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Let Me Tell You About This Trip.

No, not a psychedelic shroomie trip I maybe once had back in college.

I’m talking about this trip:

The one I’ll be taking in approximately one month.

The one where I’m driving, because I like to drive, and Justin will be flying to the endpoint, Philadelphia, because he’s a cheater and doesn’t understand the beauty of the road.  And also because he can’t take that much leave from work.

I’m incredibly excited about this trip for 2 reasons:

One, I will be going somewhere.  That’s right — it doesn’t take much to make me happy in this world, and ‘going somewhere’ usually does the trick.

Two, I will be visiting some of my favorite people on this planet.

Angie, the saucy Aussie, lives in Williamsburg, VA.  We studied rocks and maps together in college, and apparently Geology and GIS have tighter bonding power than whatever JLo used to stick her dress to her boobies at the Oscars last weekend, because even though sometimes whole oceans have separated us (her husband is in the military, too), we still always find a way to come back to our friendship.

Me ‘n Angie.  She’s trying not to look at my peeking areola.

Now.  If you’ve been reading this blog since my quarter-life-crisis days (which, let’s face it, will probably linger on into my midlife), you already know Erin.  If not, she’s the one who quit her job with me so we could move to Costa Rica for 2 months.  All it took was one trip to visit her in Frederic, MD and several cocktails, but eventually she caved.  And although she won’t admit it, I’m pretty sure she knows it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.  You know, aside from meeting her husband and moving to Annapolis and buying her awesome fixer-upper and going back to school to follow her life dreams.  But whatever.

And finally, there’s Anna and her family, who live in Philadelphia, PA.  What can I say about Anna?  Well.  The first year I visited Justin’s family for Christmas was a little… overwhelming.  My family is very small, not to mention divorced, and with just a handful of cousins, our holidays were pretty low-key even back in the days when we all got together.  So, imagine how I felt when I entered his grandparents’ enormous house filled to the brim with family.  Aunts, uncles, and 23 (or so?) cousins.  And that’s just his dad’s side.

When I met Anna, she took me under her wing.  One of Justin’s aunts through marriage, she knew what it was like to come from outside.  What’s more, we’re very similar in beliefs and personalities.  And while I love visiting that huge family whenever we can, I’ll admit it’s nice to know there’s someone there who understands a little about from where I come — and why, sometimes, I just need more wine.

The thing about large family holidays is that, while you can spend all of this quality time with people, you still might not really know who they are.  Think about it.  If you’ve never seen the place someone calls “home,” do you really know that person?  I loved visiting some of Justin’s other aunts in Colorado one year because we finally were able to see what home was like for them — and they weren’t these bustling, crazy houses full of people, but  normal family homes.  Just them surrounded by the things they love.

This is why I’m looking forward to seeing Anna and her family in their own element — just them, their city, and maybe a couple of Philly Cheesesteaks.

And maybe… maybe…

A DAY TRIP TO NYC!!!!

Kids, I have never been to NYC.

Not once.

It’s shameful, I know.

I kept waiting for that publisher or agent to call me out of the blue and invite me up for cocktails and a book deal, but it never happened.

Shocker.

So here I’ve been sitting, less than 12 hours away from this country’s most defining city, just waiting for an invitation.

And guess what?

It just arrived.

So those are the major planned stops so far, but I’m open to visiting some other sights along the way.

Anyone know of something along this route that’s worth the stop?  An amazing restaurant?  The perfect thrift store?  The world’s largest ball of twine?  Do you have or know of a wonderfully designed home that I should photograph for Apartment Therapy?

Hey.  I’ll admit.  While I love a good road trip as much as the next girl, I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to make a little money.

My Cup Runneth…

Sometimes I know I’ve been fortunate.

So incredibly fortunate.

I’ve tasted warm, Nutella filled crepes on the rain-chilled streets of Paris.  I’ve rappelled waterfalls in the damp, verdant jungles of Costa Rica.  I’ve seen every color of the rainbow embedded into ethereal rock splayed across the Badlands.   I’ve added 5,500 miles to the Tracker’s odometer in a single trip — marveling at the competing corner coffee shops of Seattle; the craggy, hasselback coastline Oregon; the overhyped sidewalk stars along the grimy streets of Hollywood; the unpretentious grandeur of southwestern deserts;  the popping display of vibrant Fourth of July fireworks that greeted me from the mountains as I entered Colorado Springs, and much, much more.

I’m on the right. Okay… not the most flattering of makeup-less helmeted garb, but whatever. I was waterfall rappelling in Costa Rica, for crying out loud.

I’ve stood in a forest field of lemon-yellow buttercups in Switzerland, I think.  I’ve spelunked the depths of a guano-filled cave in the mountains of Georgia.  I’ve danced in a club in Ibiza while the floor filled with water.  I’ve jumped from a plane over the sun-dappled island of Oahu.  I’ve bartered with an artist in Malaga for the ugliest drawing I’ve ever seen (story coming soon).  I’ve scuba’d the breathtaking reefs of St. Lucia.  I survived a border crossing to Nicaragua with nary a scratch, and I suffered a thank-God-it-wasn’t-a-brown-recluse spider bite in my own front yard and lived to tell the tale.

Spelunking

Me. Spelunking.

I’ve driven across the Golden Gate, I’ve gazed upon my nation’s capital, I’ve walked on glass over the city of Toronto, I’ve stared in awe at the St. Louis Arch, I’ve seen where le tour de Eiffel touches the ground.

Skydive Hawaii

Sometimes, even in Hawaii, you need to get a little closer to the sun.

Yet somehow, it’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

My experience only reminds me of how much I haven’t yet seen.  How much there is still to see.

And there is a constant battle in my head over where I should concentrate my energy.  I ask myself, why am I spending money on curtains when there are these things to do?  Why are we ordering takeout when we could save to eat REAL food in Thailand?  Why am I still paying these student loans when I could flee the country and live quite comfortably in Central America?  Why did that parking lot car accident just cost us $500 when we should be riding in an Indian rickshaw anyway?

And then Justin looks at me funny because I already made him feel bad about the accident when it wasn’t even his fault, but also because riding in an Indian rickshaw doesn’t hold the same appeal for him as it does for me.

Travel, I think, is in my blood.

And those who are pathogen-free will never understand.

Hell, I don’t understand.

I don’t understand why I’m sitting here, in my office, caught between two worlds.  Travel magazines, and writing books on one side of me, paint samples and curtain packages on the other.

One side. (un-staged.)

The other side.  (un-staged.)

It’s like a snapshot of my brain, scattered across my pristine white desk, each side pulling me in a separate direction every moment of every day.

It’s a very fast way, you see, to go nowhere at all.

Or split in two.

I know.  If that is my problem, then I have it made.

But maybe it’s a metaphor.  A really bad metaphor for the struggle of balancing our real lives — relationships, obligations, jobs, and bills — with the vision we’ve seen for ourselves since childhood.

I’m not sure where I lost sight of mine, but I’m hoping it’s not too late to get it back.

I’m hoping I can balance it with the things I have and love already.

I’m hoping I’m not as crazy as I sound.

To Stress or Not to Stress: A Tryst with the Unknown.

Itchy.

That’s how I feel.

No, not in a 3-days-post-bikini-wax kind of way.

No, not in an I-went-to-Hawaii-and-forgot-to-wear-sunscreen-and-all-I-got-were-these-billions-of-dead-peeling-skin-cells kind of way.

And no, not in an I-slept-in-a-questionable-motel-last-night-and-neglected-to-check-the-mattress kind of way.

Twitchy.

Maybe that’s a better word to describe it.

And while last week I rambled on about the camaraderie of backpacks, I’m realizing more and more that I don’t really care how I travel, just as long as I get to travel.  It’s simply easier for me to romanticize backpacking when imagining or re-living exotic trips abroad — the implied gritty, grungy, down-in-the-dirt feeling that stems from steering clear of the relative comfort of plush hotels, room service cards, and pre-packaged experiences.  To leave the sanctity of the hotel restaurant and buy empanadas from a man behind a chicken wire screen, or better, to devour fried platanos from the tiny kitchen of a generous resident.  To experience that uncomfortable feeling of riding on a rickety bus with the locals, knowing I’m noticeably different.

A stranger.

A minority.

It’s humbling.  And probably something everyone should experience at least once in her life.  Like waiting tables.

And yet.

There’s something in this world about feeling pampered.  Or, if not pampered, at least safe.  Clean.  Looked after.  And that kind of travel can be equally wonderful.  Where my clothes emerge relatively wrinkle-free from a shallow suitcase and hang in a closet for the duration of a trip.  Where if one thing gets wet, everything else doesn’t smell like mildew for weeks on end.  Where my burden-free back is left free to stretch and bend and soak in the rays of the sun.

Nope.  That’s not so bad.  As long as I make it a true point to discover a place — to see more than what a single company or business would have me see — I feel like it’s a trip well-spent.

Take, for example, our honeymoon in St. Lucia back in 2006.  It was an excellent balance of hotel pampering mixed with our own adventures:

Ti-Kaye St. Lucia

Luxurious honeymoon suite.

St. Lucia Piton Mountains

Crazy and scenic cab rides to fancy, schmancy restaurants.

Ladera Restaurant

Make-you-wanna-cry views over frozen cocktails.

St. Lucia Restaurant

Tourist food — delicious!

St. Lucia Coconut
St. Lucia Woman Coconut

Tourist coconut — more delicious!

St. Lucia Street Food

Typical street food — MOST delicious.

Brits
St. Lucia street party

Travel friends whose names you soon forget.

Coffee

Locals you know you’ll never forget.

Vacation debauchery and shirts you wish you could forget.

I think the thing that burdens people the most about travel — why some return home feeling the need for a vacation when, in fact, that’s where they’ve been for the last 2 weeks, is because they spend their precious time pressuring it — twisting it and molding it and expecting it to be all of these things that, in reality, it might not want to be.

A tryst with the Unknown is, I imagine, like raising a child.  You can want it to grow up to be a doctor.  A lawyer.  Just like you.  Better than you.  But you’re setting yourself up for some serious disappointment if you think you can control another soul.  If you think you can arrange its life just-so, with the right upbringing, the right education, the perfect amount of discipline and fun time and family time.  Because there are always outside influences you can’t predict.  Things that will poke and prod and interfere with your project.  Things that will influence its way of thinking and growing.  Things that could even make it better, if you’d only let them.

So in the end, you have a choice:  You can drive yourself crazy trying to steer and constrain, or you can simply set the gears in motion, nurture as best you can, and see what happens.

A trip is like that.  It’s not a crafty DIY project you assemble in your garage — it’s a life experience intended simply to be experienced.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t plan.  You should always know ways you might get from point A to point B.  But you should also be flexible enough to change those plans should a new opportunity arise.  This simple shift in thought can mean the difference between a stressed-out, tension-inducing, jaw-clenching whirlwind of befuddlement and a carefree good time.

I’ve quoted them before, and I’ll quote them again:

If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.

-Gin Blossoms

The Unknown is scary.

But, if we’re really honest with ourselves, that’s what makes it so damn fun.

I’m Pretty Sure Sloths Can Morph Into Turtles If They Save Enough Cash.

Yesterday I did not paint the trim in our bedroom.

Nor did I scrub the baseboards or putty the holes around the windows.

In fact, all I did was shop vac the popcorn remnants before hitting the showers so I could hang out with an old friend who’s back in town for a few days.  We sat at a wine bar for the afternoon and talked about girly things.

It was all kinds of wonderful.

Of course, after regaling her with harrowing tales of my adventures into the design world and my big plans for the master bedroom, the talk inevitably turned to travel, as it usually does with me, and we exchanged stories about places we’ve been and where we’d one day like to be.

And I realized.

It doesn’t matter how many light fixtures or curtains or duvet covers I buy — it will never be enough to keep me grounded.  To keep me from wanting to island hop through the South Pacific; to explore the Dalmatian coast of Croatia; to swim with the jellyfish in Palau.

So.

Since I’m not in a position to travel right now and I’d like to stall a little while longer before painting baseboards, I’m going to start with a travel basic for you — the backpack.

Those of you used to taking a grand vacation to a single destination without the slightest intention of removing your belongings from the comfort of your hotel room for the duration of your stay may not be aware of the benefits that come from backpack travel.  You probably think backpacks are for beatniks and bums — the aimless Dean Moriartys of the world and white people with dreadlocks.  Or maybe you think it’s more like an exclusive club — one where you have to know how to play acoustic guitar or roll a superior joint before you’re allowed to become a member.

Well that’s simply not true!  Backpacking is a club, but the pack itself is your membership card — your elite access to some of the most interesting, well-traveled, well-read, and well-rounded people in the world.  If you’re out in the Great Unknown and see that unmistakable sign of a fellow traveler, you know it’s likely a fleeting friendship can bloom over smiles, tip exchanges, and any number of language barriers.

A backpack means freedom — freedom from the hindrance of staying in one place, freedom from the worry that someone might scratch one of your Louis Vuittons, and freedom to navigate city streets and cramped public transportation without getting tiny wheels stuck in sidewalk cracks and bags tipped in gutters.  Two free hands.  Your life strapped to your back.

The turtles, I think, might be on to something here.

If I could, I’d take a refurbished 1920’s Craftsman Bungalow and strap it to my back.

But I can’t.

So when I went to Costa Rica, I took these 2 bags:

Travel Bags

Two months of my life packed snugly inside the homes I’d carefully selected for the trip.

Of course, a nomadic pro could probably condense to one, but I don’t think I did too shabby for a noobie.

The black pack, The Lowepro Primus Minimus (I know, like a Gladiator!) was my carry-on, and completely necessary because it safely held my giant bulk of a DSLR camera, 2 lenses, memory cards, cleaning supplies, and power cords in the base compartment; plane ride paraphernalia including novels, guidebooks, MP3 player, headphones, and spare underwear in the top compartment; and my minuscule Netbook in the outside compartment.  An entire office in a single bag.  What’s more, it served as an excellent weekend bag, with camera in the bottom and plenty of room for some rolled-up dresses, undergarments, swimsuits, and toiletries in the top.

The green pack, which I checked on the plane, required a bit more research since I knew nothing about travel packs and the difference between various structures, breathability, and designs intended for campers, photographers, hikers, mountaineers, or just general travel.  Not to mention the fact that some packs are built specifically for a woman’s frame, which can make all the difference in the world when you find yourself carrying, like the most cumbersome tortoise, all of the things you want with you at a moment’s notice.

Think about that for a second.

Because when you strap that puppy to your back, no matter how well the bag is designed to distribute the weight where it’s easiest for your body to carry it, heavy is heavy.  And there is no better shock therapy for trimming the fat from your life — or your luggage — than by shoving it all into a backpack.  Or two.  Then strapping one to your back and the other to your front, so now you don’t only look like a tortoise, but a pregnant tortoise, with visions of tipping headfirst with the weight of yourself and not caring a bit because you know you’ll just bounce — and that, I think, is unbridled freedom.

The one I ultimately settled on was a Gregory brand Jade 60, a woman’s pack designed to carry 60 Liters.  However, since I ordered the size small to fit my frame, I believe that took it down to 55 Liters.  Fifty-five Liters, it turns out, is enough room to carry a life.

A small life of materials, but one filled to capacity with experience.

Was that cheesy?

Yeah, that was cheesy.  Even for me.  But a girl can’t help but get mushy when it comes to talk of love.

And that’s what this is, albeit unrequited.  I feel like a horse at the starting gate — held back for some lame league rule decipherable only by those who make them up — just itching for my chance to run.

My pack is too clean.  Too new.  Too green.

But that’s okay.  For now.  We’re just biding our time for a second run.

Many people, especially families I hear, feel the need for a vacation after a vacation.  I think I know why that is and what we can do to fix it.

And the first step, my friends, is a decent backpack.

Would you consider traveling with a pack, or do you think you’ll always stick to basic luggage?  Do you like the comfort of sticking to one place when you travel, or do you like the freedom to explore.  I’m curious.  There’s no RIGHT way to travel.  What’s yours?

Is Life Not A Thousand Times Too Short For Us To Bore Ourselves (By Going On Strike)?

Nietzsche said that.  The fist part, about life and boring ourselves.  Not the second part, about going on strike.  I added that to make a point.

So I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I guess the internet is joining up in protest today to go on strike.

You heard me.

The internet is going on strike.

This would’ve been a great thing to know… I don’t know… yesterday, like before I got up at 6:30 this morning so I could write a blog post before heading off to my job that actually pays.  I mean, the sponsors aren’t exactly banging down my door over here.  I don’t know why companies wouldn’t want to attach their names to my drinkin’, swearin’, sex-obsessed self.  It’s mind-boggling, to say the least.

So.  I’m up.  I’m here.  And I won’t get paid for several hours.  In light of that fact and in the spirit of adventure capitalism, I think I’ll take advantage of all of the downed sites and hopefully benefit from the fact that apparently I’m the only site online right now.

That’s right.

You’re stuck with me.

It’s not that I don’t back the cause, ’cause I do.  It’s just that if I only have but a short time left to express my uncensored thoughts and opinions to the world, I kind of want to take advantage of them, you know?  Plus, I didn’t buy gas on that one day they said we shouldn’t buy gas a couple of years ago, and we all know how that turned out.  Oil companies still turned record profits, and I never bought that Prius.

Moving on.

Lately I’ve been distracted.  Like, crazy distracted, soaking up someone’s blog like it’s a Harry Potter novel, only even better because the adventures are real.  Her name is Brenna, and I’ve been working my way back from the very beginning of her blog, This Battered Suitcase, like some crazy internet stalker obsessed with setting up shop in someone else’s life.  Vicariously, of course.

For someone like me, it’s hard to not envy the nomadic life she’s made for herself, and she’s only in her mid-20’s.  Of course, on the flip-side, true wanderers occasionally get lonely and ache for the type of companionship and comfort that only comes with homesteading for a while, but if this is one of those “grass is always greener” situations, the other grass is the seasonal stuff that turns brown in winter climates, while her grass is like a golf course in southern California — that bitch (the golf course, not Brenna) ain’t ever gettin’ brown.  She’s alluded to as much in one of her short, photo-filled, thought-provoking posts — she wouldn’t trade the life she sometimes thinks she might envy a little on occasion for the world she knows she loves to experience.

I have to be careful here, because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  I love my husband.  I love my pups.  I love my friends, and my house, and the little niche we’ve created for ourselves in this place I’m far from calling home.

But.

Do any of you ever get the feeling that you’re still not doing what you’re supposed to be doing?  That, somehow, there’s more to be done, and you just need to figure out what it is and how to get there?  I’ve talked before about trying to live life in the moment and not wasting time looking for the next thing on the horizon that’s going to “complete” you, but this is different.  I’m talking about a sense of purpose.  Of making a difference.  At least to yourself, if no one else.

I read a quote by Mark Twain, who supposedly said,

Mark Twain Quote

Photo by Blunt Delivery.  I think.  At least, I found it on her Pinterest and it said it was uploaded by her, so it’s hers until I hear otherwise.

I don’t know how to make this travel bug blend with the life I’ve already created for myself.  But I also know that it’s not going away.  Once infected, the symptoms are life-long, my friends, and it’s a little bit torturous if you don’t give it the drug that it needs to subside.  Unfortunately, that drug can be expensive — not just monetarily, but also when it comes to time and relationships.  Current jobs and responsibilities.  This grind of debt and home ownership and 9-5’s we call The American Dream.  Some of those things I care about deeply.  But others, not so much.

If I’m going to be honest, and you know I’m never anything but, I have a current lack of stimulation that’s not filled from showing people houses or watching How I Met Your Mother.  And I know, if I have time to think on my bed of death, that I won’t be wondering who the mother really is or whether the writers of that show ever plan on telling us.  I will be wondering if I experienced enough — if I met enough people, heard enough stories, tasted enough food, read enough books, loved enough worlds.

Am I the only one who feels like this?

They tell us, as writers, to write what we know.  And all I know is, I need to know more.  What the food tastes like in Myanmar.  How the locals dress in Laos.  How difficult it is to buy camera batteries in Croatia.

I’m pretty sure I can make this happen, and that I can make it blend with what I already have.

Now.

Does anyone want to send me some money?

 

 

Cleveland Rocks. Even When It’s A Blustering Ball of Freezing Wind and Rain.

Oy.

I’m pretty sure that’s about all the eloquence I can muster this morning.  Lemme try again.

Oy.

Yep, that’s it.

I kind of feel like I just got home from a whirlwind weekend trip to Cleveland, OH, whose biting winds and rains gusting off Lake Erie tried their damndest to blow me right back to North Carolina the entire time we were there.

Prepared was I not for winter to hit me after a mere 9 hour drive through picturesque North Carolina and West Virginia mountains, and it was probably somewhere along that invisible border between barbecue and banjos that I realized the most obvious item to pack — aside from the dress I planned on wearing to my friend Collin’s wedding — was still tucked safely inside my not-often-opened coat closet all the way back home.

Because it’s a coat.

A coat I forgot to bring.

To Cleveland.

And apparently I’m not the brightest crayon in the box.

Although I’d like to think of myself as more naively optimistic — like, if I think hard enough that it’s going to stay summer forever, it just might happen.

Either that, or we’ll get magical orders from the military to move to Hawaii.

Tomorrow.

So.  Despite the fact that I had no coat, we didn’t let that stop us from having a fantastic time at the wedding and exploring Cleveland in all its glory.

Especially thanks to this guy:

Remember my brother?

If I’m lucky, I get to see him every few years or so.  And this year, I’m very lucky.

Not only because we got to hang with my brother, but because he humored our need to brave the weather to see a famous movie house, eat the fanciest hot dog I’ve ever eaten, and sample nearly every flavor of martini under the sun.

Those posts are coming, I promise.

But for right now, I need to finish my coffee and stand under a steaming shower for about 45 minutes in order to prepare myself for venturing off to work.  Because I’m pretty sure I have to thaw before I can once again become a functioning member of non-vacationing society.

And that’s a major bummer.

(Not thawing — that will be nice.  But becoming a functioning member of non-vacationing society?  Total buzz kill.)

Why You Should Either Pay Me to Collate or Contract Bird Flu. Or Both.

So.  This morning I had a revelation.

I know… you’re thinking, here we go.  She’s going to talk about one of those revelations again — it’ll be one of those posts where she makes some big declaration about how she’s finally going to get off her ass and start making changes and find her dream job and discover spiritual enlightenment, and blah, blah blah.

Seriously.  Can’t.  Wait.

Well, you’re in luck, because it IS one of those.  Kind of.  But not really.

Because I have to be realistic.  I’m realizing it’s kind of difficult to get off your ass and make your dream job happen if you don’t exactly know what it is or how to get started.  So, following that train of thought, I’ve been looking for an interim job — something to get me out of doing laundry every once-in-a-while and help me remember what it’s like to earn a paycheck.  Maybe an office clerk or a realtor’s assistant or something along those lines.

Because dammit, I would be good at that.

The problem is that at the moment, these jobs are few and far between.  And where they do exist, they’re highly competitive.  And for some reason, “Freelance Writer from Jan-July 2011” and “Hot Sauce Maker Extraordinaire from Sep-Nov 2010” don’t immediately present themselves as qualifying work experiences.

But that’s because they don’t know me.  If they’d just get to know me, they’d see how my life experience, combined of course with technical know-how, above-average literacy, and superb communication skills, would make me pretty much an awesome person to have as their right-hand-man.

Woman.

Whatever.

Unfortunately, the only jobs I’m finding listed along those lines turn out to be spammers — jackasses who solely exist in this world to prey upon people who are just looking for a decent break.

At least they give Karma something to do.

The good(?) news is that the 247 illegitimate employment responses I’ve received are making me reevaluate my entire find-something-to-keep-me-busy-and-pay-the-bills-so-I-can-structure-my-schedule-and-feel-less-guilty-about-not-working-and-just-find-time-to-write-on-the-side plan.

See, not too long ago, I whined about lack of signs showing me I was on the right path.  And, in effect, perhaps I was ignoring signs telling me I was on the wrong path.  But here’s the thing — It’s pretty impossible to ignore the fact that every single sign I receive about getting a crappy office job is telling me NOT to do it.  (Let’s just pretend the terrible economy and almost nonexistent job market has nothing to do with it, mmmkay?)

The sad fact is that when I’m honest with myself, one of those jobs would put me exactly back in the position I was in when I first flipped my lid, quit my job, and moved to Costa Rica.  And that really can’t be a healthy cycle to start over.

So.

Where does that leave me?

Well, I’m going to continue my quest for interim employment and keep my fingers crossed for something remotely stimulating, challenging, and worthwhile (perhaps an assistant to someone busy and interesting and trusting of my creative personality and the ways I can assist him/her in maintaining the status of being the type of person I’d like to become).

Because, hey — laundry is laundry and a paycheck is a paycheck.

But.  I can’t lose focus on my goal, which is writing.  Or travel.  Or both.

And for me, travel is like breathing – a bare necessity of life.

I kind of forgot where I was going with this, so I will end with two propositions:

1)  If you need an assistant — even a virtual one who can type, make phone calls, organize schedules, file, collate, fax and email, I’m your girl.  Oh, and I can also make really awesome flyers.  Because if you’re cool, you probably need someone who can make flyers.

2)  If you want to pay someone to travel to exotic places, take pictures and write back to you about all the exciting things I’m eating, drinking and doing because you’re curious about the world but terrified you might get stuck on a plane next to the most banal, talkative person in existence who also happens to have the bird flu and never washes his hands or covers his mouth when he sneezes, I am definitely your girl.

Because while I don’t particularly want to contract bird flu, I have a feeling that kind of job would be worth it.

So, so worth it.

Related Post: How to Land a Job as a Classy Hooker or Someone Who Gets to Look at Eddie Vedder’s Butt

My Very First Water Party

I’m just going to be honest here, and you can judge me as you will.

And most likely, you will.

I’m at a point in my life where I pretty much consider myself too old for the club scene.

Well.  Maybe not too old, but too crotchety.

Too uncoordinated?

Too I-prefer-wearing-flip-flops-over-high-heels?

Too married?

Maybe that’s it.  Whether I’m headed out with Justin or with a few good friends, I’d much prefer the mellow sanctity of a martini at a jazzy bar, a spicy margarita and faux mariachi at my favorite Tex Mex hole, sipping a SoCo and coke with a splash of lime and dash of salt at a local dive while listening to a solo guitarist as he stands, essentially naked on the stage, because — as far as he’s concerned — he’s showing us a piece of his soul.

Yes, I’d much prefer that to finding myself surrounded by a mass of wobbly-drunk, sweaty, crop-dusting strangers.  (I’m not exaggerating about the crop dusting — I actually saw a guy lift his leg when he did it.)

And I don’t think it’s a married thing.  I’m pretty sure this wasn’t my scene when I was single, either.

Lucky for me, aside from the wild, expensive dance clubs for which it is famous, the island of Ibiza is packed full of stunning natural landscapes, interesting architecture, and a slew of culturally diverse inhabitants.  Our server from Bratislava, who was fluent in 3 languages and working on a 4th, couldn’t hide his elation that he’d finally saved the money he needed to move to his favorite vacation spot and was now living the dream.

He served us this sangria.

And I’ll never forget our quirky, art-loving hostel director who, upon figuring out how she wanted to spend her recent and substantial inheritance, arrived in Ibiza for a week-long vacation and simply never left.

Even the Spaniards don’t want you to fill out the paperwork, she reasoned, while explaining how she’d managed to remain an illegal, business-owning resident for the past 16 years.  It’s nothing but headaches for everyone involved.

And based on my very limited experience in the country and stories offered up by my sister-in-law who was there on a work visa, I’m thinking she was probably right.

Ibiza at dusk.

So I was more than satisfied on Ibiza, using a rental car to explore our small corner of the island, searching for its signature smooth shells on the beach with Becca, playing paddle ball with Brad in the surf, laying in bed with Justin while listening to inebriated teenagers try to find their way back to their hostels by bouncing shouts off the city walls and timing how long it took for their echos to return.  Apparently.

Paddle Ball

Playing paddle ball.  Yes, my exposure sucks.

But Brad.  Young, unmarried, still-able-to-consume-copious-amounts-of-liquor-wine-and-beer-in-a-single-night-without-sporting-a-massive-next-day-hangover, Brad.  Brad had a rather fuzzy-yet-exciting memory leftover from the last time he’d visited Ibiza, and he was determined to recreate the experience with our group while we were there.  It was his birthday, so we couldn’t argue, and I’ll admit — his proposal did sound intriguing.

The plan was to buy ample supplies at the grocery store and then stay up eating and playing drinking games in our room until 1 a.m.

Photo by Brad Thayer.  Since Justin’s and my room had 3 beds for some inexplicable reason, ours was the designated party room.

Crackers, white cheese, Spanish ham, chorizo, olives, chocolate cookies, crackers with chocolate, chips, orange juice, rum, our cheap-ass 40s, and soda.

Then, Becca and I were told to get “club-ready,” which — thankfully in Ibiza — simply means putting on a swimsuit underneath a strapless beach dress and trying not to poke our eyes out while drunkenly applying a fresh coat of mascara.  The boys threw on swim trunks and t-shirts, we wrapped our 40s in plastic bags (yes, we were classy — and they were only like €1 each, which is $1.50), and headed out into the chilly night air to walk about a mile to Club Paradis, for which we’d earlier bought pre-paid entrance tickets for €15 each (that was half the price!).

The “house music” (aka. techno) assaulted us immediately upon entering, but I will say this: the enormity of the room, the sunken dance floor, the crisscrossing catwalks with scantily clad dancers, the pure energy of the place was exciting as hell and made me feel like I’d suddenly been transported to Vegas.  We pushed our way down into the dance pit, which managed to resemble a giant hot tub under some Greek columns with a bunch of fluffy pillows covering the steps.  Beautiful — and I mean imported-from-Eastern-Europe beautiful — costumed dancers did their thing on the catwalks overhead, while some creepy metro guy with spiked hair and high tops walked around playing amplified bongos, and I couldn’t help but think, as a random stranger with only 1 lens in his sunglasses walked up and pet my face, that this whole scene would be best experienced with a hit of ecstasy.

But it was too late for that.

Image from Ibizavote.com.

So we danced.  Or at least, Brad, Becca and Justin danced while I attempted to dance.  But my buzz quickly wore off from all the stimulation, and after 2 1/2 hours of back-and-forth between the crammed dance floor and the blissfully air-conditioned ladies’ room, I was ready to leave before the main event.

But I didn’t.

I stuck it out.

Because the thing we were waiting for was something I’ll undoubtedly never see again in my lifetime.  Most likely because I’ll never stay at a club until 4:30 in the morning again in my lifetime.  With each dramatic climb of the techno, we thought the moment had finally arrived.  But it hadn’t.

Until, finally, it had.

In a surprisingly anticlimactic change of music from heady techno beats to a cutsie rendition of “Singing in the Rain,” fountains burst forth from the top steps of the dance pit and began filling it with water.

Freezing water.

A fact that no one seemed to notice, because we were inside, dancing, and it was raining, people!  We’re about to be in a pool!  In a club!  With our clothes on!  Except apparently those are optional because some definitely came off.

Now.  If you’re one of those people who gets nervous about swimming in a public pool because some kid might have peed in it, imagine standing in a pool at a club where everyone is wasted.  Aside from the flip-flops, plastic cups, and random pieces of clothing I saw floating around on the surface, I can’t imagine what might have been in that water.  And after almost getting squashed by a 180-lb. guy who never learned that pools aren’t for rough-housing, I decided it was time to get out.  I didn’t want to be a pooper, but I’m sorry — I refuse to be that girl who ends up in the morning headlines because I had my front teeth knocked out on the dance floor steps while partying a little too hard at El Paradis.  Stone sober.  No way.

Image from spotlight-forums.com.

However, once I was free from the sloppy stew that had once been a dance floor and shivering uncontrollably on the sidelines, I was able to appreciate this as one of those moments I’d likely never come close to experiencing again.

And while I can’t say that’s a bad thing, I also can’t say that I’m not happy we went.  If I had it to do over again, I’d definitely bring money for more drinks at the bar.  I’d hide a sweater somewhere in the club.  I’d take lots and lots of vitamin C.  And I’d put my game face on because if anyone’s losing a tooth, it’s the 180-lb. guy who thought he could push me around.

The walk back to our hostel was freezing.  And we had to get up in 4 hours to check out and catch a ferry to Formentera.  But I slept better than I had during any night on that island.

Maybe because I’d finally moved past the pretty beaches, the sunsets, the shells, and the water, and embraced the true nature of the beast — the thumping, gyrating, strobe-light phenomenon that is, for better or for worse, Ibiza.

So how about you?  Do you love going to clubs, or would you rather stay in your jammies eating ice cream and watching reruns of Seinfeld?

Taylor Swift Doesn’t Know What She’s Talking About

***UPDATE*** It has been brought to my attention by my good friend Leslie (huge country buff and friend to country singers everywhere), that the person I should be slamming in the title of this post is Miley Cyrus and NOT Taylor Swift. Since it’s a pain in the ass to change post titles once published and they’re all the same to me, I’m not going to change it. But since I love Leslie and don’t want to blame Taylor for Miley’s missteps, I will, for the record, stand corrected.

(But Taylor probably doesn’t know what she’s talking about either.)

I’ve been to a few beaches in my time.

It’s odd because as a teenager, I always thought I was more of a mountain girl.  That might have something to do with the fact that I primarily grew up in Nebraska, and it wasn’t unusual to take family trips to the magnificent Rockies where my sister and I would don knee-length shorts and flannel shirts tied around our waists (hey, it was the 90’s grunge era, and if I’m not mistaken, the plaid shirt thing is currently making a comeback, suckas!), and we’d hike the scenic trails of Estes Park, marveling at pristine mountain lakes from pointy vistas, trying desperately to comprehend sheer size and distance based on the veritable layers of mountains that faded off into a purple haze on the horizon.

Fortunately, for the most part, the mountains still have that effect on me.

But nothing — and I mean nothing — has ever made me feel smaller than the ocean.

Except maybe that senior who called me ugly during my freshman year of high school.

But while oceans have swallowed ships the size of small cities and an entire mountain range that, if its base were above sea level, would boast peaks higher than the Himalayas, all that senior managed to swallow was a drop of my 15-year-old self-esteem, which, by comparison, was much smaller.

So, considering the fact that I haven’t yet been to outer space, the ocean reigns supreme on my list of awe-inspiring things in terms of sheer vastness.

In this life, I’ve been lucky enough to dig sand dollars from the warm gulf surf off the cost of Georgia; scuba dive the reefs near St. Lucia’s black sand beaches, feeling the stunning shock of sea gnats while gazing at the limitless colors of coral and fish; view the North Pacific, with its cliffs of rock rising out from its frigid depths, as it feasted on the remnants of hundreds of sand castles along its beaches; witness the power of waves that looked like building-tall scoops of ice cream sprinkled with runaway surfboards as they tested human courage on the beauty of Oahu’s North Shore; watch cruise ships dump inconceivable amounts of pollution into the shockingly blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico; buy trinkets sold by colorful hippies and artists while absorbing the vibrancy of the beach known as Venice; frantically flee strange, floating jellyfish in the bathtub-warm waters of the Caribbean while learning how to scream through a snorkel; accept a proposal for marriage on a beach composed entirely of shells on the east coast of Florida; and accidentally lose track of the top of my bathing suit in a wave working its way towards the famous shore of Tamarindo Beach in Costa Rica.

Until I recently dipped my toes into the surprisingly June-cool waters of the Mediterranean, I was convinced I’d seen it all.

But that’s the beauty of the ocean.

No one has ever, ever seen it all.

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza City

Formentera

Formentera

Formentera

Formentera

You know that song that’s all, It’s not about what’s waiting on the other side… it’s the climb?  I think it’s by Taylor Swift.  Well.  As you can see, she was dead wrong.

The climb, which we did on bicycles, sucked.  But that thing that was waiting on the other side?

Pretty.  Damn.  Fantastic.

Formentera

So.  To answer the burning question I know everyone is wondering but is too afraid to ask:

Did I “lose” my top on the notorious nude beaches of Formentera?

Let’s just say that I never realized how utterly uncomfortable bikini tops are — until I experienced a world without one.

Photo by Becca Gard

See more Spain photos here, here, here, and here.