Dos and Don’ts Of A Weekend Trip To Charleston, South Carolina.
I need to tell you more about my trip to Charleston.
My first impression of Charleston was that of a well-dressed woman wearing really old underwear. Read the rest of this gem…
A Walking Tour Of Ibiza Town: The All-Natural Way To Get High.
I was going to have a bathroom update for you today, Read the rest of this gem…
Travel Tip #257: No Commode Is Too Good for YOUR Derrière.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not a huge fan of public restrooms.
Especially in extra touristy areas.
Although, they’re admittedly worse in some of the not-so-touristy areas, like Bagaces, Costa Rica.
One time I got locked inside the restroom at a bar in Bagaces, which was really only a coffin-like broom closet with no toilet paper and a splintery wooden door and happened to be the only fully enclosed room in the entire bar, but damn it if it wasn’t the best and more secure closed room ever, because the proprietor had to kick the door in with her foot to rescue me from my claustrophobic-induced panic as the walls started caving in around me.
But I digress.
There’s really nothing to do about those kinds of restroom situations except to carry a roll of toilet paper on your person and hope that someone — anyone — can hear you scream.
But there is something you can do about nasty restrooms in many heavily populated, touristy, first-worldy locations — the kind where every single commode is stuffed to the brim with toilet paper (if you’re lucky), bowel contents (if you’re not lucky), or covered in urine because someone was too dainty to sit fully on the seat and ironically has become the very culprit of the crime she was so worried about falling prey to, which, we all know, is sitting in someone else’s piss. So because she was so worried about getting some on herself, she dribbled more than a drunken sailor and worse, didn’t bother to clean it up.
Because she’s too good to wipe her own mess.
Apparently.
And obviously that scenario mostly applies to women, but I’m sure men can relate too, when it comes to the concern of cracking their heads on a porcelain urinal after slipping on an unknown wet floor substance likely deposited by an over-hygienically concerned patron who refuses to touch anything after he washes his hands and streams water across the chipped ceramic tiles as he maneuvers the door open with his elbows, therefore making life much more dangerous for everyone else.
Because these things happen.
And if everyone would just keep their pee in the toilets and the water in the sinks and thoroughly wash their hands like good boys and girls, we really wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.
But again, I digress.
Sometimes there’s something you can do to avoid these public human waste dumping monstrosities all-together.
When my friend Stacy and I were wandering around The River Walk in downtown San Antonio, Texas, we found ourselves in need of a facility. We were, however, on a fairly quiet sector of the walk, away from the bustling restaurants and shops and public restrooms. What was nearby were hotels. Seemingly dozens of high-class, glass-doored, glimmering, shiny, luxurious hotels with back door access to The River Walk.
For some, we could just walk right in.
What? We’re not in a public restroom? We totally thought ALL River Walk restrooms had marble tiles and wicker wastebaskets and totally private stalls. Huh.
For others, we coyly conversed just outside the doors until a Chanel-draped guest exited with her toy poodle (I swear that really happened, although maybe it wasn’t Chanel. Or a poodle.) and we slipped inside before the chance was lost forever.
Solid granite counters, anyone, with an intricate mosaic tile surround? Doubt they had THESE in the public restrooms.
Stacy feeling extra privileged as she enters the molded wood stall.
The thing about hotels is that once you’re inside, no one really dares ask whether or not you belong there.
And most have public restrooms in the lobby or better still, for us, in the finished and rarely occupied lower levels.
And we’re not really doing anything wrong — we’re just peeing, for crying out loud.
I’m sure the hotels would rather we go inside than whip out a shenis (don’t watch video at work) and go on the side of the building like common vagabonds.
I introduced my upscale hotel restroom crashing method to my baffled husband last week when someone — let’s just say it wasn’t me — announced that we’d have to leave the lovely Biltmore Village soon because someone — let’s just say it wasn’t me — had to do something that one would rather not do in a crowded restaurant restroom or other public facility.
Grabbing his hand and hauling him across the street, I whispered, “Act cool — we totally belong here,” as we strolled past the valet and crept in the back door of The Grand Bohemian Hotel.
It turns out we didn’t actually have to sneak since this stunning space is very much open to the public with an art gallery, restaurant, and — you guessed it — public restrooms.
Back entry.
Antlered ceiling, anyone?
I’m pretty sure these are the coolest mirrors ever.
I have more photos of this amazing hotel to share with you later, but, lucky for you, this post is specifically dedicated to bathrooms.
So.
The next time you’re wandering around Tourist Land searching for a restroom, head for the hotels instead. I’m pretty sure this is sound — and totally legal — travel advice.
If it’s not, don’t call me from prison. You don’t know me. We never even had this conversation.
I will not take responsibility for your decision to poop in a hotel where you’re not paying to stay.
(But do write and tell me about it so I can amend this little post. Thank you.)
Travel Tip #472: How To Look Like You Know What You’re Doing. Kind Of.
I have said it before, and I’ll say it again.
Traveling alone, while completely thrilling in a scary-adrenaline-pumping-whoa-I-just-had-sex-without-a-condom kind of way, is best when punctuated with familiar faces. Even better when those faces happen to be local.
See, when you have access to a local, and I mean more than a quick information exchange on an airplane or subway though that’s certainly helpful too, you have access to the heart of a place. The keys to the Camaro. The ear to its secrets.
And in San Diego, not only did I meet up with long-lost non-local friends, but I met a friend I’d never actually met — an online friend and someone whose words I’ve been reading for over two years, so really it seemed like we’d never not met because honesty, if you haven’t figured it out by now, is kind of hard for a blogger to avoid.
So it’s like we’re in each others’ heads.
Dennis Hong is the founder of Musings on Life and Love, as well as a new relationship advice site called Lemon Vibe, and a regular contributor to Cracked.com and Dear Wendy and probably another one or two or seven that I’m forgetting. He’s a molecular biologist-turned-high-school-teacher or something along those lines, the American kind of Asian, argumentative, wicked smart, swing dancer, lover of scotch and unwitting connoisseur of saki, has a lovely girlfriend named Melissa, and is an exceedingly talented and prolific writer.
See? Must mean I know him like the back of my hand.
Which doesn’t really mean much, when I think about it, because I doubt I could pick my hand out in a lineup.
Anyway.
Like I said. While exploring an unknown place on your own can be an incredible, mind opening experience, consulting with a local is, more often than not, the most efficient way to dig around its guts.
He showed me one of the best places for food.
(More on this place HERE.)
He told me one of the best places for drinks.
(More on this place HERE.)
He showed me his mad swing dancing skills at a place whose surface screamed I’m just a pub! by day but hiked up its poodle skirt by night.
Henry’s Pub
He showed me saki. And made me drink it.
Uhh… Don’t remember the name of this restaurant.
And he left me with advice of other places to check out, like Kansas City Barbecue, the locale where Goose sings Great Balls of Fire to his kids and the lovely Meg Ryan in Top Gun:
And the Top of the Hyatt, which is a FREE — yes I said FREE — elevator excursion to arguably the best view in San Diego.
It took me no less than 3 elevator rides from the Hyatt’s impressive lobby to get into the correct one — the one that would take me to the top.
This is me. Bored in an elevator. You can’t tell, but I was really excited to get in the right one.
Are we there, yet?
Oh, yes. We are most certainly there.
There’s also a bar up there called — get this — Top of the Hyatt. I didn’t get a drink or even go inside because the place is über fancy which made my jean shorts feel a little Daisy Duke but not as sexy so I skipped it, but here’s my take: If you’re in San Diego, go to the top of the Hyatt (the floor). If you’re in San Diego and have money to spend on drinks and are wearing something nicer than Jean Shorts and don’t smell like Saki, go to the Top of the Hyatt (the bar). Even if they’re extra pricey (they probably are) and not that great (they’re probably not), the euphoric view more than makes up for it.
Since I have an intense aversion to travel research, I never would have known this existed if it weren’t for Dennis. It was kind of awesome, completely free, and kind of awesome.
So.
Find yourself a local.
And if your local happens to be a swing dancin’ Asian, consider yourself extra lucky.
Lesson… Not Learned, Apparently.
When I travel, I continuously make one of the biggest, most common, most ludicrous mistakes over and over and over again.
Almost every time.
You’d think that I’d learn. You’d think I’d realize the pattern. But no. I do it every time, never expecting. Never thinking it will happen to me. Doing the same thing, expecting different results.
Insanity.
Kids, this is my #1 travel tip of all time.
Scratch that.
It’s my #1 tip of all time, and it applies whether you’re traveling or not.
Wear sunscreen.
Yes, I just ripped off Mary Schmich.
But I still feel it’s important.
My arms, they’re en fuego.
And my ego?
Well.
That burns a little, too.
Seven Simple Rules for Making the Most of a Road Trip.
The thing I love about road trips is their fluidity.
Remaining untethered to some airline’s asinine rules and sordid idea of an itinerary–
Since passengers who boarded before you carried all of their worldly possessions onto the plane in order to avoid paying our exorbitant checked baggage fees, we’re going to have to place your expensive and beloved DSLR camera in the hold…
We’re experiencing a delay either because of inclement weather in Denver OR because the flight crew is busy getting hammered in the employee lounge…
Flight 136 to Atlanta has been overbooked because we enjoy collecting your money for a service we never intended on providing. Please come to the desk if you are willing to reschedule.
— is a freeing feeling. One that can only be fully understood if you know what it’s like to throw your clothes into a suitcase or bag in your trunk, only to realize you’ve forgotten a great pair of shoes, your leather jacket, your tripod, and a bunch of CD’s you burned in the late 90’s, so you toss those into the backseat along with a cooler full of water, caffeinated beverages, homemade trail mix, and several haphazardly assembled chicken salad sandwiches and finally, unrestrictedly, hit the road.
You can pack what you want, as long as there’s still leg room and the windows can open.
(Okay. So the Tracker has limited leg room by default and only 3 of her electric windows still operate, but she’s in incredible working condition — especially considering we met back in 2002, just 3 years after her birth, and since then we’ve had the longest, closest, mutually caring, non-blood-related relationship of my life — with the exception of Alaina, who may as well be blood — and have traveled well over 150,000 miles together. We’re kind of in love. I’ve known her longer than my husband, and she’s never tried to start a fight with me via text message because she knows I hate that.
It’s almost like we’re soul mates.)
Even so, there are some”rules” for road-tripping that, while are certainly less restrictive than the spoken (no electronic devices during take-offs/landings, buckle your seatbelts while seated, don’t pack more than 50 pounds worth of crap) and unspoken (the passenger in the middle seat gets dibs on both armrests, hold all farts until you’ve exited the plane, feed fussy babies pre-flight cough medicine cocktails) rules of air travel, should be abided — or at least acknowledged — in order to guarantee an enjoyable trip for all involved.
Even if it’s just you.
1) Break it up, man. Sure, I could’ve driven directly to Philadelphia to meet up with Justin and his family in an easy, less-than-9-hour day trip. But really? Where’s the fun in that? I have people, you know. People I like to see whenever the mood strikes or when one of us feels like making the effort. And a couple of these people just happen to be living along the general path I had to take to reach Philly from North Carolina.
So I did what any plan-hating, inconsiderate domestiphobe would do — I messaged them on Facebook and told them to get their guest rooms/futons/air mattresses ready, because I’d likely be needing them either sometime the week before or the week after Easter.
Whichever turned out to be more convenient for me.
Or them.
Or mostly me.
This is not the exact path I ended up taking, because I’ve found over the years that U.S. interstates are grotesquely dangerous freaks of infrastructure overcrowded with semi trailers and minivans and repeating clusters of national and regional fast food chains that only serve to make you feel ghastly and bloated and pimply when you finally reach your destination.
Which brings me to:
2) Take the road less traveled. Cross the bridge uncrossed. For real. You see a fork. The left prong takes you on a whirlwind tour of rest stops, gas stations, and enough deep fry oil to sink the Titanic. The right prong takes you to sleepy towns, privately owned restaurants, and probably still enough deep fry oil to sink the Titanic.
But the food it fries, 9 times out of 10, is much, much better.
Let’s see McDonald’s bring you this.
The streets are emptier.
The roads have less potholes.
And the views are… well… they smell better than the back end of a truck stop.
3) Eat well. Seriously. Feed yourself. Feed yourself things you can’t/don’t/ wouldn’t dare cook at home. Discover new places. New dishes. New tastes.
After all, who says the vacation has to start when you’ve reached your destination?
4) Don’t pack light. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but just in case I do, here goes: You’re in a car. You know, that mobile vehicle with wheels, massive in comparison to a single airline seat and quarter of an overhead compartment, so use it. What are you afraid of? That someone will judge you? Elbow you? Stare at you creepily while you try to absorb yourself in The Hunger Games because you’ve become completely obsessed even though it’s a heinous storyline semi-ripped off from or at least probably partially inspired by Richard Bachman’s (aka. Stephen King’s) little-known gem The Long Walk, and you didn’t even know this latest book craze existed until a few weeks ago when everyone started talking about the movie and murderous children and a Peeta that wasn’t a bread/sandwich (pita) but a character in this book that was supposedly so good or disturbing or mind-numbingly twisted that you wouldn’t be able to put it down so you bought it and didn’t actually put it down for 3 days not including sleep and socialization and pee breaks?
Are you afraid that will happen?
Well, I have news.
That only happens on airplanes.
In the safety of your car, no one judges. No one nudges. And no one stares except for when they pass and catch you singing along to Billy Joel’s greatest hits with more enthusiasm than Peeta would show if he were told he could finally have consensual sex with Katniss and she’d actually like it. (I’m only partway through Book 2, by the way, so if you ruin this for me I might have to hate you forever. Or at least for a couple of hours because I have a short attention span, but even so, spoiling plotlines would truly be an evil undertaking.)
The good news is, if you do forget anything, it’s not a big deal to stop somewhere along the line and buy it. But the more you pack, the more money you save, and the less guilty you feel for buying that completely-awesome-yet-unnecessary dreamcatcher from a Pueblo roadside gift shop in Nevada.
5) Bring good music. This is completely subjective, believe it or not. And while modern music is acceptable, anything that inspires nostalgia is better. Billy Joel? Go for it. Avett Brothers? Have at it. Toadies? Go ahead and send me a copy. Because no one judges. (See #4.) And if anyone who happens to be with you does, you can accidentally-on-purpose forget him at a truck stop off the side of I-95.
Or, if you’re nicer and have been paying attention, at a diner off the side of Highway 301 within walking distance of a riverside park and an all-you-can-eat Maryland crab shack and a sign for RedNex sporting goods.
6) Be flexible. Okay. So you want to avoid the interstates, especially around busy cities, but there’s this truly amazing sandcastle competition they hold every year in Cannon Beach, Oregon, and you know there’s no way you’ll make it in time if you completely avoid I-84. Not to mention the fact that sometimes the interstate is just safer, especially while traveling solo, in the way of providing the occasional modern convenience or (hopefully) friendly passerby in case you run into trouble.
So if the situation calls for it, take the interstate. If you have time to peruse a used book store in a quaint seaside village, do it.
Basically this rule means that there are no rules. Kind of like Fight Club, except we get to feel free without having the crap beat out of us.
Good deal, no?
7) Earn Your Keep. This has more to do with the stops between times on the road. When someone’s putting you up for a night (or two, or three, or however long you plan to leach from their generosity while enjoying their company), they’re doing more than providing a bed. They’re providing water, food, hygienic facilities, and a place far more comfortable than your car for stretching out with a good book.
Usually, they’re sharing their home. Knowledge of the place they live and love. Absorb it all, whatever they want to show you, and pay it forward. For our relatives in Philadelphia, I have a gift planned. To Erin, I brought olives and wine. And for Angie?
Well.
Angie opted for manual labor.
So on a sunny Sunday afternoon, we took her front lawn from this:
To this:
And while I may have taken the occasional break to sip water on her fabulous front porch and point out spots that could use improvement, (I was on vacation, after all), I also managed to help a little, and all-in-all felt pretty great about squeezing in some physical activity between wine and food samplings.
So there you have it. Seven rules for road tripping that are subject to change without notice as I become older, crotchetier, and take in more of what this world has to offer.
