Living With The Travel Bug

Wandering Homeless

2011-12-29T12:55:00.000-08:00

I'm finally back, back in Cali, Cali.

Or home, as it should be. But home is a funny thing when you're me. When someone asks where I'm from, my eyes glaze over while I decide how to launch into the list of places I call home and why I can't honor the question with a straight answer. By the time I reach the second or third, "And then I lived in," their eyes glaze over.

I don't mean to brag or bore but there isn't a way to simplify the answer. If home is where the heart is, maybe I'm confused about just where the damn pulsating organ has gone. When I am home in Syracuse where I live, I refer to LA as "home." When I am home in LA where my family lives, I talk of going "home" to Syracuse. When I am in neither place and answering from the heart instead of the brain, "home" is, without question, Trinidad & Tobago where my culture lives.

It is a dilemma I admit I'm glad to have, but at some point, as a traveler or wanderer or nomad, no place feels like home. This time, in LA, I'm like the puzzle piece that seems to be the right shape but doesn't quite fit. If you force it, it juts out, gets stuck and the big picture never makes sense.

I watch as suave drivers in designer shades shuffle on undeterred by the traffic that has quadrupled what should be their commute time. I, on the other hand, am quietly losing my mind. If traffic didn't make sense to me before, the taste of a traffic-less life has worn my patience thin; there's more to life than the 5 freeway! I've heard there's public transportation here, must look into that for next time.

Everyone is glamorous, the Hollywood sign is sparkling and the drinks are $10 and up. My flats and Syracuse cardigan don't seem to fit where I once had heels and handbags. I wonder if my fanciness has dimmed or if I just need to wipe the smudges off my designer shades to see more clearly.

I step out of the car to a feeling of heat I had lost somewhere between August and the 18 degree cold the night before I left Syracuse. Could it be that I was really wearing a summer dress while friends at home were brushing snow off their cars after spending 10 minutes donning adequate clothing to brace the cold?

Sometimes, I really do love LA. Home or not.

Infographic Design

2011-12-01T09:24:00.000-08:00

Bhutanese light up Syracuse for Dipawali

2011-10-28T16:37:00.000-07:00

A deep is lit for Laxmi.

When the candles are lit, the marigolds are strung, and the money is out, Laxmi will come.

It doesn’t matter that the candles are standard tea lights from the Dollar Tree down the street and not the copper candle dishes, or deep, that would light homes in Nepal. Or that plastic garland hangs where floral wreaths would have been. Laxmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth and prosperity, cannot tell the difference.

The Siwakoti family of Bhutanese refugees left Nepal and resettled in Syracuse in 2008. Although some cultural practices don’t translate well to life in America, the family maintained most of their traditions as they began celebrating Dipawali, Wednesday.

“It is not the same here, but we try to keep our culture,” said Ranga Siwakoti, the father in the family.

Dipawali, or Tihar in Nepali, is a three-day annual festival of lights and a time to worship Laxmi and ask for her blessings. It is also a time for brothers and sisters to treasure one another and exchange wishes for long lives and happiness.

“It’s a time for brothers to give sisters money,” said Jassoda Siwakoti, with a sly nod to her male cousin–in Nepali culture, cousins often consider one another as brother and sister.

“Sometimes we feel like we should have been born girls,” Kamal Siwakoti retorted.

A sister prepares her brothers
to receive tika.

On Friday, the final day of Tihar, sisters in the family placed tika, a vibrant powder colored orange, blue and green, on their brothers’ foreheads and a mala, or garland of marigolds, around their necks. The brothers returned the blessing by making neat marks with matchsticks on their sisters’ foreheads.

After the tika, the family watched YouTube videos of Tihar in Nepal, saying, “You see? That’s how it is in our country.” Even the 80-year-old matriarch perked up to the familiar scenes, watching from her bed as the computer speakers blared the music she remembered from home.

Ethnic Nepalis who were born in Bhutan, like the Siwakotis, were persecuted in the country for having a different culture and a different religion from the native Bhutanese. The family fled the country to be independent from a lifestyle that was being forced on them. They sought refuge at a camp in Nepal before being granted asylum in Syracuse.

“You love your culture and I love my culture,” Ranga said. “We want to be able to celebrate who we are.”

Dear T&T: What Happened to You?

2011-09-10T16:52:00.000-07:00

So, generally this blog is about my love affair with travel and the lighter, more beautiful aspects of the pastime I hold so dear to my heart.

But I cannot always live in a rose-colored travel world.

Sometimes, the love wanes (only briefly) and the issues that affect the world and travel come to light. I suppose it is relevant to discuss the complete picture of a true love affair anyway, because the love wouldn't be real without a little heartache.

Except this is a big heartache. The source of my woes is my own sweet Trinidad & Tobago.

After 11 people were killed in just 3 days last month, the government declared a limited state of emergency, forcing residents in the targeted crime areas to abide by a 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. curfew and to be subject to searches at law enforcement's discretion. Which, in Trinidad means, the police will do as they please when they please, just because they feel like it (as is generally the case, only now, they won't suffer any backlash). On September 4th, the emergency decree was revised to have curfew between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. The curfew, which has already been in place for several weeks, will last another 3 months.

The government says the killings are drug related, confined to gangs and have little to do with the general public. But if the general public has altered their lifestyles to suit this madness, it has everything to do with the general public. Just as our national motto says, "Together we aspire, together we achieve," together we fail and together we suffer. The senseless crime has got to stop; they are spoiling my beloved country.

Some things, however, remain unchanged. In true Trini festive fashion, some venues have been hosting "curfew fêtes" lasting from 9 p.m. to 5 a.m., the exact hours of the required curfew, and serving promotional "AK47" shots at the bar. Only in Trinidad can we make light of a situation by throwing a party and also manage to last 8 hours doing it.

But, back to a serious note, I worry about the people who will only know or remember this blemish on the face of my country. The ones who won't know that the water is delicious and warm and shockingly teal. That the sand feels like silky powder under your feet. That the mangoes have never been sweeter than when your neighbor brings some over, fresh from their tree. That every meal tastes like it's from a mother's kitchen (because it probably is) and the fusion of flavors and spices is like a performance for your taste buds.

They won't hear the faint sounds of steel pan playing somewhere in the distance while the warm night breeze lulls them to sleep. Or hear the soca music that will course through their veins and allow them no option but to dance. They won't know the heart and spirit of my country.

There is so much more to a country than just it's struggles. And while this is certainly an issue that needs to be resolved, I hope that one day soon, Trinidad & Tobago finds its way back to the sweet country I remember and once again leaves the world with memories of teal oceans and coconut trees rather than drugs and killing.

A Summer in Syracuse

2011-09-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

Syracuse University

It is time to get serious.

No more wining the night away, fête after fête, for Carnival. No more all day beach sessions in California when only my hunger pangs could separate me from the sand. No more eats and greets and whatever my little heart desires.

No. The fêtes have been replaced by writing, writing has taken over my beach days, and the eats and greets have been substituted with–writing.

Syracuse, me, and my painstakingly expelled 6,452 words, have spent a beautiful summer together in grad school.

And by beautiful I mean I never saw anything outside of my often blank computer screen and the scribbled lines of my notebook pages.

But I hear Syracuse is lovely in the summer.

I imagine if I had had time to explore, I might have spent my Saturday mornings eating a breakfast of champions (very, very large champions) at Stella's Diner. My oversized banana pancakes would have been sweet and delectable and just the right way to start the day.

I imagine I would have spent time sipping coffee on Marshall Street, just off campus, enjoying a chat and discussing the woes of the world and a writer's struggle with my erudite classmates.

I might have caught a glimpse of downtown, wandered through the MOST museum getting my scientific discovery on, and maybe caught a jazz festival or two.

I may have even had a few jaunts to the lake when the day's heat was unbearable, and the cool water on my skin could quite literally have washed away any semblance of stress.

Sigh. What a wonderful summer it would have been.

Okay, so maybe I did manage to squeeze some of these things in, but they were all "on deadline" and in such a flurry, that they almost do seem like a figment of my imagination.

But the summer was wonderful anyway, and the excessive writing welcome. I may have traded in life and traveling on a whim, for an overweight messenger bag and endless nights attached to my computer, but travel is waiting for me on the other side. I am really learning my craft studying journalism at Syracuse University, and will be well prepared to tell the untold travel tales that lie ahead.

And, the best part is, on most days when I awake to begin a new grueling day, I actually feel like a real writer.

Somali Bantu Community Gets Grant for Success

2011-09-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

Members of the Somali Bantu community and other local refugee groups will see a monetary boost for their resettlement services this year, thanks to a grant from the state of New York.

The Somali Bantu Community Association received its first payment from an $84,000 grant last month. The New York Office of Temporary and Disability Assistance, OTDA, awarded the grant to the association for refugee social services.

The money, to be paid quarterly over three years, is intended to aid the association in providing job training and placement, English-language classes, and ensuring overall long-term community growth for the refugee population.

“If you don’t have someone to advocate for you, then you can’t get what you need,” said Haji Adan, a Somali Bantu refugee who co-founded SBCA and is the literacy program coordinator for the association. Some of the refugees arrive speaking only their native Maay Maay, and cannot read or understand the English they need in order to succeed, Adan said.

Somali Bantus are an ethnic minority group that was sold into slavery in Somalia during the 19^th century Arab slave trade. Because of their differing appearance and language, native Somalis have continuously persecuted them, treating the Bantus as an inferior race.

When Bantus arrive in America, they tend to have a greater struggle than other refugee groups as most cannot read or write in their own language, Adan said. “Most of their parents were illiterate and never wanted to send children to schools because of the discrimination,” he explained.

Adan and Abdullahi Ibrahim saw a need to serve and strengthen their community and established the SBCA in 2004. What began as tutoring at the home of an association member has evolved into a full service resettlement center, complete with an office on Syracuse’s South Side, near to Central Village where most of the Somali Bantus reside.

Lul Hassan, a 22-year-old Bantu refugee who spent her entire childhood at a Kenyan refugee camp before coming to the United States in 2004, credits the association with giving her a place to learn and, ultimately, a job as an office assistant.

“I don’t know how some of my friends and family would have found jobs without them either,” Hassan said.

Central New York Community Foundation grants have helped SBCA sustain itself in the past, but they rely on donations of time most heavily. Volunteers from all corners of the community give time to help: some from the city school district, some from local universities and some Somali Bantu parents and community leaders, themselves refugees. The continued support of volunteers and each new grant allow SBCA to develop the program to suit changing demands.

But the SBCA always needs money as the majority of their community members are in the public assistance sector and don’t have money to donate to the programs, said Barbara Gordon, a volunteer ESL teacher for the association. “Haji and Abdullahi have worked nonstop without salaries to support their community,” she added.

Adan supports himself by working for Syracuse City School District as a nationality worker, but he spends more time lending himself to his community. “If you are quiet and your neighbor is suffering, that is no good,” he said.

In 2009, there were roughly 95 Bantu families living in Syracuse, Adan said. Today there are close to 300, which he credits to better services provided by the SBCA.

The goal is to continuously improve the association, Adan said. So far, the grant has enabled SBCA to hire additional bilingual staff who collectively speak Maay Maay, Swahili, and English. In the future, they plan to add staff who speak additional languages so they may reach all refugee groups in the community, not just Somali Bantu, Adan said. With nearly 1,000 refugees arriving in Syracuse each year, there will be many to be helped.

Grant or no grant, money was never going to be a reason to stop operating the office, Adan said. “We feel pride with what we do for the community. The more good things we do for them, the better the community becomes,” he added. “We would have kept going.”

Interface Design

2011-08-01T09:19:00.000-07:00

iPad Magazine Design

2011-08-01T09:10:00.000-07:00

Horizontal Version

The Whole Truth...

2011-07-02T13:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, please bear with me as I dust the cobwebs off of my poor deserted blog, and try to re-hone my neglected writing skills. Ahem--

Have you ever had so much fun that you kind of didn't want to tell anyone about it? Like the fun should just be your little secret? Almost as if the words of your merriment left your mouth, the sanctity of the fun-ness might very well leave with them?

It's kind of like buried treasure. There are no exciting maps and treasure hunts for non-buried treasure, then it's just regular treasure, accessible to everyone and thus much less exciting.

Or maybe it's more like a secret recipe; after all, KFC wouldn't be what it was today if everyone knew how to make it. There would be no allure, no secret. Well, Carnival in Trinidad is like a secret recipe for the most wildly entertaining revelry you are likely to experience in a lifetime. And you could not begin to decipher the ingredients of this recipe unless you simply taste it for yourself. Unfortunately, I took such a big taste and it was so delicious that my taste-buds will never be the same again.

Wining.

The whole truth is, I wanted Carnival to remain safely as my little secret, which is why it has taken me four months to even consider leaking the excitement. However, as an aspiring travel writer, it would hardly be sensible to say, "Hey readers! I just came back from _____ (insert any fantastic location here) and it was SO amazing that I can't even tell you about it." I figured that probably wouldn't work.

So, since you must experience it yourself to fully understand, I will do my best to share a taste of the experience, a sample of the bacchanal (def. an occasion of wild and drunken revelry) and do my best to prepare you for what would be in store (useful Trini lingo included):

First and foremost, if you can't picture yourself doing this and liking it, Carnival is NOT for you.
If you get past that and decide you want to be right in the thick of things, please continue reading.
You must let go of all other aspects of yourself and your life and just be one with the Carnival and the freeness, otherwise you will not get the full effect.
You MUST learn to wine (def. to gyrate, to move your hips in a suggestive manner). That is the sexy dance you pretty much see everyone doing ALL the time. Without this knowledge, you may be in trouble. "How to wine for Boys" and "How to wine for Girls." Because girls, it is really all about you. There are many other bamsees (def. buttocks, bottoms, backsides) to wine on, and the gentlemen will move on if you don't know what you are doing.
In Trinidad, Carnival takes place on the Monday and Tuesday before Ash Wednesday every year. Plan to arrive at least a week before Carnival Monday as there will be fêtes (def. celebrations, festivals or really big parties) to attend. There is at least one every night, often more than one. They have different themes, are hosted by different schools and organizations, and are often all-inclusive meaning you pay one price to eat, drink, and be merry for the entire night. It is wise to drink your money's worth.
When you leave the fête, stop for doubles (def. curried channa served between two pieces of fried bread) Yum. Unless you enjoy your mouth being on fire, slight pepper will do.
Prepare to get dirty. J'ouvert is a large street party that marks the opening of the Monday and Tuesday festivities. To celebrate, participants smear paint, mud, cocoa and the like all over themselves and everyone else. Do not be one of those people that doesn't want to get dirty. If you are, stay home. Note: you will still be washing paint, mud, and cocoa from all parts of your body by Ash Wednesday.
Learn to wine.
If you want to wear a costume, participants are divided into Carnival Bands. There are tons of different ones, they all have different themes, different costumes, and different vibes. Find one that suits you and order your costume very early because they will sell out and you'll find yourself scrambling for whatever is left at the last minute.
The costumes are VERY small so get in the gym if you want to be at your best, or don't, but decide to be very comfortable with your body. You will see all different sizes and shapes of exposed bodies feeling very comfortable and proud of whatever they are working with.
The people are very friendly, and strangers wine on one another as though they have been acquainted for a lifetime. Learn to accept the friendliness, or travel in large groups.
Learn to wine.
Guys, the girls are very sexy. Girls, the girls are very sexy. Everyone bring your A-game.
Do not try to find yourself a doo doo darling (def. a sweetheart, a loved one). While the eye-candy could fill up an M&M factory, it is best to just look. This is a time of too much freedom and no one is looking to be tied down for tomorrow night's fête.
Trinis party harder than anyone else in the world, this is the best place to learn how to do it right so join the fun.

Lastly, learn to wine, seriously. Just wanted to be sure I drove this point home. When you have finished the lessons above, you want it to look like this. Ladies, if you can make it look like this and have donned your scanty Carnival costume, congratulations you are on your way to becoming a fully-fledged bess ting (def. derived from 'best thing' used to describe a sexy girl).

J'ouvert!

Carnival or more accurately pronounced, cahneeval, is a "farewell to the flesh" It is a pre-Lenten festival to allow one last chance to party before giving up alcohol, revelry, and song for the 40 days of Lent. So...after you have learned and partaken in the above; it is time to behave yourself! And then after Lent, you are free to be back at it.

Sometimes when I am really missing the bacchanal , I stand on top of a cooler in my bedroom, blast my soca music and imagine myself right in the middle of a cooler-fête (def. party to which you bring your own drinks in a cooler, then possibly dance on top of the cooler; sturdy coolers required) having the time of my life. I am sick, I know. But once you taste it, I promise, you are never the same again.

A Valentine's Date With My Passport

2011-02-14T08:37:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again.

Men are roaming the streets carrying tiny, teal bags that are sure to spell delight. Heart-shaped boxes filled with chocolates are out in full force. Everything in the United States has turned red and pink. And people are freaking out about what they are going to do, where they are going to do it, and what gift they are going to rack their brains over for Valentine's Day.

Me? I have a very, very hot date, and I am counting the minutes until we are together.

Slim, sleek, and seasoned, my date is worldly in every sense of the word. When schedules and funds permit, my date takes me to places beyond my wildest imagination and never fails to impress. Without my date my beloved travel would be just a distant dream, and without me, my date would suffer much the same fate. We fit perfectly together; we need each other.

Where did I find this apple of my eye you ask? Well it was brought to me by none other than the good old United States by way of my wonderful and wise parents. You see, though I was just two months old, my parents knew the one thing that would make my new life complete: a passport. It is never too soon to begin a love affair.

My passport and I have something very special planned this Valentine's Day. We are headed to Trinidad & Tobago for some sweet revelry as the Carnival season is well underway. There had previously been some tension as we hadn't been going out much (7 months and 23 days to be exact, but who's counting?) but we've since reconciled. I expect this trip will rekindle the flame. Some quality together time was long overdue; it is going to be a holiday to remember.

This Valentine's Day I am watching romance bloom and wilt as some friends walk into new relationships and others walk out of existing ones. It is both a happy time and a sad time, but my passport and I remain unfazed. We know what we have and my passport isn't going anywhere, it belongs to me forever.

Sure, I could be enjoying a culinary feast over candlelight, but I'd trade that for a $5.00 snack pack and airplane cabin lighting if I knew adventure was on the other side. This Valentine's Day is for travel, and I couldn't be more in love.

T&T here I come!

Go Ahead, Drool: An Epicurean Seduction

2011-02-10T09:39:00.000-08:00

Food is really a beautiful thing; it is my next great love after traveling. The best thing is being able to marry my two loves and embark on an epicurean adventure while traveling the world, or the United States and Canada in this case. Feel free to drool as I did when these meals landed before me.

Santa Fe: Green Chile Enchilada at El Farol

New Orleans: Oysters at Acme Oyster House

Houston: Barbeque Ribs at Barbeque Inn

The South: Chicken, Eggs, & Cheese Grits at Waffle House

Atlanta: Gourmet Pizza at Seasons 52

Orlando: Red Snapper at Pollo a la Braza Mario

Philly: Cheesesteak at Pat's

Boston: Chowda at Boston Chowda

Montréal: Pasta at L'usine de Spaghetti Parisienne

Montréal: Poutine at Montréal Poutine

Toronto: Vietnamese Noodles at Pho Hung

Hungry yet?

Road Trip: The Best & Worst of It

2011-02-08T11:57:00.000-08:00

We spent 33 days on the road, posed for pictures in front of 33 state signs, visited 44 cities, and drove over 11,000 miles! The adventures were endless and each day held something different. The horizons before us changed colors and shapes as desert turned to badlands and farms turned to cities. Every place was new; every day was new.

With all that newness came a lot of great discoveries and also some that I could probably have done without. Here are some of the best and worst of our days on the open road:

Best Meal: It's hard to decide considering all of the yummy eats we had around the country. One of my favorites was chili cheese fries at Ben's Chili Bowl in D.C. Oh, and the poutine in Montréal. Definitely the poutine. I still dream about it from time to time.

Worst Meal: Well, aside from the probably-sitting-there-all-day awful gas station burgers which don't really count, the worst was probably the chicken fried steak we ate in San Antonio. The place claimed to have the 'best chicken fried steak in town' and was a Man v. Food locale no less. Proof that not every Travel Channel endorsed restaurant has good food.

Best Drive: Through Montana, hands down. The creeks, the trees, everything was beautiful.

Worst Drive: The seemingly endless drive across Texas on a two lane highway at night. No street lights, no other cars, just the ridiculous occurrence of the bright lights game between you and the Mack trucks.

Best Hotel: The Sand Castle Motel in Daytona Beach, FL. It was the sweetest little place ever and was just steps from the beach. And the beach was beautiful in an I-can't-stay-away-from-it kind of way. Staying there felt like being at home which was a much needed reprieve from such large quantities of road travel. I would trade the big, fancy hotels of Daytona for this little treasure any day. Plus the room was sans roaches.

Worst Hotel: The one with the most roaches.

Biggest Surprise: Striking gold! I never thought I'd pan for gold, or visit South Dakota for that matter, but I found some! Taking in the staggering faces of our forefathers at Mt. Rushmore was an added bonus.

Biggest Disappointment: Not getting to camp at Yosemite. Actually, no that was a relief, let's be real. If this road trip has taught me anything, it's that camping is not for me.

Greatest Moment: Standing at the mercy of the Grand Canyon, almost at the edge of life. It was one of those moments you stop in awe of the wonders of this world.

Strangest Moment: Being blocked by four very large Bison in the pitch-black darkness of night while driving into Yellowstone. The only thing crazier would have been actually seeing Yogi Bear.

Coolest City: N'awlins! I don't think you can narrow it down to one thing that makes this city so cool. It just is. You can't beat the music, can't beat the food, and can't beat the madness that is Bourbon Street (even when it isn't Mardi Gras!)

Weirdest City: Roswell. I think they have over-capitalized on the whole alien thing. Or maybe aliens really do live there and have run out all the humans...which would explain the eerie and deserted feel of the place...

Favorite Thing: The freedom of the road. Forging my own path and discovering the undiscovered that lay before me. There is something truly exhilarating about waking up to something new each day.

Least Favorite Thing: The price I paid for all of that freedom. I have never been more exhausted in my entire life.

Thing I'll Never Forget: The hospitality of all the friends and family that took us in and fed us along our journey. They brought us back to life before sending us back to our unlimited adventures. It was the kind of kindness that is not easily forgotten.

Things I'd Like to Forget: The 90+ gas station restrooms that I was forced to use.

We visited 30 U.S. National Historical Landmarks, ate at 54 restaurants and slept in 15 different beds. It was wild, crazy, and fantastic, but when it was time to go home, I was ready.

And home never felt so sweet.

I posted a whopping total of 8 blogs while actually on the road, but I'll blame infrequent wifi and exhaustion for my lack of productivity. It has officially taken me 5 1/2 months to blog about 33 days of travel, but the adventure has finally come to an end. My days on the road are over for now, but only to be replaced by air travel, because the travel must go on.

Besides, how long can a travel bug sufferer really stay home before the itch becomes slightly unbearable...?

Road Trip: Surprise, Montana is Lovely!

2011-02-01T14:26:00.000-08:00

Everything about Montana was a surprise. It was a surprise that we ended up driving through it as it was never on the original route plan, and it was a surprise that I kind of fell in love with it. I mean, let's be honest, it just isn't one of those states most people even think of very often. After all, the only thing I knew about Montana was that it is Big Sky Country, whatever that entailed, I had no idea.

We drove west through the state and passed a man selling handmade wooden stools at the side of the road. We stopped to check out his crafts and inquire prices and such. He also had antlers and various wilderness related art pieces. The actual animal antlers prompted my companion to ask the gentleman whether he hunts the animals himself. His answer was another Montana surprise: "I don't hunt 'cause I've been in trouble with the law and I can't have a gun. But my mamma has a gun." Hmm. Parked at the side of the road between two desolate highways, chatting with a man in trouble with the law and no other people around for miles? Time to go.

The landscape dazzled us as we continued on to Bozeman. There were mountains in the distance, huge expanses of land, and trees in every color that trees can come in. Frolicking in the creek beside the highway was an absolute must. The water was freezing, but we sat on the river rocks as the water trickled toward us, and enjoyed a few minutes of complete serenity. It was another one of those moments when I realized just how much beauty exits in my home country. The feelings of peace ended abruptly when we were forced to use a highly questionable restroom facility next to the creek, a surprise I could have done without.

Lunch at the Kountry Korner Café was definitely a hometown affair. I ordered chili and cornbread from a lady in an apron that could have been Betty Crocker herself, she was so cute. When she returned with our food, she was sure to mention that the honey was all locally made, in fact it was made by the people sitting at that table over there. Well, it doesn't get more local than that! I guess this would be kind of like running into the girl that does your coffee in L.A., but somehow not really the same thing.

As we headed out of Bozeman, there was a sign for a town named Manhattan. I had to giggle at the stark contrast between the sparse farmland before me, and the busy, bustling Manhattan in my mind. Bringing New York Manhattanites to this namesake town so unlike their own would make for hilarious reality television.

The more I travel, the more I realize how different things are outside of my backyard. Travel is an endless testament that we can never underestimate what another place has to offer. The more we see, the more we learn, and the more we can understand. I am sure there are lots of people that have always known Montana was lovely, and although I may be late in the game, I am glad to know it now. And come to think of it...the sky might have looked just a bit bigger.

Road Trip: A Spectacle of Spectators at Old Faithful

2011-01-25T13:22:00.000-08:00

What Our Arrival Should
Have Looked Like

We arrived in the mountains of Yellowstone National Park in complete darkness. Again. You would think we'd have learned our lesson about arriving at campsites in the dark, but clearly, we had not.

We drove through 45 minutes of winding darkness passed deer and elk, and got barricaded by 4 large bison before reaching camp. It was a cool 30° F outside (or -1° C for more dramatic effect) and way too cold and late to set up camp so we camped in the car near to all of the food so that the bears would have an easier time finding us. No, not very smart.

Luckily, the bears decided to spare our lives, and I started my morning with a 2 minute shower at the cost of 4 quarters. The coin operated cleansing was just a reminder that I was very, very far away from anything I had ever done before. I had also acquired a plague somewhere between Mt. Rushmore and panning for gold in the Wild Wild West, so my energy level and penchant for camping was very low. I was ready to see this geyser, check out the Tetons, and move on with life.

Pure Excitement

At least it was a beautiful day. We took a bike ride to Old Faithful and sat down to wait. Watching the pure excitement on people's faces as they waited for water to come out of the ground provided much amusement as we waited for the fairly timely geyser to erupt. A crowd of at least 100 ooh'd and aah'd in unison as little trickles of water spouted up every few minutes, tantalizing them. With each spurt, the onlookers jumped to their feet with cameras in hand, gasping in anticipation. And the geyser didn't erupt.

More spurts, more poised cameras, and still the geyser didn't erupt.

It was almost like Old Faithful was playing tricks on all of its over-eager spectators. Almost as though it were tired of being old and faithful. "Ooh, here I am! Psych! Okay, okay, here I am. Ha! Got you again out-of-towners! Fine, fine, I won't be the geyser who cried 'wolf' so here it is. For real this time." I imagined Old Faithful snickering from deep within its hot, bubbling underground center.

Grand Tetons

Finally, Old Faithful came through, much to the delight of the crowd of gaspers. Watching water come out of the ground was actually kind of cool, you know, natural wonder and all that. We wrapped up the day with a peaceful (peaceful mostly because I was asleep) drive to the Grand Tetons and a visit to the hot springs before heading back for yet another night at camp, this time in the tent. Yay.

I must admit though, that aside from the late night arrival, the below freezing temperatures, and the frightening encounter with bison larger than our vehicle, Yellowstone was truly gorgeous. Even for the not-very-outdoorsy types such as myself, there is so much to be appreciated in such natural beauty.

And the shower machine wasn't that bad.

Road Trip: Girl v. Food

2011-01-21T08:22:00.000-08:00

I intended to attack Chicago Girl v. Food style...although that is pretty much how I attack every meal placed before me, but never mind that. I had watched Adam eat himself silly on Travel Channel's Man v. Food here and planned to do much the same. Besides, with less than 24 hours to spend in such a vast city, what more could we really do besides spend our time eating? And of course visiting the giant silver bean in Millennium Park.

After a grueling 11 hour drive plus a border crossing from Toronto into Michigan, we finally arrived in Chicago just as the sun was setting. What a beautiful city! We watched as joggers and bikers traveled along the water's edge while an array of yachts bobbed gently behind them. The buildings in the downtown area are a perfect combination of old and modern giving the city a cool and unique feel. I discovered this quickly because we drove around in five circles up and down one way streets trying to find a parking space close enough to Gino's East! We certainly weren't wasting any time, the famous Chicago deep dish pizza place was destination #1 on the Girl v. Food tour.

We arrived to meet two huge lines outside of the pizza joint. I suddenly felt like I was lining up to get into a club. There was a "bouncer" of sorts managing the lines and taking names. I asked him what the separate lines were for to be sure we were in the correct one, to which he replied, "One line is regular and one line is V.I.P." V.I.P.?! Yes, V.I.P. Evidently, some hotels in the area have hook ups for their guests to be "on the list." This must be some dang good pizza.

Forty-five minutes later we are seated only to be informed that it would be another forty-five minutes before our long awaited pizza was ready. Good thing we weren't starving! We chose the meaty-legend (pepperoni, bacon, Canadian bacon, and Italian sausage) deep dish pizza without much hesitation because you just can't go wrong with all that meat, right?

My first bite was...well...meaty. It took a while before I actually tasted dough (which was by far the best part of the pizza) and it just didn't dazzle me. No offense Chi-Towners. I don't know if it was because there was too much meat on the pizza, too much hype surrounding the pizza, or just the simple fact that I am a New York pizza girl at heart. Either way, I have to give it to New York when it comes to pizza.

The eating spree continued with lunch at Al's Italian Beef. Yum, yum, yum. Thank you Al. When they ask whether you want your sandwich dipped, your answer should be an emphatic yes, because all the juicy goodness is in the dip! A banana chocolate chip ice cream from Mitchell's Ice Cream Parlor capped off the tour and our stay in Chicago had come to an end.

There is still so much more to see and eat in this cool city, but for this episode of Girl v. Food, girl won! Then again, food doesn't conquer me all that often.

Road Trip: The Biggest Small Bike Ride Ever

2011-01-04T09:32:00.000-08:00

I never imagined I'd ride a bicycle from one country to another, but I did. Sounds really cool and outdoorsy, right? Nevermind that it was the shortest two minute ride across a nice bridge from the Canadian Niagara Falls to the U.S. Falls; it sounds better to say I rode from one country to another, so I am sticking with that.

I felt like I was in a movie as the wind whipped my hair and we rode across undisturbed by cars or even other people. It was just me, my bike, my friend, and a bridge in limbo between two countries.

The customs officer asked so few questions as we reached the other side, that I worried he wasn't doing his job properly. I resolved that if I ever needed to engage in some illegal border crossing, this would be the place.

We rode around and headed to Cave of the Winds (which I would soon discover would be more aptly named 'Cave of the Extreme Soak-Down') for a more intimate interaction with the impressive Falls. Choosing a weekday to visit Niagara was brilliant as the lines were short and the people sparse. We walked right in, received our yellow ponchos and some hideously nerdy sandals intended to prevent slipping. I wondered if wearing these sandals might actually be worse than the slipping itself. But since the man of my dreams was probably not lurking somewhere behind the falls, I donned the unflattering gear, and headed for excitement.

We climbed down and met the water plummeting down right before us. It was incredible; I was looking up right into the face of Niagara Falls and feeling the water sprinkle my face. And as if this weren't already a pretty perfect moment, a rainbow suddenly appeared. Had this been a musical, someone would have promptly burst into song. The water looked so fresh and clean that I cupped my hand under it and decided to have a taste; I like to live on the edge. It was pure, clean, and delicious just as I had imagined. We continued to follow the stair path, getting closer and closer to the top of Bridal Veil Falls. We got so close it felt as though we'd been caught in a torrential downpour with someone simultaneously dumping buckets of water over our heads. It was a blast! My jeans were soaked up to my knees, blouse wet, and hair damp. The yellow poncho pretty much served no purpose whatsoever. (Disclaimer: If you do not intend to stand directly underneath the plunging water like a child playing in a sprinkler, then you are likely to stay dry, and your poncho will come in handy).

Continuing our bike ride in wet jeans was far from ideal, but what's a girl to do? We rode along the park path and discovered a spot where you could walk down to the water's edge. Well, you could walk to the edge after climbing over a short wall that probably wasn't meant to be climbed over, but no one was looking and I knew we would be careful.

There was a certain level of craziness in what we were doing; we were just a few feet away from getting caught in the current and swept right over the edge. I am sure where we were standing was probably illegal and would most definitely have given my mother a small heart-attack, but I was living on the edge more literally than ever before. I dipped my toes in the icy water and practiced skipping rocks as I watched the water turn from peaceful to powerful before sliding into the pool below.

We rode back to Canada just as the sun was going down and my jeans had finally dried. It is funny how you can spend an entire day watching lots of water fall over an edge, but somehow it is pretty amazing.

Road Trip: Watching My Dinner Swim in Halifax

2010-11-09T15:10:00.000-08:00

Each one looked so peaceful. They were all swimming around and climbing over one another in a playful sibling sort of way, vying for what little space was left in their waterfront home. They had no idea what was going on. They had no idea that they would soon be whisked away into a shopping basket and weighed for sale. These innocent lobsters had no idea that they were going to become my very lavish dinner.

I don't like to see my food alive. I am no vegetarian, but I can certainly understand the sentiment when an animal, or crustacean in this case, appears to be pleading for its life and you just don't think you should be eating it. If it lands on my plate fully prepared and beautiful, it spares me the thoughts of what that animal sacrificed for my feeding pleasure. Selfish, I know.

But having lobster is just what you do when in Nova Scotia, it would almost be sinful not to. In fact, lobster is so abundant here that I had a completely 'only in Nova Scotia' moment when I spotted the McDonald's billboards promoting their McLobster sandwich (yes, really). Besides, when your wonderful hosts take you to the lobster market and exhibit pure excitement at the opportunity to let you hand pick just which lobster you would like, it's probably not a good time to tell them you don't really like lobster.

We chose our dinner in the morning and then took a rain sprinkled drive up to Peggy's Cove. If Nova Scotia conjures up any image in your mind, besides lobster that is, this place is it. Peggy's Cove is a fishing community just outside of Halifax whose legend is a point of speculation. Some believe Peggy was the wife of an early settler, while others suspect that Peggy was in fact a young woman who was the sole survivor of a shipwreck many, many years ago. Either way, I was sure this was where my dinner swam free before being relocated against their will.

We wandered across the somewhat slippery rocks opting against the paved path because that was just too easy. The air was biting considering I was far from appropriately dressed, and the sprinkle of rain was still falling. I squinted through the small hole that was left after tying my hood almost completely over my face in an attempt to stay warm. We explored a bit, and then peeked into the gift shop which was filled with artist's renderings of the lighthouse over and over and over again: lighthouse in the day, lighthouse in the night, lighthouse with water behind it, lighthouse with rocks behind it, lighthouse with a dog running on the rocks. I guessed the lighthouse was either really important here, or there was just nothing else to paint. Anyhow, it was time to head back for dinner.

We reached home, washed up, and met the table set with plates full and beautiful. I had almost forgotten the day's earlier swimming dinner. I no longer thought of the creature on my plate as Larry the Lobster; it was just dinner, and it was time to eat.

I suppose I had also forgotten that I didn't like lobster, because it was delicious! Sure, I needed help to dismantle it and free the meat, but I am just inept like that when it comes to eating anything with an exoskeleton. Once freed, the meat was heavenly laced with a combination of melted butter, and some other lemony-peppery concoction. Everything was scrumptious, and I ate until I almost couldn't breathe (which is apparently something I do quite often). It was a new experience, but isn't that what travel is all about? If I found myself in Halifax/Nova Scotia again, I would never risk missing out on another lobster dinner.

Sorry Larry.

Road Trip: Why I Even Love the Garbage in N.Y.C

2010-11-05T10:51:00.000-07:00

Aah...huge heaps of trash on the sidewalks...I am home. Well, not home where I live, or have ever lived, or have any family that lives, but home where at least part of my heart is. I am back in New York City.

As we drove through the drizzle into the crazy pedestrian strewn streets of Manhattan, it was the first time I realized just how far we had come. It was also the first time I had ever maneuvered a vehicle in this city, and I would really like to never do it again if possible. Not that I couldn't manage, but these particular pedestrians are both fearless and unruly and I'd prefer not to have to strike anyone, by accident of course.

I had one full day to spend with my city, so I was determined to make the best of it. Soho and I were going to have a wonderful day together! I left my road-trip companion to his sightseeing, and opted instead for a more shopping oriented day. After all, road-tripping can take a lot out of a girl, so I figured shopping would be an excellent way to refuel. I had a cream cheese slathered bagel from a tiny corner store and hopped the "N" train to Prince Street. I zipped out of the subway with all the confidence of a local, and climbed the the stairs to the street level leaving the slightly putrid, yet strangely familiar stench behind me. As the sun embraced me and several passersby brushed passed me in their flurry from here to there, I couldn't have been happier. It had been over a year since I was last in New York; we were finally reunited and it felt better than good.

I shopped around ~~enjoying~~ crying over all of the things I couldn't buy (although I did allow myself a few treats) before stopping for the ubiquitous street hot dog. Now, I was by myself with arms full of shopping bags–ahem–I mean...you know...my hands were tied, so the eating of the hot dog presented a bit of a challenge. I found a ledge outside of a shop window and sat down carefully in my sundress. So what if the heavenly mustard/onion mixture was dripping into a little pile beneath me–if it doesn't get all over the place...right? The shuffling crowd faded away, and the honking cabs quieted, it was just me and the hot dog. I didn't even care that people were looking at me as though I had elephants dancing on my head. Hasn't anyone ever seen a girl in a dress thoroughly enjoy a hot dog on a ledge at the side of the road? Geeze.

A day in the city wouldn't have been complete without a visit to Central Park, so I went. I sat on the marble in front of FAO Schwarz and enjoyed a panini while waiting for my friend. We took a stroll through the park and ate roasted peanuts and watched a guy make a really large bubble and collect money from awed spectators. For the many times I've walked/biked/skipped through this park, I always see something new. It seemed as though I was filling every other moment with something to eat.

The evening ended with a pasta dinner we couldn't refuse at the home of our gracious host, before leaving to meet a friend at Joe's Pizza place for more dinner, only to realize that wasn't the pizza place I wanted my friend to try, so of course we had to stop for another slice at the other place. My stomach was literally on the verge of explosion, but when there's so much to eat and so little time, you do what you must. Jazz and drinks at Groove Live Music Bar was the perfect place to let my overindulgence subside. A late night walk through Times Square was the cherry on top of a day well spent. I love this city.

I can eat, I can shop, I can explore, I can wander, and I can experience culture every time I visit New York City, and there will still be a thousand and one things I have yet to discover. It's like one of those choose your own adventure books, only the book has no ending, and each path you choose is just as interesting as the last.

Sure the trash smells, and invites rats and vermin, and crowds already mobbed sidewalks, but when you are in love, you tend to overlook the bad things. The heaping bags of smelly garbage just blend right into the background of a scene in a city that I love, and remind me how happy I am to be here.

Road Trip: More than Cheesesteak in Philly

2010-10-22T01:05:00.000-07:00

I went to Philly for the cheesesteak. No, really, I did.

Well, to anyone that knows me, going somewhere just to eat something wouldn't seem silly at all. My love affair with food is almost as critical as my love affair with travel. Almost.

After all the talk of the rivalry between Pat's and Geno's, and the testaments from die-hard Philadelphians, what more could I do than visit and eat for myself?

We drove into the city at midday. The skies were gray and the weather was crisp, not a particularly beautiful day at all. As we parked across from Pat's King of Steaks, our first stop on the cheesesteak tour, Eagles fans sat eating, jerseys donned, and heckling the Green Bay fans that were in town for the game. This felt like a cool place to be.

As we stood in line, salivating for our next meal as the smell of steak wafted from the building, I practiced what I would say to the man that would take my order. Yes, there is a protocol for ordering a cheesesteak, and you aren't to mess it up. I would really have hated to look uncool here. I was ready, I had it down: I wanted a "Cheese Wit" meaning I would receive my cheesesteak with onions.

Pat's

Whew, I passed. I ordered flawlessly and could quite possibly have tricked the gentleman into thinking I could have been a local (my ultimate goal in my travels). Ordinarily, this sandwich is not to be shared, but since we had a date with Geno's across the street immediately following this, we decided to split it. Sigh. Let me take a deep breath before explaining the beauty of this sandwich...*Inhale*...it was AMAZING. The sandwich was so hot that I had to suck in just to get enough air to cool down my mouth, but that didn't stop me. The cheese and the lightly grilled onions fused exquisitely with the perfectly seasoned, thinly sliced and chopped steak. I have never experienced Cheez-Whiz used to its full potential quite like this. I realized in that moment, that I had never really had a cheesesteak before today. It was my first time.

Geno's

I felt unfaithful as we snuck over to Geno's to see which was really better, but after Pat's dazzled me so, anything else would have to be nothing short of incredible. I tried to keep an open mind.

We stood in line, surveyed the scene, and discovered that of course, and in true rival fashion, Geno's had their own ordering guidelines. This time I'd have to ask for a "Whiz Wit" to get the same sandwich. We split the sandwich in half as before and I took the first wary bite. Hmm. Maybe a second bite would give me a better feel for the sandwich. They were definitely different. Geno's meat was in slices rather than being chopped up, and there was a distinct taste of mustard in the sandwich. It was good, but it was no Pat's (sorry Geno's lovers). I felt unfulfilled and my despair sent me running back into the arms of Pat's.

I had to have another sandwich.

I wasn't sure how the gentleman at the window would feel, if he would know that I had been to Geno's, smell the shame of another steak on me. I thought it best to come clean. I told him of my infidelity and how after it all, I knew that his were the better steaks. He forgave me and was happy I had come to my senses. I was happy too.

It was difficult to leave Pat's and I knew he couldn't come with me. Ours was a love affair that was born and would be nurtured only in Philly, so I would have to return.

Independence Hall

We headed for Independence Square to add a little history into our day, and at least have something to say we did in Philadelphia besides eat cheesesteak. We stood in front of Independence Hall, the place where the Declaration of Independence had been signed. Sometimes it is truly incredible to stand in a place and imagine all that occurred before you, right in that very location. It was especially interesting to be here as we had just seen the actual, original Declaration of Independence in the Rotunda of the National Archives in D.C. We crossed the street to the small building that houses the Liberty Bell. There is a miniature museum of sorts, and the Bell sits at the back, a glass wall behind it, looking out on Independence Hall. It was like we were playing connect the dots with American History, and the picture was starting to become clear. Well, we saw the Rocky statue, and then it was complete.

As we drove out of Philly, bellies and minds fulfilled, I could smell the cheesesteak still on me, and I dreamed of when I'd be back to have Pat's once more...

Road Trip: Fatigue and Roaches

2010-09-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

Please tell me that was not a roach that just crawled up the wall.

I didn’t want to believe it, but it was a roach that just crawled up the wall. I very reluctantly climbed out of the bed, in my pajamas, to scope out the scene. I walked over to the side of the room where the roach had been and peeked around for more. I had the unfortunate pleasure of discovering one wedged between the doorframe, one beneath the table by the window, one underneath the air conditioning unit, and one in the closet. Then I stopped looking. It was time to go.

How did I manage to get ready for bed, put on my pajamas, and close my eyes without noticing a single roach, you ask? Well that is simple–the fatigue had reached a whole new level. I had already gotten to the point of bombarding my companion with the ridiculous inquiry of, “where are we again?” at least once each day. And on top of being mentally spent, we had just lugged all of our belongings up two flights of stairs because the elevator was nowhere to be found. Now, this is a routine we are quite accustomed to at this stage in our travels. Park car, take out bags, put bags in room, sleep, take everything out the next morning, move on. However, on this particular night, because the location of the hotel did not give us warm and fuzzy feelings of safety, we decided to take our bikes down from the rack on the car and into the room, just to be on the safe side. So yes, I rolled a full sized bicycle up two flights of stairs–one step at a time. It was so ridiculous and I was so tired, I burst into giggles in the middle of the staircase, making the moving of the bikes all the more difficult. Funny how delirious we can be when sleep-deprived. Needless to say, once I was finally in the room and settled under the covers, I did not want to move one inch. I had zero energy to notice roaches, but once they start scurrying around in plain sight, I have no choice. There was no way we could stay here for two nights.

We had finally arrived in Washington D.C.–well technically Arlington as D.C. hotels did not suit our very low budgets, and we were exhausted. We had spent the better part of the day exploring Monticello in Virginia and rediscovering what a multifaceted person Thomas Jefferson was. We walked in the footsteps of his former slaves and tried to imagine how life must have been for them. It was a history packed day, and after visiting D.C.’s famous Ben’s Chili Bowl upon arrival and devouring two orders of chili cheese fries, one chili dog, and a chili burger between us (the chili was that good), we now had food coma on top of fatigue. I just wanted to close my eyes.

We trudged back down the two flights of stairs and headed for the lobby hoping to get our money back and be on our way with minimal struggle. Oh, how naïve we were.

Exhibit A

We were met with a short, portly older woman who was ready for a fight. We explained the situation and she demanded we show her the roaches, because in all her 18 years of working here, she has never had such a complaint. She behaved as though we had planted our own roaches, and were trying to scam the hotel out of whatever measly money they might have had. Luckily, we had a handy photograph of Exhibit A, the roach in the doorframe, for evidence. “Well I can only refund you for tomorrow night because you have already used the room tonight,” she told us sternly. WHAT?! Now I was ready for battle. Unloading your belongings and spending thirty minutes in a room only to discover it had roaches, hardly counts as using it. I told her very nicely, that was completely unacceptable. She followed with, “Well, I couldn’t refund your room anyhow because you booked with Hotels.com and they have to cancel it, I will upgrade you to a new room.”

Exhibit B

We did not want any rooms in this place, but for the sake of sleeping and ending the battle, we accepted. We asked her what she was planning to do if we found roaches in the new room to which she barked, “Honey, if you do, you come and talk to me because that’s just not going to happen.” Okay. We headed up to the room and walked right past the previously elusive elevator. We inserted the key apprehensively, opened the door and found a new roach perched almost mockingly right on the wall above the bed. Second round of giggles. We marched back to the lobby, and now the male manager wanted to see Exhibit B, the roach above the bed, for himself. He walked back up with us, ended the life of the roach that was clearly there, apologized profusely, and told us that in his 13 years of working here, he had never had this problem. How crazy that they had their first ever large influx of roaches on the very night of our arrival.

By the time we reached the lobby, the woman had already processed our refund for the two nights. Hmm, she must have waved her magic wand and gotten the cancellation from Hotels.com just like that. We unloaded the car, took the bikes back down via elevator this time, and were gone.

Fighting to keep my eyes open, I entered the room in the new, cleaner, safer looking hotel, scanned it for roaches and only found one, dead, way in the corner beneath the safe. At least it was dead. Bags out again, then I am just going to close my eyes…

Road Trip: Happiness in Daytona Beach

2010-09-18T08:10:00.000-07:00

It was a far, far cry from the Everglades.

I laid on the smooth sand in the cozy Daytona Beach night air and let the warm water roll over me. It seemed worlds away from the hot tent, viscous mosquitoes, and the bathroom lizard of nights prior. As far as I was concerned, everything was perfect.

We had stumbled upon what felt like the greatest little place on Earth–or at least in Daytona Beach, the Sand Castle Motel. It was adorable. And it was a stone's throw from the beach, literally. The faded pastel yellow of the building was warm and inviting, and the sign at the front read: "Welcome Back." It was almost as though they already knew you would fall in love, and return to the Sand Castle one day.

The room had everything. Recliner chairs for watching tv, a full kitchen complete with dishes, and even a little dining table. But it was the toothbrush holder that got me. It was just like spending summers and Granny's when everything felt just right. Although I didn't put my toothbrush in it, because really, you just never know–but it still made me happy.

We stayed in the room just long enough to sort ourselves out, and then we grabbed a flashlight and headed for the beach. It was dark, but the ocean has a way of speaking to me, so it didn't matter that all I could see was my very next step and only with the help of the flashlight.

There aren't very many things that can beat a night on the beach. I let the gentle waves splash up against my belly as I looked out on the darkened ocean and took it all in. I could have stayed here forever. And the best part was that there was no place else I needed to be. We couldn’t help but relish in the perfection of the moment, the feeling of absolute freedom and be grateful all over again for having given ourselves the opportunity to experience it.

This is what I travel for, for these moments of absolute contentment, for the feeling of not wanting to be any other place than right where you are. I travel for the thrill of being somewhere new, exploring something new, and experiencing something new. I live for this feeling and I am determined to capture it as often as I can.

I understand that there will come a time for being practical and not running off on this trip and that (and according to my depleting bank account and concerned parents–that time should be very soon), but you can’t be perfectly practical all the time or life will fly past you on its way to see the world. You have to be a little bit crazy to just pick up and decide to live. You have to be a little bit crazy to take a month long road trip across the country without really having the funds to back it or any prospects of collecting the funds to repay it. I know I have my fair share of crazy, but everyone needs at least some of it. Without it, you are just trapped in practicality (which is okay if you like that kind of thing). It saddens me to hear people say, “I wish I could do that,” when I share my travel stories. I always wonder why they can’t. I don’t believe they are physically chained and bolted to their desks, although they may feel that way. I know that I don’t have anything that they do not, especially not money. Perhaps I have just reclaimed the key to the lock on my bolt and chain, and unlocked it. I think the only thing missing is a little courage; that little dose of crazy that is responsible for some of the more exciting moments in life. If there is something you want to do, do it before you get too old/tired/sick to enjoy it.

Sure I might be a little broke, but everyone I know that is making money, would rather be at the beach right now. I am happy to have this life. I am happy to have given myself the freedom to live. I’ll keep my little bit broke and little bit crazy if it gets me to a beach in Daytona while my friends and family sit in the monotonous confines of their cubicles. I wouldn’t trade this for anything. Not even for the snakeskin gladiator pumps at Nordstrom that refuse to stop calling my name…yes, beach is better than shoes. Beach is better than shoes…beach is…Sigh.

Daytona was a beautiful reminder of everything that is great about quitting your job...

*NOTE: There are no pictures because sometimes you just cannot capture a perfect moment. Especially at night without a fancy camera.

Road Trip: Camping in the Everglades

2010-09-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

Yes, camping round two, in the Everglades. Hmm, ‘is camping in the Everglades during summer a good idea?’ you ask. No. No it isn’t.

When the park ranger said, “We have a slight mosquito problem,” that should have been red flag number one. Actually, when the woman at the Everglades welcome center responded quite haughtily to our inquiry about the campsite with a definitive, “I don’t camp,” that should have been red flag number one. So red flag number two then. Of course you would expect there to be some mosquitoes as you are in the Everglades after all, but if the ranger specifically mentions that there is a problem, there must be a problem.

Evidently, red flags do not faze us because we were fully prepared to make this a true camping experience, complete with a campfire and marshmallows. We went on what felt like a scavenger hunt for firewood. I guess no one really needs firewood in a humid, marshy area. The store employees gave us quite a few you-must-be-from-out-of-town looks as they repeatedly told us they didn’t have any. Scrap wood from Home Depot would have to do. We had a fantastic dip in the warm, clean waters of the beach on Marco Island, stopped for some yummy chicken from Publix, and headed back. It had been a great day.

And then it was time to camp. This time, in what must have been an effort to redeem himself for the last tent assembly, my companion had the tent up in 3 minutes and 10 seconds. We started the fire and sat out on nice chairs and waited to roast our marshmallows. And then the mosquitoes came. And they came out in full force. We ducked and slapped them off for about ten minutes before deciding to wait in the tent for the fire to get bigger. And then the rain came. And the mosquitoes came to the tent. We swatted and annihilated them with a pair of jeans since we had nothing else and then decided we could do without marshmallows. We were not leaving the tent again. Well, at least I wasn’t.

It was probably about 80 degrees inside the tent. We were equipped with a mesh tent to allow for breathing, but since the rain had arrived, we had to cover it with the waterproof shield. So it was hot. Strange bubbling sounds started coming from the swampy pond behind the tent and I was sure it was the sound of alligators crawling out of the water and straight for us. I had the car keys in hand and an escape route planned if I needed to flee. I was scared.

But it was the buzzing that killed me. I have officially decided that the maddening and incessant buzzing of flying creatures is one of the most terrible sounds in existence. The mosquitos/bugs/dragonflies or whatever was lurking around in the muggy night refused to stop buzzing! I kept fanning them from my ears as I was somewhere between sleep and wake, only to realize once the buzzing had completely woken me up, that it was coming from outside the tent. There was nothing I could do. In a quick effort to prevent me from going insane, my camping companion suggested I listen to my ipod. Good idea. The soothing sounds of steel drums replaced the ridiculous buzzing and I didn’t go completely out of my mind. Although, I am sure I will have nightmares about the buzzing.

For once, I wanted morning to come quickly, but it decided to take its sweet time. When it finally arrived at 6:30 am, I was ready. Ready to be done with this “adventure.” I took out my cutest undergarments and my cutest outfit and headed to the showers (which were surprisingly the best part of the whole camping experience–minus the lizard that was keeping me company). I wanted to feel as far away from the hot, fatigued, mosquito-bitten, and overall disgusting feeling that I awoke with. So, if cute clothes would help me get there, it was worth a try. I took a long, lovely, hot shower, got dressed and was feeling great. As I headed to the mirror to fix up my hair, I was horrified to discover seven huge red splotches from mosquito bites on my face! I looked ridiculous! Now, instead of looking nice and feeling good, I looked like some kind of glamorized freak with a disease on her face! Sigh. What’s a girl to do? At least we were finally leaving; no more Everglades for me. But it really was not a cute look for heading to Miami...

Road Trip: What I've Learned in a Week

2010-09-07T19:16:00.000-07:00

It’s been one week on the road. In the greater scheme of a month long road trip, one week is not much. But when considering that we have been traveling non-stop for one week, covered 10 states 13 cities, and packed in tons of activities, it seems like a lot. There have been great places and weird places, tedious drives and pleasant drives and lots of lessons learned in between. This is what road travel has taught me in one week:

The Lorraine Motel

Some places cannot be fully understood unless you are there. You cannot always live vicariously through someone else, through travel books, through the travel channel, or through this blog (J). The imposing nature of the Grand Canyon, or the surreal feeling of standing where Dr. Martin Luther King was killed, cannot move you the way it should if you are not there.

It’s not camping without s’mores. Yes, we set up camp, slept in tent, and used questionable toilets buried in the forest, but it still didn’t feel like camping without the campfire and the s’mores. Must at least bring marshmallows next time.

GPS doesn’t know everything. Although it is a genius invention and has for the most part made things much easier, sometimes a GPS just needs some human practical reasoning. It doesn’t always know when roads are closed and just can’t admit when it’s wrong. As old school as it may seem, road maps and atlases are still handy.

Rotten avocadoes have a really, really foul smell. If you are going to pack avocados, fruit, or anything perishable in your bag of road snacks, be sure to keep them in your main line of sight. Forgetting any of these items in the sweltering hot car for five days will not bode well for the smell inside the car. It is actually pretty revolting.

Pandora is the greatest musical invention ever. It is better than two full ipods. It is better than an old cd collection. It is better than your road trip companion trying to sing to you. It has everything you have ever wanted, and some things you didn’t even know you wanted. It is almost like Pandora knows you, knows your innermost favorite music. I’m only sorry it took me four days and lots of repeat songs to have this epiphany.

Beignets

Beignets should be sold everywhere. Period.

Not every Travel Channel endorsed restaurant has good food. The food always looks delicious when we see Adam devouring it on Man V. Food, or Anthony enjoying it in style on No Reservations. But some places just don’t live up to the hype. It helps to check out other reviews before going on an all out Travel Channel food tour.

Some pet peeves and small annoyances are better left unmentioned. If you are going to be on the road, especially for any length of time, you cannot fuss about everything. If the trivial frustration is not going to matter in ten minutes, don’t say anything at all. I suppose I should have already known this from the, ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all’ mantra, but sometimes things have to be relearned.

A great companion makes ALL the difference. If they keep you fed, are always mindful of your safety, and enjoy similar activities to you, you’re in business. It also helps if they already know you well and like you anyway.

*NOTE: This was written at the one week mark, but two nights sans any semblance of wifi delayed the post)

Road Trip: For the Love of the Music

2010-09-04T16:52:00.000-07:00

She just wanted to hear the music.

Dressed in a cap and sweats with a rag over her shoulder, the littlest old lady surfaced from the ‘Employees Only’ section somewhere at the back of the room. She appeared to have just finished, or been in the process of cleaning something. She strolled quietly over to the piano on the stage and took a seat.

We had stumbled upon the New Orleans Jazz National Historical Park by chance as we left the French Market and the intense mugginess of the day. The place was completely void of visitors but filled with an abundance of free information on the history of jazz in New Orleans. And it was air-conditioned.

We perused the 'Jazz Gumbo,' an interactive platform detailing the medley of instruments that make up a jazz band, and how each sound is relevant. I was able to get a taste of the inner workings of the music. Just as I pressed the button for saxophone, Fats Domino instead replaced the sample music I was hearing. I rounded the corner to see where the powerful sound was coming from, and it was her. The little old lady had sat down to play and a beautiful outpouring of jazz came through her fingertips. She was great.

We took a seat to enjoy this now free concert at the free venue with the free cool air. We like free. She played with such focus that she never even noticed her audience until we clapped at the end. We were irrelevant. She was just playing for the love of the music.

We thanked her for playing and she was embarrassed for having messed up. We assured her that we hadn’t even noticed, because we really hadn’t. She told us that when she tries to play Fats, sometimes she gets him and sometimes she doesn’t, almost like the music either comes to her or not. She said that sometimes she can only remember how to play half of a song and can't finish the rest. Old age has caught her, but her love of the music is undying. She was excited just to be talking about it. As we got ready to leave, she smiled at us in all of her toothless glory and said: “Y’all should come back on Saturdays. That’s when the big band comes and they really tears it up.”

If only we were going to be here longer than 24 hours.

Great music filled the rest of our day and evening as a live band played while we enjoyed a snack at Café Du Monde, and then later when we hit Bourbon Street to sample the N’awlins night life. A band of about ten or so young men played the best jazz I have truly ever heard live in my life. They played right on the corner of the street to an audience of passersby and some loyal supporters. It was awesome.

Traveling up Bourbon Street can be kind of a sensory overload. There are all kinds of different things going on all over the place, some much crazier than others. Your evening on Bourbon Street can be spent in a drunken stupor sipping hand grenades or fish bowls

Maison Bourbon

(local drinks), booty shaking on the dance floor, and engaging in whatever other vices strike your fancy. Or, you can spend a quiet evening enjoying some of the best jazz or blues around. I was in a classy mood, so of course, I opted out of the booty shaking and instead wandered into Maison Bourbon and took a seat. Dedicated the preservation of jazz, this place was a quiet sanctuary from the crazed behavior taking place outside its walls. The jazz was as sophisticated as the men playing it in their shirts and ties. It was nice to sample different ends of the musical spectrum in the French Quarter. Maybe I’ll try the booty shaking next time.

New Orleans is truly alive with music. It will make you want to dance, sing, and be a musician (or date one) all at the same time. Maybe I’ll find my musician in the days ahead…

Road Trip: I am Tired!

2010-09-03T00:45:00.000-07:00

The driving is exhausting. Period. And while the thrill of passing through one place to the next and having a new adventure each day is really great, I'm tired!

Most of each day is spent driving, only to arrive at a place in the evening, grab something to eat, and find a place to sleep. Then it's early to rise, pack in the sightseeing, and get on the road and drive. Then drive, drive, and drive some more. It would be one thing if we were passing by beautiful scenery and coming across great stopping points for photo-ops, or cute roadside cafés, but we are not. Instead, we are driving on roads where all you can see to either side of you is nothing (or red rocks in the Southwest).

The cars on the road are fairly sparse and you are usually sandwiched between a truck or three. And to make matters worse, when driving at night, everyone wants to play the bright lights game. Now, this is a very delicate matter. You must turn off your bright lights at precisely the right moment or else you are in trouble. Accidentally forget to turn them off, and the driver will flash you repeatedly with blindingly bright lights. Turn them off too late and you may still get flashed. Turn them off too early and the oncoming driver might think you never turned them off because your regular lights are bright enough, and flash you anyway! We spent the better part of the drive trying to find just the right time to turn off the bright lights and were met with flashes, honks, and only the occasional polite driver that did nothing. It seems the best bet is to turn them off just as you see your opponent turn off their own. Oh the things you learn on a road trip.

And the music has run out. You would think between two ipods filled with songs, that you could get pretty far without hearing much twice. But 2,400 miles later, I am hearing repeats. I have actually had moments of longing for my old cd collection, just to get a little variety.

Some days the food is really tasty and I am saddened that I must leave it behind, and some days we eat nasty pre-made burgers from gas station cafés if we don't get the timing right. My camera dies on a regular basis and I am forced to post blogs if and whenever I can because in these desolate dead zones, I have no idea when my next internet fix will be. And sometimes when I am faced with the option of going out on the town after a long day of driving/sightseeing/driving, I almost, just almost, want to say no, curl up in my pajamas, and close my eyes.

But this is the greatest adventure. I have seen more of my own country in the last three days than I have seen in the last three years–or really ever. I have experienced a million wonderful (and strange) things that I would never otherwise be discovering. So, I will take my copious amounts of driving, various nasty burgers, and severe lack of sleep any day. I can sleep when I get home. Or maybe on the beach in Florida...