looking at this pair of Crocs, you may initially think  they aren’t that bad, since by comparison they are soooo much cuter than the original.

Pretending to be something they aren't.

BUT THEY AREN’T. Why? Because they’re Crocs attempting to NOT BE UGLY, and that’s even more pathetic somehow. It’s like, “I tried, and still, this is the best I could do.”

Also, they’re still made of plastic. Attention Zappos reviewers: want to know why your feet are sweaty? Because wearing these is the hygienic equivalent of swaddling your feet in Saran Wrap.

-

9. Salomon XT Wings 2

What colorblind moron conceived these?

GAH! My eyes!

Seriously. Somewhere there’s an 80s make-over montage that’s missing its shoes.

-

10. Mephisto Sano Excess

I find the name of this shoe hilarious, because it seems to imply that people who but it have an excess of sanity, when clearly the opposite is true. These look like they belong on a cross-dressing Frankenstein.

Fire, bad! Shoes, also bad!

Also, $280?! Are you serious? For that price, I’ll just go barefoot and hire a cabana boy to rub my feet.

-

11. Jambu Capri

Remember those times when you were a kid, and you realized that you had a HUGE school project the next day that you’d totally forgotten about? So in the brief, rushed minutes before bed, you grabbed whatever you could find and glued it together, as a testament to your procrastination and shame?

This is the shoe equivalent of that.

Also, what's up with all the red?

-

12. Onex Venus

Apparently Zappos thinks 3-inch acrylic heels belong in the “comfort” category.

"Pack up your plastic heels, Betty! We're going to Disneyland!"

Lesson for the day, kids: When you’re purchasing a pair of shoes, “clear” should never be a color option. That is all.

Class dismissed.

-

]]> http://www.everywhereist.com/12-of-the-ugliest-comfort-shoes-ever/feed/ 12 http://www.everywhereist.com/12-of-the-ugliest-comfort-shoes-ever/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Everywhereist/~3/LmcHnf8jra4/ http://www.everywhereist.com/the-week-in-travel-august-27-2010/#comments Fri, 27 Aug 2010 16:00:36 +0000 Everywhereist http://www.everywhereist.com/?p=2669 I am having a serious case of those wistful, end-of-summer blues. Fortunately, there are a few sunny days left on the calendar to keep them at bay, a few trips to sunny locales that will help me forget that soon Seattle will be back to its old gray tricks. And there are things to smile about. Silly things. Wonderful things.

And a few things to think about, too, because I read somewhere that we ought to try and do that every now and then, even when we’re screwing around on the internet.

Oh, and some inane stuff, too, of course. Enjoy.

———–

A Pop-Tarts restaurant is opening in Times Square. Just looking at the footage makes my blood sugar spike. We’re clearly taking steps to make sure Britain doesn’t inch anywhere closer to our title of World’s Most Obese Country. (via Vagabondish)

———–

Continuing on the junkfood theme, this comparison of fast food items as they appear in ads versus real life is pretty darn interesting. Unsurprising, but interesting. (Thanks to my bro, Edward, for the link)

———–

Two words: MINI FROGS!!! (Or is that one word, hyphenated? Whatever. I’ll take a thousand of them, please.)

———–

The Hungover Owls blog is absolutely killing me. A good while ago, the brilliant Ben Huff and I had a discussion about why owls always look pissed off. We briefly joked about an “Owls are Assholes” blog. This is better.

———–

Warning: this next site will play music the second you visit it. But then again, that’s the whole idea. Got a song stuck in your head? UnhearIt.com will help you eliminate the catchy tune that keeps playing over and over again in your brain. How? By playing another equally-catchy song to replace it. After a few listens, I heard Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy, the theme to Super Mario Bros. 2 (my husband was able to peg it as being from the sequel), and then was subsequently Rickrolled.

———–

Regardless of what you think of the president, this is highly adorable. (Personally, I happen to like the guy, even though he turned out to be waaay more moderate that I had hoped).

———–

The Avid Trips blog launched this week, and I’m super excited to have an article I wrote be one of the first featured on the site (Sigh – a title I have to share with Peter West Carey. WHY’S HE ALWAYS STEALING MY SPOTLIGHT?). Anywho, check out my piece on why you should go to Iceland.

———–

This collection of photos, featuring life on the New York subway during the 80s, is amazing. It reveals the underground system’s dark and gritty past, with painful honesty and, surprising, a good measure of beauty as well.

———–

Damn, kitty. You’re looking good.

———–

Deanna of Traveling Monkeys sent me the following video, which absolutely slayed me. If you’re a freelancer, it will ring very close to home.

-

-

Sigh. It’s funny ’cause it’s true.

And with that, I’m off to go squeeze the last few drops of life out of summer. Have a great weekend, everyone!

Remember how I freaked when an adorable gal asked for a photo with me? Well, it was kindly sent my way. While my face looks utterly confused, I look skinny, despite wearing horizontal stripes. I’d consider that a win.

See? I TOLD you she existed. And she's cute, too.

-

And another reader was kind enough to explain to me the story behind the little robots I keep seeing on the streets of San Francisco and Seattle. Apparently it’s work by an NYC artist known as Stickman. He’s hugely prolific in his hometown, but apparently he’s been depositing robots all around the west coast as well. Personally, I’m just relieved to know it’s not a sign of an impending robot apocalypse.

Now the only mysteries left me are what exactly is going on here:

This place gives me nightmares.

-

It’s located in the Pioneer Square district of Seattle, and it just seems to be a subway entrance, right? No big deal, except for the fact that Seattle doesn’t have a subway. It looks like the entrance to a crypt, and it’s been freaking me out since I first noticed it a few months back. It looks like a scene from a zombie film.

So while the robot apocalypse is no longer anything to fear (for the immediate future, anyway), the undead have their very own public transportation stop downtown.

If anyone wants to join me with some 2×4s in a preemptive move to seal this sucker up, email me.

That is all. Happy Thursday, folks.

-

“Holy f*ck, it’s FREEZING.” – The Everywhereist

Last week, we were waiting in line at a huge, popular ice cream shop with a group of our friends. We all wore jackets. A few of us had scarves. We clustered together for warmth, joking that perhaps ice cream was not the best choice on such a chilly night.

This is August in San Francisco.

Rand and I have learned, thankfully without too much discomfort on our own parts, to check the weather report before leaving for any trip. In the case of San Francisco, we check it two or three times before our flight.

It was 95 degrees in Seattle on this same day.

Sometimes, it is out of incredulity.

When Rand and I saw the forecast for our last trip, we stared, blankly, at the screen.

“How,” I asked him, “How exactly can it be 50 degrees in August?”

But 50 degrees it was. At night, anyway. And with the strong wind coming off the bay, it felt even colder. Of course, it may simply have been the street we were on. In addition to shockingly cold summers (apparently October is when it really starts to get warm there, and I remember a few early springs that were quite toasty),  the city experiences a menagerie of microclimates: localized weather patterns that vary greatly from one another, despite being ridiculously close together.

The phenomenon isn’t unique to San Francisco, but seems to be a prime example of it.   The patchwork weather patterns are a result of the city’s rumpled landscape. Fog and cold winds from the bay beat against the hills, but never reach the valleys on the other side, which remain warm and sun-drenched (this is a huge over-simplification, but considering how terrible I am at geography, let’s call this a “win” for me, okay?).

Fog dissipates before our eyes in the Castro district.

-

The result? Dressing for San Francisco is an exercise in layering, a constant dance of removing sweaters and unzipping jackets. Sometimes, you wonder if it’s worth it, since the next block will bring something new all together. I’ve been known to freeze or roast through a few streets, because I can’t be bothered.

What’s worse is my resistance to believe that it’s actually going to be as cold as meteorologist and empirical evidence suggest. In the end, I find myself pulling together random layers. It is the logic behind this photo, which I initially posted yesterday:

Sigh. And I look so CONFIDENT, too, in my craziness.

-

When I realized that neither my fleece or my cropped jean jacket would be enough, I had to layer them. The result is … well, whatever. I was warm enough, thankfully, to go for a stroll with my husband through the city. And based on how many freezing tourists I see, wearing newly acquired San Francisco sweatshirts (purchased out of desperation, I’m sure), no one is going to judge.

So if you’re going to go, check the weather report. And bring layers. Many of them. Don’t be fooled by your preconceived notions of the city. The greatest trick San Francisco ever pulled was convincing the world it was part of California.

I hear you, babe.

-

In five years, a city doesn’t change much, if at all. Trees are barely taller. Roads are virtually in the same condition. Five years in the lifespan of a building are insignificant, especially in cities that have been around for hundreds of years. The landscape remains static.

Seattle from above: 2005

-

Seattle from above: 2010

-

But five years to a person? To a relationship? It’s a different thing altogether. Almost exactly five years ago, Rand and I went to San Francisco together. We’ve been plenty of times since then, but for some reason that trip kept coming to mind last week as I roamed the city. In August of 2005, I was 24. The trip was to celebrate my upcoming birthday, and my new job at Cranium, which I was set to start the following week. New things were just around the bend. Everything was at my fingertips, anything seemed possible.

And now? I am going to be 30. Cranium came and went – a brief but significant part of my life. For the first time ever, I was paid to write. As our time there was drawing to a close (and we all knew it) I remember telling my boss, “This job made me a writer. I’ll always be grateful for that.” It was a bittersweet end.

So much has happened in five years, it’s hard to comprehend it all. The sets of the play remain the same. But the actors look different.

Rand and I in 2005. Filed under Lovers, Young.

-

Rand and I in 2010. Filed under Lovers, Occasionally (when we aren't too tired)

-

I showed Rand these pictures last night.

“I got old and you got prettier,” he said, laughing. I told him he’d become more handsome, which I think is true, but Rand doesn’t entirely believe me.

“We look lost,” I said, staring at the first photo. Rand initially agrees, but then tells me not to read into it too much. He tells me we looked happy then, and we look happy now. I try to take his advice, and not scrutinize things too much, but it’s hard not to. I notice the gray hair in his beard (which I adore), the roundness that’s slowly disappearing from my cheeks (thankfully, it was decent enough to take the acne with it).

And I notice how comfortable we are now. With each other and with ourselves. It surprises me because, as someone who’s always defined herself by her work, unemployment has been a soul-wracking experience. But looking at these photos, I realize that five years ago, I was content with my career, and unsure of myself. Now, the opposite is true.

2005: In front of the Golden Gate Bridge

-

2010: A little closer to it.

-

I wonder if I made the right decisions. Should I have taken the internship with the news station in Yakima? The reporting job in North Seattle? Those decisions were made, even five years ago, but now they’re far enough in the past that I begin to question them. It’s pointless to think about these things. Time has passed.

Though I still seem to have a penchant for huge earrings. And I tend to make some ridiculously ill-advised fashion decisions, as much as I’d like to think otherwise. Crimes have been committed, folks. Repeatedly. For years.

2005: Every element of this outfit should be burned (except for that purse, which I still have. And that jacket, which I WISH I still had.)

-

2010: I prove myself to be a repeat offender. Seriously. WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

-

And then there’s Rand. Rand, who five years ago was working in a tiny office above a movie theater and next door to a Planned Parenthood. The hallways smelled of popcorn. Every time there was a bomb scare at the clinic (which were often, even though they don’t actually perform abortions at that location), Rand and his co-workers would have to evacuate the building.

2005: Rand tries to figure out where we are going.

-

2010: Rand knows exactly where we are.

-

I remember he wasn’t sure of things, or where he was headed. He was worried about the future of his company, and he doubted his abilities. He wondered if he had made the right choices. I remember telling him, over and over, it would be fine. And then, slowly, it was. Last week, this happened:

This photo sucks.

-

For those of you unable to make out the grainy image above, that’s Inc. Magazine’s 500 list. My husband’s company ranked 334th (and 24th in software). Of course, it’s just one in a long line of accolades he’s wracked up, but I feel justified in gushing about him, especially when it proves how right I had been. Just like everything else, it happened so slowly, we barely noticed it. And then, one day, he had confirmation of what I knew all along: he was a success.

And now it’s him, telling me to be more confident. Telling me that in five years, or ten, everything will have fallen into place and I will simply look back on all this insecurity and confusion and laugh. I hope he’s as right about me as I was about him.

Looking at his photos, I try to figure out how he’s changed, and when, but it’s happened too gradually for me to notice. To me, he’s always Rand. I don’t hang on to hairstyles. Or clothes. Or careers. But he’s been the one constant in my life.

2005: with my boyfriend.

-

2010: with my husband.

I suppose it’s pointless to question your decisions, when you’ve made the right one all along.

-

1. Well, there’s goes the marketing budget for the year. What the hell is this ad for? I have no idea. But it’s awful. I mean, you want to be smart right? And balls-less? Or stupid and virile? I just DON’T UNDERSTAND.

Stupid is also the one approving the marketing campaign.

-

2. HOLY CRAP – THAT’S WHERE HE IS. Saw this from the SF MoMA. It’s on the rooftop of a building adjacent to the museum. Promptly freaked the hell out.

I mean, does the Pentagon know?

-

3. It’s MUSTACHE MARSHALL! I am convinced one of the writers for HIMYM saw this ad and it inspired the “Doppelgangers” storyline.

-

4. Dude wearing a fig leaf … and not much else. Funny thing is, this really wasn’t a big deal for anyone. Not the guy in question, not us, not anyone. I questioned whether or not I should take a photo, because, really, a little middle-aged-man-thigh isn’t a big deal in the Castro.

Last time, we saw a dude in pigtails and a Speedo dancing fervently in this spot.

-

5. Toilet instructions. When I first saw this sign (in the bathrooms near Golden Gate bridge) my initial thought was: “Um, really? We need instructions for this?” Part of it is smudged (DEAR GOD BY WHAT?) but it should read: “Please use a piece of toilet paper before flushing.”

I mean, clearly it had been a problem, right?

-

6. Tiny Invasion. Okay, fine – so this little robot I saw on the street (made from the same materials used to mark lines on the road) isn’t that weird or strange. Unless you consider that I’ve seen these all over the roads in Seattle, too. A sign of the impeding 2-dimensional robot invasion? I think yes.

I suppose it could have been a 3-dimensional robot invasion, but they just kept getting run over.

-

7. Smoking Horse painting. I could elaborate more, but why bother? Its awesomeness defies explanation, anyway.

"A horse is a horse of course, of cour- COUGH COUGH HACK."

-

8. Bratz Baby Doll. Remember those Bratz dolls? The ones that kind of look like strippers who’ve had a bit too much surgery? Seriously, they make Barbie look Amish. Anyway, there’s apparently Bratz Babies, which, as far as I can tell, are infant stripper dolls. Huge amounts of make up, bikinis, and come-hither looks. Perfect for any 18-month old.

This is just so wrong.

-

9. Neon Buddha sign. Why not? Sometimes deities need to get their drink on, too.

I heard they opened to the compete with the "Jesus Juice Bar" down the street.

-

10. City-sanctioned art in the BART terminal. I love this more than I can possibly say. And really, it wrapped up the sentiment of this trip to San Francisco: that the unusual and the bizarre mix are commonplace, they nearly become mundane. Like taking a ride on public transit, and seeing an old-timey diver attacked by a giant squid.

You ... got something on your back, there, buddy.

-