Beach Music

I'm standing on the beach.  My feet are evenly spreading their weight on the sand waiting for the next wave to crash and push the water a few centimeters over my ankles.  I look up and the ocean purges a wave out of it that sprints towards me.  The five inches of murky salt water rush over the tops of my feet and the expanse of water flows like an opened Brooklyn fire hydrant on the hottest day of summer.

The water keeps rushing forward and embracing all life around it until there's a brief pause, a halt, a deep breath, and the frightened water returns to the one that birthed it.  As it tries to pull me down, it also buries my feet with sand.  I'm sinking.  The water disappears as fast as it arrived except now my feet are gone.

Then all I want is the water to come back, to feel the rush of the water of the world coming at me.

I've found out that this is probably why I haven't written in almost a month.  I've started to create a divide between my old life and my new life.  There's an obvious separation between my life in California and the one I now inhabit in New York that doesn't need to be explained in the spatial void or cloud or ether that is the internet.

My mum came to visit me this past week and she was promptly informed by all of my friends that I had been speaking of her for a week before she arrived.  Everyone knew she was coming.  I was excited to be able to show her, display to her, this new life that I'm living.  We wandered my neighborhood, the financial district and new WTC, I took her to the Brooklyn flea market for the artisanal inventions and convections next to a view of the Manhattan skyline, we spent an entire evening drinking, eating, and visiting with friends at my "local hangout", and her favorite night was the one where we ingested everything savory and sweet at the restaurant I work at where all of my fellow employees declared her "fuckin' awesome."  The whole experience was, in a way, me proclaiming that I have separated myself from everything California.  People ask me all the time whether I'm going to go back there and my response always sways between "Probably at some point" and "Not unless I can't help it."

That must be why I have such reservations about certain people visiting me while I'm here.  I didn't realize it until my mum and I were sitting on the Brooklyn waterfront and I was starting to get upset and yell that I didn't want Kyle to come visit me in New York.  I didn't want him to come here and I didn't want to have him stay with me and I didn't want to see him, goddamnit.  All this after speaking of him and holding him on the same level as my own family.  After mentioning that I love him because I grew up with him in my most formative years so I had no choice.

But I don't want the life I ran away from to come back to me.  The exact thing I was fleeing, the exact thing that made me hate the nonexistent life that I had would be right back in my life.  It'd force its way into a place, mentally and physically, that is sacred now.  Maybe I was recognizing the disgust I had with where my life had been.  Maybe I was scared of the emotions, the hate, the anger, the complete sadness, that surrounded that part of my life.  Maybe all I've done is force those feelings away because there really was nothing fundamentally wrong with my life then...it was just a cage with a rusty lock that I finally picked through.  I was yelling at my mum that I didn't want my past life to be let into the one I have now.  I just wanted it gone.  I wanted it intangible.

So this brings me to where I am now.  I've mentioned this occurrence of yelling at my mum and I've also previously (in another post) mentioned how I've created a divide between my summer travel lives and my "normal" lives.

Beau moves to New York next week.  That fiery, honey-dipped, funk rock, Alabama host of mine from my road trip.  It's a great wonder of life this couchsurfing experience I've had over the past three years.  One of my best friends is someone who "surfed" my couch in Lafayette.  I've had a live fish thrown in my freezer, danced salsa on a roof in a rainstorm, seen a timeline of love in photo form, followed a tornado, ridden a motorcycle through the streets of Barcelona at midnight, all while couchsurfing.  Some of the most significant experiences of my life have happened while I've been couchsurfing.  Probably most of them.  Birmingham was one of them.  We all know that I didn't mean to end up in New York.  I didn't mean to and was probably trying to avoid the effort of it all until I was having an argument about it with Beau on his porch and he intellectually cornered me - or, rather, saw me bullshitting my way through the talk - and asked, "You do know that you can do everything you want - everything you've mentioned just now - in New York, right?"

Right.  And after my dumbfounded pause and stutter, I thought:  There's no point in arguing anymore.  Might as well go for it all, no?

I didn't make it a point to decide I wanted to live in New York until my phone buzzed after arriving in Asheville, NC, with an invitation to live with Eleni in Brooklyn.  At that point it seemed idiotic to not come here where I really do have every option available to me.

So...now it's happening again.  Two separate lives are about to get thrown together.  I don't have a choice with this one either.  I don't have the option of, while yelling at my mum, realize I'm taking out my emotions towards someone else on her and deciding that I'll just tell the other person to not come to New York.  This is separate.  I guess I have mixed feelings about it but mostly it reminds me of how easy it is to have this mix, this convergence of lives.  I like them separate.  I like having a little box of parts of my life that I can keep hidden and away from the brains of everyone else in my life.  Not only is my "travel life" about to crash into my "real life" but it's also a part of my "previous life" (all these stupid lives!) that's about to become the present.

Now, I feel like I'm rambling.

Kaitlin, get ready for a big mix up.

This is Brooklyn

Brooklyn defined itself for me tonight.

I've been struggling with a way to describe it to those of you that have never been here.  Brooklyn is an odd place.  It's not necessarily where you go when you visit NYC but it also isn't a place you forget to go to like the Bronx.  The Bronx is one of those mysterious places you always hear about but which you never venture to simply because you're not sure what to expect once you get there.  Is it Yankee Stadium or is it sketchy?  I still haven't been there...

My night tonight was Brooklyn, nothing more, and certainly nothing less.

I finished work in the financial district of Manhattan, two blocks from the World Trade Center...or what it has become.  A mecca of tourist wanderers poring over various colored maps frustrating Wall Street traders who can't pretend that the world below Canal and east of Battery Park City holds more precedence over that of the screens of their iPhones and blackberries (blackberrys?).  I spent two and a half hours at Vino Vino, a wine bar in TriBeCa, soothing my palate with a soft California pinot noir since that is what seems to relax me, Matt, and Eleni the most.  Since we can't get California out of our system, we might as well ingest and insert some of it into our blood.  An Israeli couchsurfer of mine joined in on the wine frolic and similarly cooled to a calm Santa Cruz beach afternoon.

I let Eleni convince me to go to Williamsburg (hipster Brooklyn) for a taco and one last drink at her staple bar - Night of Joy.  It doesn't take more than 30 seconds of just saying the word "taco" for me to agree to an evening jaunt in New York's hipster haven where I find it hard to distinguish one male from another since they all seem to sport the same 1920's mustache and plaid shirts.  Simmer midtown Sacramento with a sprinkle of New York City for 20 minutes and - voila! - you may now inhale Williamsburg to your heart's finest pleasure.

So, we were in Williamsburg.  After getting over my surprise at having to explain (again) what Mexican food consisted of (because, honestly, who doesn't know what a quesadilla is? Green enchiladas? Come on!) to my Israeli couchsurfer, Shachar, we started walking towards Night of Joy which just happened to house - if but for a few hours - Eleni's "friend."  While we were practicing our ability to scan for creepers while walking under the highway overpass, we spotted one tiny storefront fluorescently illuminated and what appeared to be a sign on the makeshift bar that read "Welcome."  What more blatantly caught our Catholic-school-girl-who-is-used-to-corny-religiousness eyes were the twirling, blow-up crosses flying from the ceiling fan.

We all pretended we weren't staring until Eleni and I instantaneously agreed that it was a good idea to walk over and see what was happening.

We walked into a small room, looking as if it were being renovated complete with dry paint rollers, fist symbols haphazardly placed on the walls, and a ladder as the center pedestal of the four white walls and psychedelically orange tiled floor.  Nathan and Michael were holding up the bar...or what seemed to be one.  They yelled at us to come on in and placed a beer in front of each of us and asked if we wanted a shot of rum to go with it.  It seemed like a bad idea...for about 5 seconds.  And then I realized, "Well, what the hell?  I'm either all in or I should leave."  So, I took both.  I was given Nathan's stool to sit on, Eleni got the ladder to perch upon, and Shachar got the stool that had previously been turned upside-down on top of this "bar."  We asked if it was a bar.  They told us it was the Sacco & Vanzetti Cultural Center.  Google those names.

And that's how the night was.

The three of us slumped in this white, open prison of anarchy and dreams.  Eleni and I, who have shared almost 10 years of questionable life experiences, and Shachar, our Israeli couchsurfer who held his own in a debate about whether Jesus had really spent 40 days in the desert with the two of us Bible-blooded girls from Sacramento who hail St. Francis High School as one of the biggest defining periods of their lives directly before spotting flying crosses on Lorimer and Meeker streets in Brooklyn, New York.  We sat in a circle...well, Michael stood behind his "bar" that turned out to actually be the front room of his home.  Eleni and I were sneaky enough - and, let's face it, cute enough - to be allowed to take a peek at what was behind the bar and a semi-closed, similarly white door, and found it to be a home inspired by Ikea catalogues.  We spent over an hour comparing Michael to Woody Allen and hearing his story about how he actually met his doppelganger after throwing explosives out his window during the filming of one of Woody's films on the Upper West Side back when explosives in New York actually made people giggle instead of cringe.  We watched Nathan take shot after shot and then inwardly drooled at his West Virginia accent that, once we acknowledged, he quickly tried to transform into the typical Queens one...which attracts about 1/10th of the ladies.  He was instantly advised to stick with West Virginia.  Eleni pretended to be interested in the do-it-yourself, 80's craft book.  I helped choose lounge-appropriate records.  I'm not even sure what Shachar was doing since I was completely immersed in the fact that I felt I was in another world.  One far below Brooklyn.  We had walked off the stage of our life's performance to rest our bodies before ultimately having to return from behind the curtains.  Time stopped in the Sacco & Vanzetti Cultural Center.

We even looked through a hole in the wall to see "Take me to your leader" literally flashing before our eyes.  When we peeked around the corner to see where it was being projected we saw nothing.  Just Michael's bed.  The flashing light was coming from somewhere.  But Eleni was still perched like a treasure beneath the spinning blow-up crosses proclaiming "I love Jesus" and various versions of the same idea.

All of a sudden it seemed like it was time to enter the stage - the same way we came in - and press ourselves into the world again.  We were sent off with encouragements to stop by anytime we "needed it", whether it be in a day or a year.

We crossed the street to Night of Joy and it was as if we had been refreshed.  God had refilled our fuel tanks of life.

I left soon after arriving there.  My "normal" life of work at 9:30am was calling along with the reminder that I had 14-hour days for the next three days.  As I was waiting for the B48 bus that takes me almost to my dirty, cement doorstep, a young guy came up to me and started speaking to me...although it was in horribly broken English.

"How are you?"
"Good, thank you."
"How old are you?"
"How old am I?"
"No, how old are you?"
(Ignoring him)
"How old are you?"
(Bus pulls up - I jump in and sit down a few seats behind the driver where he can easily see me)

Then the foreign guy starts knocking on the window.  The bus doesn't pull away.  The foreign man starts banging on the window.  The middle-aged, Brooklyn-specific woman tells me that someone is trying to talk to me.  As I look up at her, the driver asks if I want to speak with the man outside.

"I don't even know who he is."

The woman looks surprised: "Oh, that's creepy."

The driver: "You don't know him? Well, let's show him what he deserves.  Let's leave him here.  You're in good hands, sweetie.  Don't worry."

He shut the doors instantly and pulled away.

After a few more minutes of the motherly, but feisty, woman and the driver simultaneously arguing and agreeing that the encounter "just isn't cool", the driver believed it was time to share his poem.  He had written a poem in college, some 30 years before this moment, that he had kept memorized in his mind.  It was about New York.  He recited it for the whole bus to hear as he drove and picked passengers up and dropped them off to their homes.  It wasn't lyrically-eloquent but its emotion and verve were enough to make you remember the moment even when you feel as if you've had enough of this city and its quirks.

At the end of the recited poem by the MTA bus driver who had put 7 children through school, a man in front of me simply professed his love for what it said about our community (yes, now it's "our" community, since I feel as much a part of it as anyone else on the bus) :

"A 12-year old Puerto Rican girl spoke to Mr. Bloomberg when he was here in Bed-Stuy a few weeks ago.  He gave his whole speech and then asked if anyone had anything to say.  This little girl stood up and said, 'Yes, Mr. Bloomberg.  I may be poor but not in my heart.'"

Hurricane Irene

I've been through a lot of strange weather in the past few months but I never thought I'd have to survive a hurricane...more like a "hurricane."

My life was hot and sweaty until I got to Oklahoma.  Then it just turned into hot, sweaty, and sticky.  And windy.  It all made sense considering the day before I arrived in that midwestern sprawl of a city there were tornadoes twirling through it.

Then I drove to Arkansas where I was met with more humidity and a temperature that made you want to just sit down on the pavement and wait to walk the last 10 minutes to wherever you were going.  Time moved so slowly there that I would've thought it normal to see someone just stop walking, stare in the direction towards where they were walking, then slide down to the ground and inhabit a square of sidewalk until the sun went down and it was deemed cool enough to continue onwards.

New Orleans was too hot and too humid.  I didn't realize it was possible to have weather like this.  By this time I was growing accustomed to the humidity but not to the record-breaking temperatures.  I'm pretty sure mercury was trying to spite all of the area's inhabitants by raising itself as high as it possibly could.  One particular day was so hot that I - and being from Sacramento where the weather normally flirts with 100 degrees regularly in the summer didn't help - told Christo we needed to leave the street fair early and stay inside with the AC on all day.  I was practicing my homegrown, suburban housewife skills...I can forgive myself only for the fact that that was the day the city broke the record for heat.  In NOLA I also got my first bouts of summer rain for the roadtrip.  Rain in California in the summer doesn't exist.  It's a hard thing to get used to.  It practically ruins a California girl's summer day.

Birmingham was more heat but luckily I scored big time with my lovable hosts who both were firm believers in a cold AC all day, every day.  It was also my first time on the trip where I had to wait for it to stop raining for me to go swimming.  This is also a strange thing for a California girl.  Almost incomprehensible.

From then on it was me and the rain dancing a delicate waltz with the heat being an ever-foreboding presence waiting and ready to slip in at whatever chance it got.

Then comes news that there's a hurricane coming.

A hurricane is coming? To New York?

My first discussion about this conundrum with Eleni proved our California-ness.

"Fuckin' global warming."

No one here took it seriously.  Everyone's prediction was that it would pass us up or be too weak once it got here.  Then, the day before it was supposed to hit, everyone started to take notice.  News anchors and reporters were urging everyone to watch the weather reports and pay close attention to the path our new friend, Irene, was paving towards us.  After work on Friday all of the markets were packed full of scurrying New Yorkers tossing whatever they deemed hurricane-worthy into their mini baskets and creating lines for the registers that snaked around various aisles.

The next morning I went to the market and didn't know what to buy.  The city was shutting down at noon more or less since MTA was stopping all subway and bus service and the world knows that New Yorkers don't own cars.  Effectively, we all were being put on house arrest.  I ended up buying what I normally buy at the market for the week: a lot of vegetables, even more fruit, bagels, a loaf of bread, almond milk, pita chips, hummus, a few other items that I know my mum keeps in her pantry.  For some reason the only thing I thought hurricane-worthy was a box of Pop Tarts.  You can't argue with that.

I spent all day cooped up in my bedroom watching "Mad Men" and texting Eleni a couple rooms over about how we both believed our butts were truly glued to our beds and our eyes couldn't be turned away from Don Draper for more than one minute at a time.  Or two minutes if it involved getting up for a beer.

All four of us that live in my apartment - the two California girls and the two windy city ladies - cooked dinner.  We attempted to do it together but there were too many of us in the kitchen so we took turns and all created our own dishes.  We reflected on the hilarity of it taking a hurricane to get all of us to sit down and eat together for once.  Every once in awhile we'd stand by our 7-foot tall windows and subdue our jealousy of people walking around outside simply for the fact that they were walking around.

Eventually we all fell asleep fully updated on where the hurricane was, its wind speeds, how much rain was expected, and how soon it would be before the hurricane hit.  I woke up three times in the middle of the night and tried to look out my window but only saw rain in the light's reflection on the wall across the way.  I heard wind but nothing out of the ordinary.

When I woke up it was as if Saturday had never happened.  We were still being told to remain inside and that many areas of NY/NJ had substantial flooding and damage but that didn't match what we saw out of our window.  One of my roommates even complained that she had slept through the hurricane.  Another one commented on the amount of food we had in our house...we figured we'd last a month if we rationed it well but that our liquor supply would definitely be the first thing to run out.

I ended up being called into work that night.  Subways were still non-functional but the restaurant paid for all of the employees' taxis to and from their shift.  I watched mini tornadoes form up and down the street from my perch at the hostess stand.  It ended up being really busy at work because everyone was sick of sitting inside.

In all it turned out to be a dud and New Yorkers acted exactly how New Yorkers would: they ignored the problem until they couldn't any longer, overreacted, then when it was over they said, "What the fuck?" and continued on with life like nothing had happened.  That's pretty much how life is here.  A lot of "what the fuck?" and nonchalance.  I like it.  I always knew I had a California girl's personality and an east coaster's mentality.

But, anyway...I survived my first hurricane.  In New York.  I even haggled with a cabbie over my cab fare and won.  I'm pretty sure New York has accepted me now.

What is it all for?

While wiling away the brief, blinking moments of nothing in my life that are quickly killing even themselves, I was asked an interesting question.  The conversation had kept running long past the metaphorical last buzzer and we turned into those two shadows in the back of the gym that no one notices as they lock up...but they don't notice themselves either.  It was a Saturday night that was too chock-full of options that the two of us decided to avoid being overwhelmed and sat camped out together for hours trying to share life updates somewhere between the sarcasm and laughter.

"But do you still even consider yourself on this journey to find a home?"

I'm running, I've found my groove, there's no stopping and - BAM. Did someone just hurl a bucket of ice water on my face?

My first reaction was to wonder why my friend who knows me so well would even ask me that question.  What kind of question is that? Of course I'm still on my journey.  This isn't where I planned to end up.  This city did not embrace me as I entered.  There was no cuddling in the warmth of my bed while it was bitingly cold outside...no comfort.

"I do because I still feel like I haven't come to a complete stop.  I feel that there's something more, somewhere out there that I need to get to."

But does that still make this the original journey I started?

"I should stop saying I'm still on my journey. I am on a journey. Life is a journey, of course. Whatever. But that part of my life, that escape, that fleeing that I needed has ended.  I guess I've started a different journey."
"I think so, too. Your journey has ended.  This is your new life, Kaitlin. You'd better get used to it."

While I inwardly chuckled at this comment coming out of this person who continuously makes fun of my Seminar-minded musings, I was reminded of the comment that his friend told me months ago (oh, how times does sprint) while paused in Alabama: "Your adventure should be all about love."

And it has been.  That's truly what it came down to in the end of it all.  And if this journey within the greater journey of life has any indication of what life as a whole is all about...well, I think you know where this is headed.

But it's true. This adventure has been about love.  It is the explanation of everything my fleeing has been about.  It has been about learning to slow down in the midst of life speeding up around you.  Breathing.  It's when you slow down and are able to truly see what's happening around you because you no longer are fretting about what comes next that you learn love.  You pursue.  You pursue love.  You pursue love to consume your own self.

Internally I was fighting myself.  I was at a point where I was moving and my world around me wasn't.  Northern California already had me firm in its grip, talons around my ankle, and I was drowning in that last bit of water that pops as it gurgles down the drain.  I would have given myself 6 more months there before I slipped down that drain and set up roots.  I saw all of it happening and for a long time I felt like there was nothing I could do about it.  I was a little kid that was so excited for my new bouncy ball only to toss it to the floor and realize that it didn't bounce.  It was accept or get out and I didn't have long to decide before it was decided for me by the invisible forces that trap in all Californians within their nets simply because it's California.

So I started to pursue love.  I'm still not quite sure of what that love was - and is - but it had something to do with my continual amazement at life's possibilities.  I have a love for testing limits.  I don't want to live in a world of imposed limits that don't even have the nerve to justify themselves.  It has something to do with Jon's description of romantic love:  "It's worth it to stay interested in case it's real."  But that applies to any type of love.  And since life is defined by love then it's safe to say that I should stay interested in life in case it's real.

Now you're thinking about all of this.  Maybe re-reading portions. You never thought you'd turn into a Gael, did you?  Welcome to the Seminar disease!

Anyway...this love journey was only realized once I stopped to look at everything happening around me.  There's no better way to describe it than to compare it to the upside-down truck route sign from Birmingham (wow, way to make a lot of appearances in this post, Alabama).

We were trying to get somewhere.  You have to drive everywhere you go.  For some reason Alabama and California wanted to be lovers and decided their children would be forever public transit malnourished.  You drive fast because you can.  You make a lot of superfluous turns.  You pass a lot of warehouses and vacant, rusting buildings.

We were pondering what Alabama was.  How does one describe it simply?  At that perfect moment in the conversation where there is an awkward silence, one where both people feel the need to say something but don't, we stopped at a stop sign.  I was already perfecting my California roll, Birmingham-style because I was rushing.  I looked up to my right.  He looked up to his right.  Instant, synchronized laughter ensued.

"That's what Alabama is right there.  That's Alabama."

Or at least that's what sounded like came out of his mouth between explosions of laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Huge picture blog

The time for a huge picture blog entry has come.  I've gotten a lot of questions in the past few weeks about what I do every day.

Well...at first I thought people were joking.  Then I considered the fact that maybe these people just don't understand New York.  Then I noticed that 99% of the people asking me were from California. Then it all made sense.

It's funny to think of how Californians don't think there's anything in the US except for their beautiful, wine and organic food-filled state.  Even I fell into the trap of believing that places like DC, New York, and Boston were just more San Francisco's except bordering another ocean...rather, a smaller ocean.  With worse beaches.

Anyway, it turns out that New York is a city to itself.  There are city-specific customs, accent deciphering, ways of forming thoughts, manners for separate neighborhoods...it's almost about learning to live in another country except everyone speaks the same language as you. Or they do for the most part. I had to hand the phone to my coworker yesterday because I couldn't figure out what our client was saying.  He must've been from Long Island.

So here are random pictures of my life since I've moved here. I know I've left out some from the 4th of July and other events that I've attended but I feel like these are the most comprehensive.  By the end you will also notice that I can make photo stories about as well as I can play water polo...I can't swim.

Photos - commence!

The first picture I took of the city as I drove in to Brooklyn.  It turns out that I've ended up working in one of these buildings!

Most streets in the non-fancy areas of Brooklyn look like this.  With the huge subway bridge over your head.  Subways don't infest every area, though.

Rooptop bar on the top of Eataly in the Flatiron.  Rooftop bars are a big thing here.  People will actually ask you if you want to go to a rooftop bar.  Or if you know of a really good one.  Maybe it's a way to escape.  I've noticed the only way to get some clarity and the easiest way to "get away" from the city is to go up.  Up, up, up.

I had to include this classic New York photo of my window before I prettied it up.

My new window curtains and bright light.

The view from the top of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  I don't think many people know you can go up here because it's never crowded.

Another roof.  My roof. This is where me, my roommates, and friends will come to eat, drink, and be merry when we don't want to go out.  Or to escape the heat of our apartment (I was smart and bought a window AC for my bedroom).  I often go up here to sit in one of the comfy camping chairs, think and read.  It's always cooler, quieter, and has a great view of downtown Brooklyn and the surrounding neighborhoods.

What I see every day coming out of the subway to go to work.  It's the new WTC building.  Sometimes when I'm eating lunch outside I think about what it would've been like to have worked at my current job on 9/11...

Every once in awhile Poo (my sister, Grace) sends me pictures like this just to make sure I'm still homesick for things like my ugly alien doggie.

How I spend most of my days.  This particular day was my work to be completed by 5:30.  It was 4:30.  On a Friday.

The Brooklyn Flea Market is the thing I recommend to all of my couchsurfers and friends that stay over. It's basically full of overpriced junk or trinkets and furniture that you can make yourself for 5% of the price but it's a great photography spot.  People carry their SLR-whatevers like they're an extension of their bodies.  Cameras are everywhere but for good reasons.  It's a great spot for people-watching, too.  Roam around the crap-filled stalls, grab a couple bites from some of the best eateries in Brooklyn and the Lower East Side, find a spot on the grass by the water and then pig out.

Another Brooklyn Flea pic.  I go every other weekend or so.

When Eleni and I decide to be really smart we have days like this.  It doesn't take much of an explanation.  We had nothing to do on a Saturday so we went to Forcella, bought a disgustingly delicious pizza, walked over to Blue Angel Wines where my cousin, Amaris, works sometimes, then sat on the back patio with a bottle of gruner and ate with our hands sans plates.

Once again...up.  Have you noticed a trend yet?  This was a stormy night in NYC at a bar called Le Bain on the top of The Standard Hotel.  Somehow, me and my friends walked straight up without being asked for our names (it's a guest list only type of place).  I tend to have experiences like this when I go out with my friend, Matt, from college.

Hot tubs inside the bar...

...and outside.  Typical.

Random spot in Brooklyn along the water.  It's fairly "secluded" for New York and is calm enough to be able to hear the water lapping against the rocks below you.

I work near the water in Manhattan and the closer you get to it the more water-themed artwork appears.  The picture doesn't seem like much but I eat lunch here sometimes and I find it comforting.  Water reminds me of home.  Of California.

Most streets near where I live look like this.  Lots of color.  A liquor store or deli on every block.  Lots of trees.

More water-themed artwork near where I work.  One of the streets is called "Water Street" so the connection is understandable.  I stood underneath the sculpture and looked up.

This is two blocks from where I work.  Yup.  A little scary knowing that the world is happening right next to you.  The world's economy is being toyed with and you can go sit here and feel the buzz.  It's overwhelming.

Matt and I usually meet once a week or so when I get off work and go drink wine to remind ourselves that we can bring a little Oregon and California flavor to New York.  Most people around our age in the city go to a little grungier places with really cheap PBR and beer+shot specials.  Matt and I, being of like minds, enjoy being a little snooty and finding different wine bars around the city.

This is where I end up after my other job one or two nights a week.  I work in a restaurant called Corsino in the meatpacking district 3-4 nights a week and there's a bar/restaurant named Fatty Crab next door.  They're our restaurant buddies - always trading food with us, sharing work equipment, etc - and have turned into friends for a lot of us.  The chefs recognize us (they can see and talk to you from where they work) so we're usually given free food and drinks combined with whatever we buy.  I never care what they give me because everything I consume here is mouthgasmic.  I'm usually given a "taste" of something that comes on a big spoon (I think this one was beef tongue with blahblahblahIdontremember) and a "taste" of a paired drink (some type of champagne here) while I wait for my food.  Sometimes more.  Maybe I look really hungry some days.  The place is great and gives me a more neighborhood-y feel for NYC.  I've made a lot of good friends here.

I had to add the classic "Kaitlin having too much fun" photo.  I'd actually just arrived at this couchsurfing party and was promptly loaded down with drinks so that I could take a "funny" picture for my surfers.  Bison grass vodka is a popular thing here and I'm noticing a trend with the beer selection...

Don't worry, mum and dad. I wasn't drunk. This was posed. You won't believe me but I had to add that comment for clarity.

And this is mostly how my nights out end.  With some random friend wearing a hipster t-shirt, undecipherable artwork, and a lot of candy.  Or food.  In this case jelly bellys.

This is about how crazy my life is.  A normal day consists of waking up around 7:30 to make breakfast, shower, and read the news.  I leave for work at 9 to catch the subway at 9:10.  I get off the subway at 9:25 and get to work around 9:30 depending on whether or not I grab some tea on the way.  From 1-2 I take lunch and either sit at Trinity Church (the oldest church in NYC) with two of my coworkers or wander around exploring the Financial District.  I get off work around 5:30 and then there are always two scenarios...the first is that I have to get to my other job by 6:00 so I just hop on the same subway line I always take between home and my jobs - the "C", sometimes the "A" - and I show up with a few minutes to spare.  I get off work around 10 and either grab a glass of wine next door or come home and visit with my roommates before going to bed.  The other scenario is I get off work and decide whether to run errands or meet up with friends in another part of the city.  If I do that then I get home anywhere between 8pm and 2am.

I don't often have a day off which is why it's been hard to update this lately.  I'll work harder and making time for it now that I'm getting into a groove with life and learning that I really do love this place.  It won't be my home forever but I'm not planning on leaving for a few years...

Rough life, huh?

Laughing and Cringing

Last weekend Eleni and I went to support our fellow Troubie (our high school mascot was a troubadour...because wandering minstrels are incredibly intimidating), Ashley Mortensen, in a musical that she was in at the Midtown International Theater Festival.  Maybe that wasn't really the name of it but it certainly sounds as pretentious and intimidating as it originally sounded.  We've been watching her in plays for almost ten years...wait, have we really known each other that long? Does this make us those types of people that forget when an event occurred in their relationship?

"(Blah blah blah), remember? We went there three years ago during the summer when we...wait..."
"No, that was four years ago."
"Four years ago? It doesn't seem that long ago."
"Hold up. Maybe it was 2006!"
"Whatever."

Anyway...it was amusing enough to see her perform after our couple-years-long hiatus of having our eyes glued to her and our ears so much in tune with her voice that we can pick it out of an entire chorus of Broadway singers.  But it was only when we were waiting for the subway below the disgustingly jam-packed NYC suburbia that is Midtown (it's not the 'burbs but you get the same feeling there that you would going to somewhere truly in the suburbs - think Walnut Creek) when we realized why we didn't really enjoy the experience.

The moment we walked up to the growing crowd of people curiously waiting to see just another version of "Alice in Wonderland"...at 11am...in Midtown Manhattan...we noticed the *gulp* theater geeks.  Nowadays we couldn't help but chuckle instantly because we, as much as we would like to avoid it, were once theater geeks.  That's actually how Eleni and I became friends: we were "married" in a play very similar to "Alice in Wonderland" in the fact that whoever wrote it was probably tripping on acid so we spent a lot of time trying to figure out who was more uncomfortable.  She had bound breasts and I had a fake butt that I couldn't sit in or remove for three hours.  We bonded over where to put my fake mole before each performance and whether it should "grow" or not as well as the hours we spent deciding if a candelabra should really be called a "candlebra" and what that would look like.  So, naturally, part of us felt very "at home" with these people and when we not-so-successfully eavesdropped (we laugh easily so we're not very sneaky in vital, secretive situations) we actually could relate to what they were talking about and understood the vague references to various plays and playwrights.

The other part of us was cringing.  It was a clear reminder of who we both used to be in high school.  It's not that we were bad people when we were younger...it's still not terribly embarrassing and we both would never trade our high school years for someone else's but it brought our minds back to what we were trying to get away from in the first place.

I left California because I didn't know who I was.  Because I didn't know who I was, I also didn't know what I wanted.  I still don't.  But I certainly have a better idea.

I spent elementary school and junior high being incredibly nerdy and an overachiever.  High school was spent trying to balance soccer and theater and more or less convincing my friends that I also had a 4.0...I guess that's where I started to realize that being intelligent didn't necessarily mean that you were a smart person so I spent less time on schoolwork and more time focusing on who I was as a person.  College was where I was supposed to "really find out" who I was but after the last year I realized that you can't really trust the person you become in college.  College seems to be more of a place to learn how to survive: you simply become an adult.  Let's remember that adults aren't always bright people.

Spending 40 days driving across the US by yourself doesn't give you much time to ignore yourself.  You don't get to dump your brain into your work or join the environmental club to fill up hours in your vacant schedule.  Those 6-8 hours a day in the car will get your brain thinking so hard about every minute detail of your life that one minute you're singing "hold me clooooooser, tiny daaaaancer" and the next minute you realize the music is off and you're gripping the wheel so tightly that you have to massage your fingers to get them to stop looking like curled witch's claws.  I found out more about the person that I am in those 40 days than I ever have in any other designated "period" of my life.  I'm comfortable saying that I know who I am. Maybe I don't know myself fully but I know what I like and dislike, where I want my life to go, who I want to surround myself with...I always felt lost before this trip.  I felt as if there was a "me" walking around somewhere in the world and I couldn't catch up with her.  That as soon as I saw her walking down the street I'd run as fast as I could to catch up to her and then slam my body into hers and hopefully it'd turn out like in the movies where my body would just evaporate or melt into hers and then finally I would've found myself.  It was as if I could feel this "me" but I couldn't have it.  I needed to find it.  I'd only been given hints throughout my life and now I had the chance to find the real her.

And then I locked myself into a tiny Nissan Versa and started driving.  I spent a lot of time looking at endless stretches of freeways.  I ignored my phone.  I played music I hadn't listened to in years.  I played new music I'd never heard before.  I found the local NPR station in each city I visited.  A lot can happen in your brain when you leave your family thousands of miles away, have your best friend ditch you in middle-of-nowhere US, fall for somebody unexpectedly but you both seem to have to deny it, get lost in the boonies and think all you'll have to eat are the non-perishables your mama stocked you up on, and you then decide to move to a city you've never seen.

I feel like I've turned into a girl (let's face it, no one is a "woman" until they've had children since that's the ultimate "womanly" rite) that knows breaking up with her long-time, live-in boyfriend was the best thing that's happened to her.  That enjoys spending hours by herself because it gives her time to reflect.  That knows she doesn't need to settle for someone or something simply because it's the "right thing to do" in society's opinion.  That can express herself freely and clearly.  That says "I want to work in a law firm" so she goes out and does just that.  That agrees when people tell her that her trip should be all about love.  That is wildly talented.  That, more than anything, is an incredibly lucky human being.

So when Eleni and I were yanked back by our Brooklyn hipster collars (I like to dress up, Eleni just is a hipster) to a scene out of - and said only in Michael Caine's voice - St. Francis College Preparatory for Young Women in the "City of Trees" that is Sacramento in the early 00's (is that how it's written?), we both cringed a little bit while we laughed.  The situation was bringing us straight back to the exact thing we both have been trying to escape from for five years.  I seem to remember one of us saying how sad it was that you can leave that world for years and when you come back it's completely the same.  We could've been 16 again right in that moment and no one would've known.  We would've blended right in like water from one cup to another despite the median age being significantly higher than our present one because, as Eleni put it, "You don't even have to change."




**To those of you who keep asking: the post with pictures is coming.  My next post will most likely be a random compilation of tidbits of my life here in NYC.  Soon, my dears!**

What I've Learned in New York

I feel the shame of not having updated this in 10 days and I originally wanted to just talk about Brooklyn but decided that I was in a "list" mood.  Here is a list of things that I have learned (so far) in/about New York and Brooklyn.

- California wine is hard to come by.  And you only notice if you're from California.
- You need to have a good walking look and a good subway look.  Both involve making yourself look like you're deep in thought, a lot of concentrating on the ground, and basically pretending like you're pissed off.  I imagine myself mad at my sister.  It works pretty well.
- New York humor is very to-the-point, a little harsh, and very sarcastic.  Don't be afraid of being slightly racist and/or throwing out some stereotypes.  For this I will never understand how Berkeley people could like New York.  Maybe that's why none of them live here.
- Learn your neighborhood personalities.  I work three blocks from TriBeCa (translated from New York-ese to "triangle below Canal") but it's a different world to those of us in the Financial District.  Some nights, when I'm working at Corsino in the meatpacking district, I get to deal with a lot of yuppies wearing their "everyday clothes" that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.  Once again: different neighborhood.
- Californians say "liquor store" for any type of small store selling random food and drink items that doesn't quite qualify as a market.  New Yorkers say "bodega."
- You may not buy wine or liquor in a market.  Go to a bodega or liquor store or deli.
- You need a deli near you to survive.  What else do you do when you want a tall can to go with your poor, young Brooklynite dinner at 1am?
- Dunkin' Donuts is an acceptable breakfast/coffee alternative.  It doesn't matter how much money you make.  When I mentioned that we have them in California but that nobody goes to them I widened a lot of eyes.  I was promptly excused from work to go buy a donut from there.  When I said I don't drink coffee I feel like I just told them Santa Claus isn't real.  Don't ask me what happened when I let slip that I had never tried Red Mango.  It started out with a coworker saying he lived in a building with a Red Mango.  I asked, "Like, a huge red mango in the lobby or something?" Truth.
- Believe everything you hear on the news about the weather.
- There are no stars in New York.  Really.  Look up.  No stars. Ok...maybe about 5 on really clear nights when the humidity doesn't trap the fumes of New York life and make you feel like you're being steamed alive.
- McDonald's coffee and orange juice is also acceptable.  That doesn't mean I'm ever going to go there, though.
- When asking a question, there is no concept of time.  Ask the first person you see otherwise you will never get an answer and spend too much time looking for someone who seems worthy of being asked your question.
- You must be fearless.  It's true.  Trust me.
- You must also know that at some point you will probably be mugged.  The good thing is that a lot of people are mugged and hardly any of them are shot! Stop cringing, mum.
- I am a "bridge and tunnel" New Yorker...meaning I live outside of Manhattan and take a bridge or tunnel to get in and out of the city.  If someone ever calls you this then they probably shouldn't be your friend because they're too snooty.
- "WASPy" = "preppy."  It stands for something like "White Anglo-Saxon Protestant."
- Cuban food is your Mexican food alternative...even though they're practically the same thing.
- You don't need to wear tennis shoes everywhere you go.  Yeah, you're going to walk a lot more than you imagined, but you don't have to geek yourself out to do it.  I'm secretly happy I never thought tennis shoes were fashionable and therefore never wear them unless I'm going for a run.  Or playing tennis, I guess.
- New Jersey is "Jersey."
- You had better be comfortable cussing.  My mum's insistence on me having "the mouth of a construction worker" has made me fit in better at my job.  And I work in a law firm.  Imagine how construction workers must talk.  I know because we represent them.
- The best advice I received was to buy an unlimited monthly MetroCard (useful for the subways and buses).
- Girls have to play very hard to get.  Being a California girl makes you a bit "hunted."  Or "tested."  We're described as much nicer than east coast girls, easy-going, and overly friendly.  This can be really good or really bad.
- No matter what they say, you can trust New Yorkers.
- The only mean people on the subways are people who don't live in New York.
- Carry cash.  Food vendors and restaurants are practically scared of credit/debit cards.
- Keep up-to-date with your MTA schedule (Metropolitan Transit Authority- aka the subway).  A 15-minute ride on the subway could turn into a 40-minute one if you don't know which subway lines are under construction.
- Explore the city.  Don't stop exploring.  Ever.  Go to different neighborhoods and boroughs for some variety.  If you are one of those people that despise Manhattan and never leave Brooklyn then what are you really here for?  What type of person are you?

This is just a small list of things that I've noticed since moving here.  It's hard to believe that I've already been here for over five weeks.  As I think of more things to add to this list then I'll post them.  I'll also post a bit more regularly now that I'm settling into my new schedule.  I work from 9:30am-5:30pm, Monday through Friday, at a law firm in the Financial District about a block and a half away from the World Trade Center.  Or, rather, the building and new memorial that opens in September on the 10th anniversary of 9/11.  I am one of two legal assistants for a litigation attorney who is more than excited to teach me everything I'll ever need to know about the law.  The other legal assistant, Christine, is a comedian.  I obviously have a lot of fun at work.  About 3-4 nights a week I work at Corsino, a California/Italian-esque type restaurant in the meatpacking district.  I'm a hostess there so I basically just stand there and look pretty while I run the restaurant.  I didn't need the job but I was kind of pushed into it and since I love working in restaurants I don't mind too much.  It lets me explore more and be around people my age.

Anyway...that's the uber-quick update on my life for those of you I forgot to tell.  Expect another update in a day or two with pictures of Brooklyn!  Don't get too excited!

The Head & The Heart

I think what makes me so interesting to other people is that I usually make decisions with my heart.

If you look back on all of the crazy, spur-of-the-moment decisions I have made, the majority of them have been a head-vs-heart battle where my heart has come out victorious.  Let's face it...if I paid more attention to my head then I probably would never have traveled so much.  It just doesn't make sense.  I've been asked why I don't invest my money and why I don't use my savings to get ahead on paying off my loans.  I've been stared at like I'm some hairy, spiny creature - let's think "Metamorphosis", people! - when I informed someone that I was definitely traveling alone and that I preferred it that way.

"But what are you going to do in the car?"
"I figured I would drive in it."
"Yeah, but aren't you going to get lonely?"
"I think it'll be good time to get lost in my mind."

I don't really have a problem with making decisions this way.  I've made the small decisions of skipping class to hop over to North Beach for the best margherita pizza on the west coast with an equally-crazy friend or of denouncing sleep to jump in the Lafayette reservoir at midnight surrounded only by cloud-covered stars and whatever small creatures roam the Lamorinda hills in the dark.  I'll admit to taking a trip because of some romantic notion for someone that has been on my mind even though I know nothing will come of it except for a glass of pinot and some good conversation.

In 2008 I refused to go to Spain for an entire year because I knew it would make me despise the US too much and would probably turn me into one of those people who has spent so much time abroad that he or she not only lives in the US but whose mind is lost in another world...I mean, we have all met North Berkeley people, right?

Sometimes you can just know that your heart is slapping you on the back of your head. I was prepared to study abroad in Mexico City upon my return from Madrid but, on the very last day, I hesitatingly called my parents and told them that I wasn't going.  I knew that my dad and I thought of traveling differently when I told him, "Because I know that if I go to Mexico then I won't come back."  He couldn't understand my thought process with this decision because I obviously had never been to Mexico.  Well...sometimes when your heart aches you listen to it.

This is probably why I have felt not so "at home" here in New York...or, at least, why I haven't yet.  When I started my trip I didn't have too much in mind on how I wanted it to turn out.  All I wanted - getting down to the simplest explanation - was to find where home was.  When people asked where my last stop was going to be I had no answer.  It even started to get annoying.  Did I need to know an exact location?  Then what is the point in wandering?  What is the point in taking my time and getting lost?  What would happen if I was happier in Oklahoma than in North Carolina?  I was trying to follow wherever my heart was leading me because I didn't want to do the "logical" thing.  I wanted to do what was so purely and simply right for me.  I wanted to be where my heart ached.  I no longer wanted to sit on my bed and feel my chest weep for another place in the world.  I wanted to be in that world where I was supposed to be.

New York was not my dream.  You hear of millions of people breaking away from their hometowns to run off to "The Big Apple" where, if you work hard enough, your dreams will come true and you'll be enormously successful and you can do something new every day and be living the true "city life." Some people were born to live in New York and make sure that they do whatever it takes to get here.  Some people try for years and never show up and then spend the rest of their life regretting the fact that they didn't try harder.

Maybe I'm stealing someone's dream.

It gives me a horrible feeling in my stomach to know that I ended up in New York on a whim and have had incredible luck since arriving.  Yesterday was exactly two months since I had set out on my journey and I already had an apartment with three great girls, more friends than time in the day, and the exact job I wanted from before I even showed up in this city.  But I never dreamed of any of this.  This is not where I thought I'd end up when I started my trip saying, "I'll know I'm home when I get there."

Maybe I feel that because I sided with my head and not my heart that my trip kind of failed.  It's turned out to have led me into an excellent place in terms of an apartment and what I want to do with my career but it certainly did not feel like home when I pulled up.  I think I know where my heart would have chosen if I had not consulted my head...

But in the end I - for the first time in making a big decision - used my head and decided that it would be more beneficial for my career if I ended up in New York.  If I had gone where my heart fell in love then I could've still had a good career but it would've stalled.  Here I can move it up to a better vantage point before fleeing again.  That's how my head thought.

I'll enjoy my time here.  I'm going to learn more than I ever thought.  I'm going to see places that I never imagined I'd go to.  I'll make friends with people that I wouldn't have met otherwise.  This is going to be great so I expect to not see a single email or receive any call from anyone trying to give me a pep talk and encourage me that this is where I want to be.  I know where I want to be.  I'm in New York for my head - which is great - but my journey is not over.  I'm not home yet.  I guess this will just be a trip that happens to be longer than the two months I had originally planned.  I'm still on the journey.  I'll get home.

Slowing Down

I was sitting on my bed, looking out my window, listening to the gospel and R&B music bouncing off the cement walls whose origination is indeterminate, and I realized that I have nothing to do.  Nothing at all.

Then I felt around the side of my bed for my Klean Kanteen wannabe water bottle to help ward off the perpetual sticky feeling humidity on the east coast gives you and realized that it was in its place.  My water bottle was in the exact spot it was supposed to be.  My fan has found the perfect home between my door and my chocolate-colored, Ikea Malm full-sized bed so that it circulates the air perfectly...and when what we'll consider a "breeze" (let's face it, this is New York, I don't want to know where that wind is coming from) comes through my window the room stays about ten degrees cooler than it is outside.  Then I thought, "Gosh, I should change the sheets on my bed."  Then, because I get my slightly-OCD, slippery-slope cleaning habits from my neat-freak mother, I decided it was about time to take out the trash that's in the opposite corner of the room from where I am.  It's currently under the ironing board that needs to be relocated to my closet.

And what did I think?

I really live here.

I have crap I need to worry about now.  Domestic duties.  I need to bust out some housewife skills.

My home is really starting to feel like *gasp!* a home.

I've wandered various neighborhoods in Brooklyn and Manhattan.  I've done my laundry a couple times.  Last night we had a dinner party where I actually had friends to call and invite over.  Ok, ok...a lot of them were SMC people but - hey! - they're friends that live here.  I've been on a couple dates and learned what is socially acceptable when you're on one in New York.  I've spent significant time trying to perfect my subway stare to ward off the creepers that always happen to sit across from you and drill their gaze into your face.  I know that late in the afternoon on Saturdays I'll be listening to prayers and closing hymns from the Baptist church around the corner.  After that I get to turn my iTunes off and listen to the music from an apartment nearby.  A minute ago the music changed to funk music which perfectly fits our neighborhood.  The only thing more perfect would be if they were playing Beyonce because her songs seem to be anthems for the part of Bed-Stuy (which is a neighborhood in Brooklyn - clarified for my lovely Californians) that we live in.  If you stand on the corner during the afternoon then you'll notice about 90% of the cars that drive by are blasting one of her singles.

The "job situation" that everyone keeps asking me about with such trepidation that one would think someone died is still open but I try to keep some structure in my life by waking up early, making sure to cook most of my meals, clean dishes when the sink is full, and other random things that make people feel useful and that their day has not been wasted.  I maneuver through the city to different interviews and know when it's useless to take the subway because walking will get you there faster.  I know which markets to go to and how to get there - the bus to downtown Brooklyn for Trader Joe's, the subway to Union Square for Whole Foods, the subway to a little Puerto Rico area for the best Mexican market, or I can always walk to the deli or Key Market down the street for small things (only when it's light out, of course, since our neighborhood doesn't necessarily make a lonely, white-looking girl feel overly safe at night).

This is the first day since April that I have had nothing to do all day long.  Well, more or less...my SMC friend, Alex Branch, was visiting so we went to hipster town (Williamsburg - another part of Brooklyn known for how it is inhabited solely by 20- and 30-something year olds that just walked out of Urban Outfitters catalogs) for some takeout brunch and people-watched on someone's steps while we ate our Polish breakfast sandwich and blintzes.  But that doesn't really count.  We even drove so that definitely doesn't count as a "real" day in NYC.  Not many people own cars here.

But I have shit to do.  I need to make my bed!  Or, rather, I'll just sit here and look at it because it's 8:15pm...no use in making it when I'm going to mess it up in a couple hours anyway, right?

My life is starting to build itself again.  I feel as if I've been running for miles and the last couple weeks I was at that stage where you are slowing down to a walking pace.  Now, I'm walking and convincing myself to start running again.  Let's go!  Let's get this show on the road!  Or, even better: Let's get this life on the road!

It's 8:30pm now and I have nothing to do except for these domestic duties that I mentioned.  And who wants to do those at this point on a Saturday?  I'm going to keep sitting here and listening to the free funk music  while I ignore my chores.

Disease On a Silver Platter

Ever since I was infected by the cancer of wanderlust, I knew that the biggest contributor to its tumorous growth was my mum.  She feeds this terminal disease in the same way she fed her three children during the years we ran amuck through the neighborhood and other local, harmless cities surrounding our California hill-billy town: with a simple but delicious touch.  There was no escaping the moment your muscles softened reflexively as you opened the door of your car after 45 minutes in traffic and heard whispers of latin music and smelled small drifts of food that you could not decipher but didn’t really care to anyway.  There was inevitably the “home” smell of garlic and onion being briefly sauteed and your first stop once in the door and removed from the outside world was the kitchen.

My mum is brilliant in the kitchen.  She’s one of those mothers that can make a finger-licking meal out of absolutely nothing.  She is also a very practiced fertilizer of discovery.  While she may not have traveled extensively while growing up, she perfected her craft when I was very young by deciding she was going to learn Spanish and was then slightly nudged into this affliction of the soul when my dad sent her to Guatemala for a Spanish-immersion program.  After that, part of her was lost into this other world that seems to linger over everyone’s head, taunting them and poking at them, but the minute someone replies to this hazy mist he or she is sucked in to the vacuum.  It is the most wanted but most easily avoided terminal disease.  My mum chose not to avoid it and travels as effortlessly and happily as she cooks.  There certainly is a pleasure in both and she accepts her whims of wandering as she does a plate of lobster-based prawn risotto - with ease and excitement.  Readiness and anticipation.

Maybe I breathed her air for too long or when I kissed her goodbye I contracted these germs.  Maybe she slipped something in to my bloated plate of steaming chile verde that was masked by the musty smell of tortillas she always stored in the handmade basket.  Whatever it was, I obtained a lot of it and she kept feeding it to me - feeding me the elixir of travel and discovery and significantly contributing to my acquiescence of being this way.

When I was 16 she thought it was a great idea to send me to Spain to learn Spanish and be admitted to European society by way of madrileños.  When I was 18 she told me that I should do something for myself with all of the money I had saved and was not surprised in the slightest when I bought one ticket to Rome.  Around her, I had no choice but to study abroad...it was a way of life.  If I had considered not studying in another country I...well, that just doesn’t happen between us.  She took me to Mexico as a college graduation present and we spat on the opinions that it was too dangerous for us.  We are already planning our World Cup 2014 extravaganza because who wouldn’t want to sit on the beach all day and watch soccer every night?

Even though we both will eventually die having lost a life-long battle with wanderlust, we share the ways in which we cope.  She admits maybe being a bit too cautious and I admit that I am probably a bit too trusting.  In Mexico, she often chose where we were going and I would do the navigating.  We both have our strengths and weaknesses and we admit that they will lead to the demise of our souls.  Our coping mechanisms are the most interesting part of our travels, though.  I collect small cards depicting art galleries or local musicians’ shows from every city and town I visit.  She keeps ticket stubs or menus.  But if there is one thing that I have stolen from her, it is the “here’s to” list.

She has poisoned me over and over with this passion, this madness, that has turned into a way of life for me.  Her slow, delicate dropping of this seed and pinch of spices morphed into whatever I made it.  The “here’s to” list is probably the one thing that she deliberately placed on my plate and told me to eat without the blindfold.  Simply put, she told me about it, suggested I do it, so I did.  I started doing it after my stint at university in Madrid and have done it after every trip since then.  The end of a trip doesn’t seem the same without it.

It’s simple.  After you let your trip settle, you compile a list of all of the best parts of your journey.  You don’t really need to talk about how you saw such-and-such monument and the castle of whatever.  You want to mention the small parts.  The parts where you really were living your discovery.  The parts you are actually going to remember vividly.

So this is, in part, a tribute to my dear mama.  It is me admitting that I have a serious disease and accepting the fact that she gave it to me as comfort food for years.  In a way, this is also me admitting that a big part of my journey is over and another is starting.  I’m stuck in limbo but it seems like a good place for the moment.  

Without further ado...

Here’s to:

-  Jo’s fabulously random cartwheels on the street and beach in San Diego.

-  The Mission’s banana-blackberry pancakes and mimosas.

-  The mountains made of pebbles which then morph into a sand desert between San Diego and Yuma, AZ.

-  Getting stuck with the “Creative Workshop” people at a Chinese restaurant.

-  Cody, the tourist information officer, that I saw every day in a different booth in a different part of the town.

-  Playing a game of “Where’s Waldo?” with postcards because they’re harder to find than you think.

-  Being greeted with a bottle of vodka, a bottle of orange juice, and being told, “You don’t need a cup,” by my host’s friend in Albuquerque.

-  Red and green sauce slathered all over enchiladas at El Patio in Albuquerque.
-  Tent Rocks and the hike that has given me my summer tan line.

-  Indian outposts.

-  The gas station somewhere between Albuquerque and Amarillo, TX, and feeling like I was in a horror film.

-  The couch that ate me in OKC.

-  The Spanish feast in Little Rock.

-  Stopping on the Mississippi for lunch and being able to watch the turtles under my feet.

-  Trying to determine whether “sippy cups” were allowed on street cars in New Orleans.

-  Using frozen fruit as ice.

-  Getting stuck under a bridge on the freeway and jammed between two trucks during a hail storm while leaving New Orleans.

-  Being ditched in the middle of the country.

-  Ordering all of the same food as Jon everywhere we went.

-  Waiting for the rain to stop and then going swimming even though it was overcast in Birmingham.

-  Jon and Beau singing “Bringing Me Down” on the couch.

-  Not really being a big fan of the couch in Birmingham.

-  Flaming belly dancers.

-  The man that asked my and Beau’s opinion on wine and then bought ours for us before we could pay for it (we should’ve bought two bottles!).

-  The lightning storm on my drive back to Birmingham after trying to escape.

-  Getting trapped talking to people about electrons and the collective unconscious in Asheville, NC.

-  Carrot cake pancakes in Asheville, NC.

-  Being too freaked out in Virginia to get out of the car.

-  Being surprised at the carpool lane in DC because I hadn’t seen one for over three weeks.

-  The pimp couch.

-  Being assigned an Alabama U-haul.

-  Opening the U-haul to unload it and the lady that drove by and yelled at us: “This only started happening after Obama was elected.”