Just read that title. Go away, I'm done here.
J/K
My mother, an unassuming woman not even 5 feet tall, is the sort of person the cashier at Publix talks to about her dead cat Garfield for 20 minutes, while the converyor belt just piles up everyone else's groceries until they start leaving. (Actually happened). Maybe time consuming and bothersome, but no harm no foul. The line is drawn where my mother will actually stop and talk to the crazy homeless lady in Union Square about Michael Jackson being the savior of our race before giving her $5 (also actually happened). That goes to say, she's eternally empathetic, consistently sees the good in everyone... and this frequently (usually... more often than not... always.) crowds her better judgement.
Me? Guilty as charged. I, too, have this curse, coupled with a electro-weirdo magnet installed in my chest like IronMan. And without all that benevolence garbage.
So my Mom came to visit me in lovely Winter Park, FL, where we took a stroll down around the fancy shops and restaurants of Park Avenue. Park Avenue- famous for upper class white folk, stroller moms, Rollins College students, and overpriced everything (butgreat happy hours). Not famous for crazy hippies and cult leaders.
As we exited Penzey's Spices, a couple intersected us. The man looked remarkably like Moby (really? again?), but clad in tie-dye. The woman was softspoken and charming, dressed in autumn colors of many layers and textures. She had long, brown hair and a round face. She asked us if we would like to hear about the Avatar Project, and take a minute to talk about compassion.
Red flag. Like the ProActiv people in the mall, folks like this are to be 100% cold-shouldered.
NOPE.
My sweet mother, not wanting to hurt their feelings, complied.
We participated in a short excersize in compassion, which was unfortunately very relaxing. After we were done, we were offered the opportunity to attend a seminar on this particular breed of compassion. No, thanks.
You guessed it, Mom's all in. Except Mom isn't local. How sad for her, because she really, really wishes she could go. Oh, what a drag. Well, good thing her daughter is local, because she would certainly love to go. In fact- here's her contact information. Oh, no, no, Mom is in the process of moving and can't possibly be reached, but you can get in contact with her through her unwilling daughter, who again would be delighted to attend your seminar on how aliens live in our brains and turn us against each other, L Ron.
So now I get twice- weekly calls from these lovely people telling me all about how I can increase the colors of my aura, and get those goddamned aliens out, and why haven't you come to a seminar yet, we have them once a month in Longwood?
I'll post an update once I go to one of those bad boys.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Zombies
I forgot I had a blog, so to make up to myself, here are some zombie stories.
Once Bruce Campbell came to speak at FSU. My sister and I went through hell and high water to get there, and once there he verbally accosted me for being a smart ass. Then we tried to follow him home. Thwarted!
Really, here's the good story:
The institution I currently work for does an annual conference of sorts, with various themes to the three day event. This particular night was, you guessed it, zombie themed.
I was working bag check for the event when a middle aged gentleman (talking early 50s here) approached with an unholy amount of goods and assorted paraphernalia. It was all very dirty, and covered in blood. Like all good zombie baggage should be.
As I wrote out his claim check I remarked, "Wow! You're a really good zombie!"
My compliments to his expertly crafted costume were approached thusly:
"Well, yes. I am a professional zombie."
Then he handed me a business card.
No joke, his business card said "Dave Miller, professional zombie". It's the second greatest business card I've ever been given.
The next day, the card was passed on to alternative services, because I have a dear friend who I thought might be interested in his next offer...
You see, as downtown Orlando is extra spooky haunted, Dave the professional zombie thought to offer his services for a ghost tour. Because he knows some actual ghosts. That would take me on a tour.
One of my few regrets in life is not going on that tour.
There have been no zombie sightings since, but Halloween is coming up.
Once Bruce Campbell came to speak at FSU. My sister and I went through hell and high water to get there, and once there he verbally accosted me for being a smart ass. Then we tried to follow him home. Thwarted!
Really, here's the good story:
The institution I currently work for does an annual conference of sorts, with various themes to the three day event. This particular night was, you guessed it, zombie themed.
I was working bag check for the event when a middle aged gentleman (talking early 50s here) approached with an unholy amount of goods and assorted paraphernalia. It was all very dirty, and covered in blood. Like all good zombie baggage should be.
As I wrote out his claim check I remarked, "Wow! You're a really good zombie!"
My compliments to his expertly crafted costume were approached thusly:
"Well, yes. I am a professional zombie."
Then he handed me a business card.
No joke, his business card said "Dave Miller, professional zombie". It's the second greatest business card I've ever been given.
The next day, the card was passed on to alternative services, because I have a dear friend who I thought might be interested in his next offer...
You see, as downtown Orlando is extra spooky haunted, Dave the professional zombie thought to offer his services for a ghost tour. Because he knows some actual ghosts. That would take me on a tour.
One of my few regrets in life is not going on that tour.
There have been no zombie sightings since, but Halloween is coming up.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Everyone's a little bit racist
That's right, I saw Avenue Q.
No really, I didn't, but I listened to that song a lot (thanks again, Lauren).
Here's the truth, I was walking out of publix today when a man stopped me and said, "Excuse me, where are you from?"
"...Here? I live down the street..."
"No, I mean... you look like you're from the Islands... I'm from Barbados and you look like you're from Barbados, I was just wondering if you were."
"No... no, sorry."
I would like to know, 1) How this is an appropriate thing to say to a stranger. 2) What, specifically, someone from Barbados looks like, and 3) Why does this happen to me all the time?
So, to all my ethnically ambiguous brothers and sisters, the top ten most racist things people have said to me. All of these, mind you, are entirely unprovoked.
1)While walking by my desk, a coworker stopped and commented, loudly, "...So what are you like... bi-racial or something?"
2) While I was playing the xylophone with her child, "Would you be willing to nanny? I'm looking for someone who will speak Spanish to her."
3) While working guest services at an American Indian heritage site, "So, did they hire you because you're Apalachee?"
4) 10 seconds after walking into dollar general, "Excuse me, miss? Can you follow me?"
"Oh, um... sure."
"I need you to explain to this woman that the balloons are $1 each, not $1 for the bouquet."
"..."
"She doesn't speak English"
"Yeah, I only speak English"
5)At a Starbucks: "Hi. Can you translate something for me? I want to get 'honor' tattooed on my calf in Hebrew, and I want to make sure I spelled it correctly."
"..."
"You're Israeli, right?"
6) Friend of my sister: "I didn't realize you were sisters! I mean, you look so... ethnic."
7) Customer at Steak-n-Shake, "Are you naturally brown like that? Or do you tan?"
8)Hairstylist, "I mean... I have just never seen hair this texture before. What are you supposed to do with it?" (Disclaimer- I have regular ass brown hair. It's not even that effing curly)
9) While getting fingerprinted for a job, "What does "O" under race/ ethnicity mean?"
"Other. I'm bi-racial, and that's not an option, so I put other."
"Well, you look white to me. So today you're white."
Then she whited-out my "O" and put a "W"
10) At countless dive bars, "Do you mind if I guess where you're from?"
"It costs a dollar."
Is this a phenomenon that brown hairds experience frequently?
I know this shit happens to other people.
No really, I didn't, but I listened to that song a lot (thanks again, Lauren).
Here's the truth, I was walking out of publix today when a man stopped me and said, "Excuse me, where are you from?"
"...Here? I live down the street..."
"No, I mean... you look like you're from the Islands... I'm from Barbados and you look like you're from Barbados, I was just wondering if you were."
"No... no, sorry."
I would like to know, 1) How this is an appropriate thing to say to a stranger. 2) What, specifically, someone from Barbados looks like, and 3) Why does this happen to me all the time?
So, to all my ethnically ambiguous brothers and sisters, the top ten most racist things people have said to me. All of these, mind you, are entirely unprovoked.
1)While walking by my desk, a coworker stopped and commented, loudly, "...So what are you like... bi-racial or something?"
2) While I was playing the xylophone with her child, "Would you be willing to nanny? I'm looking for someone who will speak Spanish to her."
3) While working guest services at an American Indian heritage site, "So, did they hire you because you're Apalachee?"
4) 10 seconds after walking into dollar general, "Excuse me, miss? Can you follow me?"
"Oh, um... sure."
"I need you to explain to this woman that the balloons are $1 each, not $1 for the bouquet."
"..."
"She doesn't speak English"
"Yeah, I only speak English"
5)At a Starbucks: "Hi. Can you translate something for me? I want to get 'honor' tattooed on my calf in Hebrew, and I want to make sure I spelled it correctly."
"..."
"You're Israeli, right?"
6) Friend of my sister: "I didn't realize you were sisters! I mean, you look so... ethnic."
7) Customer at Steak-n-Shake, "Are you naturally brown like that? Or do you tan?"
8)Hairstylist, "I mean... I have just never seen hair this texture before. What are you supposed to do with it?" (Disclaimer- I have regular ass brown hair. It's not even that effing curly)
9) While getting fingerprinted for a job, "What does "O" under race/ ethnicity mean?"
"Other. I'm bi-racial, and that's not an option, so I put other."
"Well, you look white to me. So today you're white."
Then she whited-out my "O" and put a "W"
10) At countless dive bars, "Do you mind if I guess where you're from?"
"It costs a dollar."
Is this a phenomenon that brown hairds experience frequently?
I know this shit happens to other people.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Scummer camp
I've been working in summer camps for entirely too long.
Always day camps. Not jewish sleep away camps in the Catskills. Not happy heavens in the Appalachians, nor ranches in Texas. No, these camps are not Camp Firewood. Ugg and Donkeylips play no part. This is not the Bar None Dude ranch, sorry Melody.
This is science camp. This is archaeology camp. This is aftercare at the YMCA. This is a half step above Vacation Bible School. If you're lucky, this is Circus camp (but you had to be one of 25 kids that lived in PCB for 7 weeks during the summer of 2008 before Don Hamrick, better known as "That SOB Don Hamrick" decided to ruin all of our lives). If you're REALLY lucky, this is Callaway Gardens, and you're from Louisiana, and you're about to get schooled.
So, in honor of all those impressionable children I and a great many others have (hopefully) left marks (scars?) on- the top 10 funniest things kids have ever said to me, in no particular order:
1) "You know, ants do feel pretty interesting when you pet them."
2) "I ate sand once. I didn't like the taste, but it had a nice crunch."
3) Teacher: "Does anyone know kind of animal a possum is? It starts with an M...."
Child: "MENSTRUATION!"
Other child: "They get killed in the road because sometimes they're in their brother"
4) Adult: "Why are you punching yourself in the face?"
Child: "To protect my nose."
Adult: "How does that protect your nose?"
Child: "You know... in case killer bees attack. Like, if I get my nose used to the pain it won't hurt as much."
5) Child: "I'm a mermaid."
Adult: "Sweet, can I be a mermaid, too?"
Child: "No, I'm the last mermaid."
Adult: "What happened to all the other mermaids?"
Child: "You didn't know? Hitler killed them. In World War II. He didn't like the color of their fins and they weren't blonde."
6) "Be still, ball! I'll rearrange your spleen!"
7) "When I get nervous, I get a funny feeling in my special luggage!"
8) "Once I saw two owls making out."
9) "I wish I could bite my back!"
10) "Whispers fight fire"
And an extra special bonus, just an important thing I would like ya'll to know:
"Baby puppies are not like baby lions"
Summer's not over, and there's plenty more where those came from, so stick around for another installment. That's right, we're doing this VH1-style.
Always day camps. Not jewish sleep away camps in the Catskills. Not happy heavens in the Appalachians, nor ranches in Texas. No, these camps are not Camp Firewood. Ugg and Donkeylips play no part. This is not the Bar None Dude ranch, sorry Melody.
This is science camp. This is archaeology camp. This is aftercare at the YMCA. This is a half step above Vacation Bible School. If you're lucky, this is Circus camp (but you had to be one of 25 kids that lived in PCB for 7 weeks during the summer of 2008 before Don Hamrick, better known as "That SOB Don Hamrick" decided to ruin all of our lives). If you're REALLY lucky, this is Callaway Gardens, and you're from Louisiana, and you're about to get schooled.
So, in honor of all those impressionable children I and a great many others have (hopefully) left marks (scars?) on- the top 10 funniest things kids have ever said to me, in no particular order:
1) "You know, ants do feel pretty interesting when you pet them."
2) "I ate sand once. I didn't like the taste, but it had a nice crunch."
3) Teacher: "Does anyone know kind of animal a possum is? It starts with an M...."
Child: "MENSTRUATION!"
Other child: "They get killed in the road because sometimes they're in their brother"
4) Adult: "Why are you punching yourself in the face?"
Child: "To protect my nose."
Adult: "How does that protect your nose?"
Child: "You know... in case killer bees attack. Like, if I get my nose used to the pain it won't hurt as much."
5) Child: "I'm a mermaid."
Adult: "Sweet, can I be a mermaid, too?"
Child: "No, I'm the last mermaid."
Adult: "What happened to all the other mermaids?"
Child: "You didn't know? Hitler killed them. In World War II. He didn't like the color of their fins and they weren't blonde."
6) "Be still, ball! I'll rearrange your spleen!"
7) "When I get nervous, I get a funny feeling in my special luggage!"
8) "Once I saw two owls making out."
9) "I wish I could bite my back!"
10) "Whispers fight fire"
And an extra special bonus, just an important thing I would like ya'll to know:
"Baby puppies are not like baby lions"
Summer's not over, and there's plenty more where those came from, so stick around for another installment. That's right, we're doing this VH1-style.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
oh nine, so fine
So you probably want to know about the aforementioned best new years eve ever, right?
New Years Eve 2008... 2009? It was turning into 2009, so whatever that means.
I was at the tail end of a 3 month lease with a lovely artist from Marin County. I was subletting her son's room in her cutesy little Mill Valley (Tam Junction, to be exact. That's right, eat your heart out, Kerouac) townhome. Move out day was January 1, 2009. I was to move in to another sublet on Ocean Beach. (For those of you who have been following- I finally made it into the city!!!)
Mill Valley is known for stroller moms, overpriced coffee, and obscure film festivals. There's also a fair amount of runaway hippies living in the woods. It is not known for fun things twenty-somethings can do in their free time.
Enter my first real friend in the Bay Area. Sonja was a Marin County native, and I loved her instantly. We laughed a lot at work, and we hung out sometimes in San Rafael, the hippest digs in the North Yay.
Naturally, I headed up to San Rafael for New Years', expecting an early boring night because New Years' Eve is amatuer night at the club and it always blows chunks.
After a preliminary brew at a friend's unreasonably messy apartment we began the walk down to 4th street, where the only agreeable bar was. (is? probably)
On the way, we passed an apartment that normal people would have walked by as they jokingly said, "Man! They're having a party in there! We should see if we can crash it!"
Spoiler alert! We left that party at 5 am.
Andrew, our ringleader, opened the door of this townhouse to a rousing chorus of Salsa music and laughter and cheering. We were hastily ushered inside and fed stereotypes like burritos and tequila.
We spent several hours salsa dancing and shooting back tequila before I realized... there is no way I'm ever leaving this party.
No one there spoke English. None of us spoke Spanish. who... cares?
That's when they started gambling.
"Oh, no, I don't have any money... thank you"
"Here, take! I pay for you to play!"
"Oh no, no. Really, I don't know how to play or anything."
"Take the dollar, you play, I show you."
Every time someone bet out, someone else would put money into their hands. Never any more than a dollar bill. It was just a giant circle of circulating money that never ended, because it was impossible to loose.
FOUR HOURS LATER:
The game was clearly never going to end.
How are these people still gambling? I have no freakin idea what's going on. I somehow have made $50, lost $78, gained it back, and lost it all again. I never put any of my own money on this table.
How much money is on the table?
What...is...happening?
I walked away with $20, and the phone number of a man who called me "Sausalito Anna" and was going to teach me how to salsa "like a real Mexican".
Sonja and I left the party at 5 am. The rest of our group soldiered on.
A few days later at work I learned that one of the girls walked away with $250. Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of other people's money that they had no objection to random strangers who didn't speak their language taking.
Wait... what?
New Years Eve 2008... 2009? It was turning into 2009, so whatever that means.
I was at the tail end of a 3 month lease with a lovely artist from Marin County. I was subletting her son's room in her cutesy little Mill Valley (Tam Junction, to be exact. That's right, eat your heart out, Kerouac) townhome. Move out day was January 1, 2009. I was to move in to another sublet on Ocean Beach. (For those of you who have been following- I finally made it into the city!!!)
Mill Valley is known for stroller moms, overpriced coffee, and obscure film festivals. There's also a fair amount of runaway hippies living in the woods. It is not known for fun things twenty-somethings can do in their free time.
Enter my first real friend in the Bay Area. Sonja was a Marin County native, and I loved her instantly. We laughed a lot at work, and we hung out sometimes in San Rafael, the hippest digs in the North Yay.
Naturally, I headed up to San Rafael for New Years', expecting an early boring night because New Years' Eve is amatuer night at the club and it always blows chunks.
After a preliminary brew at a friend's unreasonably messy apartment we began the walk down to 4th street, where the only agreeable bar was. (is? probably)
On the way, we passed an apartment that normal people would have walked by as they jokingly said, "Man! They're having a party in there! We should see if we can crash it!"
Spoiler alert! We left that party at 5 am.
Andrew, our ringleader, opened the door of this townhouse to a rousing chorus of Salsa music and laughter and cheering. We were hastily ushered inside and fed stereotypes like burritos and tequila.
We spent several hours salsa dancing and shooting back tequila before I realized... there is no way I'm ever leaving this party.
No one there spoke English. None of us spoke Spanish. who... cares?
That's when they started gambling.
"Oh, no, I don't have any money... thank you"
"Here, take! I pay for you to play!"
"Oh no, no. Really, I don't know how to play or anything."
"Take the dollar, you play, I show you."
Every time someone bet out, someone else would put money into their hands. Never any more than a dollar bill. It was just a giant circle of circulating money that never ended, because it was impossible to loose.
FOUR HOURS LATER:
The game was clearly never going to end.
How are these people still gambling? I have no freakin idea what's going on. I somehow have made $50, lost $78, gained it back, and lost it all again. I never put any of my own money on this table.
How much money is on the table?
What...is...happening?
I walked away with $20, and the phone number of a man who called me "Sausalito Anna" and was going to teach me how to salsa "like a real Mexican".
Sonja and I left the party at 5 am. The rest of our group soldiered on.
A few days later at work I learned that one of the girls walked away with $250. Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of other people's money that they had no objection to random strangers who didn't speak their language taking.
Wait... what?
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Harlem Renaissance
No, the car wasn't stolen or on cinder blocks. No, we didn't get stabbed or mugged. In fact, we didn't see anyone or anything of note in Harlem at all.
Where we did see something of note was that day in Times Square.
Surprised?
While waiting in line for last minute, discount, student TKTS to 42nd Street, Lindsay and I darted a few blocks away to go to the bank.
We were intersected by at least 600 men, dressed to varying degree and aunthenticity as...
Santa Claus.
If you're from New York, or watch the Today Show or anything like that you probably know about the Santa Marathon.
I didn't.
Naturally, we joined them for a short while, until a particularly overweight and avant-garde (read: unclothed) Santa showered us with candy of many varieties while kissing us and exhuberantly wishing us a Merry Christmas.
Enraptured, we skipped back toward our group.
INTERCEPTION!
This time... jews? A cult? A jew cult?. Naturally.
"REPENT! THE TIME IS NEAR! THE PROPHECY KING MOSCHIACH IS UPON US!"
Now, I admire anyone who is of such great faith that they preach to the unwilling and caustic masses. But after being assaulted by the Big Gay Al of Santa Clauses, it was admittedly hilarious.
We walked off with a pamphlet, and a haze of confusion storming around our heads.
A haze which was broken by Christmas Carolers. Giving out religious tracts? The crazy kind of religious tracts that expel women as lecherous demons and remind you that celebrating Christmas makes you a pagan nonbeliever who deserves your place rotting with Judas? I didn't stick around to see what exactly they were signging about, but I took some literature. *See earlier note.
I mean, all that happened in like.. 15 minutes.
After 3 days we decided we were grossly underprepared for New York, and also we had only booked the hotel for 2 nights. At sun-down we headed back to Tallahassee via Asheville.
Five years later I returned to New York City with my sister, her two BFFs, and my BFF for the second best New Year's Eve ever. (A holiday which is never fun, because it is always ruined by amatuers) While we missed Ludacris, Cristina, and Meatloaf in concert, we were kissed by every single person in Red's bar in Queens. We even finally got to eat some real fuuuucken brooklyn pizza. And salsa dance? Probably. We definetly shared a bed in a flat in Queens with the best cat I've ever met.
Where we did see something of note was that day in Times Square.
Surprised?
While waiting in line for last minute, discount, student TKTS to 42nd Street, Lindsay and I darted a few blocks away to go to the bank.
We were intersected by at least 600 men, dressed to varying degree and aunthenticity as...
Santa Claus.
If you're from New York, or watch the Today Show or anything like that you probably know about the Santa Marathon.
I didn't.
Naturally, we joined them for a short while, until a particularly overweight and avant-garde (read: unclothed) Santa showered us with candy of many varieties while kissing us and exhuberantly wishing us a Merry Christmas.
Enraptured, we skipped back toward our group.
INTERCEPTION!
This time... jews? A cult? A jew cult?. Naturally.
"REPENT! THE TIME IS NEAR! THE PROPHECY KING MOSCHIACH IS UPON US!"
Now, I admire anyone who is of such great faith that they preach to the unwilling and caustic masses. But after being assaulted by the Big Gay Al of Santa Clauses, it was admittedly hilarious.
We walked off with a pamphlet, and a haze of confusion storming around our heads.
A haze which was broken by Christmas Carolers. Giving out religious tracts? The crazy kind of religious tracts that expel women as lecherous demons and remind you that celebrating Christmas makes you a pagan nonbeliever who deserves your place rotting with Judas? I didn't stick around to see what exactly they were signging about, but I took some literature. *See earlier note.
I mean, all that happened in like.. 15 minutes.
After 3 days we decided we were grossly underprepared for New York, and also we had only booked the hotel for 2 nights. At sun-down we headed back to Tallahassee via Asheville.
Five years later I returned to New York City with my sister, her two BFFs, and my BFF for the second best New Year's Eve ever. (A holiday which is never fun, because it is always ruined by amatuers) While we missed Ludacris, Cristina, and Meatloaf in concert, we were kissed by every single person in Red's bar in Queens. We even finally got to eat some real fuuuucken brooklyn pizza. And salsa dance? Probably. We definetly shared a bed in a flat in Queens with the best cat I've ever met.
New Jerk
As a native of the sixth borough of New York, which is Ft. Lauderdale, I've come in to contact with my fair share of crazed... yankees?
(Note: I heard recently that "yankee" historically only refers to folks from New England, and that it was only after the Civil War when Southerners began referring to everyone north of the Mason Dixon line as malicious life stealers that the term migrated to include Staten Island. Which means Babe Ruth and all of his proteges are really just big liars. )
Let's be honest here, everything above North Carolina is all a blur.
You know what? Having said all that, my friends from New York can actually stop reading now. I'm not trying to get stabbed.
With that in mind, my best friends and I decided the day after finals was the perfect day for a road trip to see some snow. While we're at it- lets just go all the way to New York City. It's not that far, right? NYC at Christmastime?! What a dream! Five girls in a car? What a great idea! We'll switch off driving and make it there overnight! We'll stay in Hoboken! Frank Sinatra! How romantic!
Lindsay was born in New York so she was delegated (without her consent and probably without her knowledge) as the ringleader. She would brandish us with her street smarts! This plan is flawless!
Emily, Cristina, and I all grew up on the beaches of Florida. I didn't even own a sweater. To me, Tallahassee was as cold as I'd ever been, so New York City in December couldn't possibly be that much colder, right?
WRONG.
We left after our collective last final, piling into a car after dark and making our way to Courtney's home in Asheville, NC.
I mean, it was only 8 hours out of the way.
I'm not sure if it's necessary to mention at this point that we were Freshmen in college. Did that already come across? It should have.
We spent the... day? night? Whatever. We slept at her house and got back into the car after dark the next night. We checked in to an Econolodge in Hoboken, NJ at 11 am. Right on time!
Get on the ferry and lets get to romancin!
HOLY SHIT IT IS SO COLD OUTSIDE
I wore all of my clothing the whole trip. That was three pair of JEANS, four long sleeved shirts, and a... sweater? Hoodie? Whatever it was, it was absolutely not warm enough.
And that was before it started raining!
We darted into Macy's 5th Avenue, which was an absolute holiday dreamland. Until we crashed out and fell asleep on the couches.
Five girls, ragged and dirty from having driven all night, wet and dressed like homeless sheep, lumbered into Macys and fell asleep in the home section.
And no one bothered us. Macy's was not even phased.
We woke up and stumbled over to a nearby coffee shop just to get our hands on something warm before deciding to check out some reeeaaall fucken Brooklyn pizza. But not in Brooklyn. yet.
We touted around Times Square, saw the lights of Broadway, the giant tree at Rockefeller center, watched couples ice skate in the rain! Who cares about the weather! We were newly rested, a little bit of rain couldn't stop us!
And so at around 2 am, we decided it was time to head back to the Ferry and book it to Hoboken.
Instead, we had a Subway adventure. Not the restaurant! Silly.
Around 2:30 am, when we still had not reached our desired location, we prepared to exit the train and regroup. Remember when you were a kid, and your folks called you in to the room and gave you that look that made your heart sink all the way to your b-hole? That's how I felt exiting the station. I mean, New York isn't known for any sort of cleanliness (sorry, Guiliani- you did your best), but there was something exxxtra dirrty about this.
Seeing this look in my eyes, an uncharactaristically dapper young man stopped us in our tracks.
"You must be lost."
"No, no, we're fine... we've got it under control. We're just... switching... trains?"
"Where are you staying"
Ashamed, we offered up.
"I want you to cross the street and go down into the other station. Take that train to whatever stop, and then take the next train back to the ferry. Do not look at anyone, stay tight in a group, and move quickly."
DONE, SIR.
No, I don't know where we ended up. It made some pre-hipster white dude in a fedora sktech out. It was probably just Brooklyn, but on the not yet gentrified side. I DON'T CARE. None of us wanted to be there.
The next day, Lindsay decided to drive into the city. She was from New York! She could handle the pressure! She knew where we could park safely all day!
Here's how the conversation went the next night:
"Hi... we're a little lost. We're just looking for our car, we parked on xth and xxth"
"YOU MEAN HARLEM?!?!"
Tune in next week!
(Note: I heard recently that "yankee" historically only refers to folks from New England, and that it was only after the Civil War when Southerners began referring to everyone north of the Mason Dixon line as malicious life stealers that the term migrated to include Staten Island. Which means Babe Ruth and all of his proteges are really just big liars. )
Let's be honest here, everything above North Carolina is all a blur.
You know what? Having said all that, my friends from New York can actually stop reading now. I'm not trying to get stabbed.
With that in mind, my best friends and I decided the day after finals was the perfect day for a road trip to see some snow. While we're at it- lets just go all the way to New York City. It's not that far, right? NYC at Christmastime?! What a dream! Five girls in a car? What a great idea! We'll switch off driving and make it there overnight! We'll stay in Hoboken! Frank Sinatra! How romantic!
Lindsay was born in New York so she was delegated (without her consent and probably without her knowledge) as the ringleader. She would brandish us with her street smarts! This plan is flawless!
Emily, Cristina, and I all grew up on the beaches of Florida. I didn't even own a sweater. To me, Tallahassee was as cold as I'd ever been, so New York City in December couldn't possibly be that much colder, right?
WRONG.
We left after our collective last final, piling into a car after dark and making our way to Courtney's home in Asheville, NC.
I mean, it was only 8 hours out of the way.
I'm not sure if it's necessary to mention at this point that we were Freshmen in college. Did that already come across? It should have.
We spent the... day? night? Whatever. We slept at her house and got back into the car after dark the next night. We checked in to an Econolodge in Hoboken, NJ at 11 am. Right on time!
Get on the ferry and lets get to romancin!
HOLY SHIT IT IS SO COLD OUTSIDE
I wore all of my clothing the whole trip. That was three pair of JEANS, four long sleeved shirts, and a... sweater? Hoodie? Whatever it was, it was absolutely not warm enough.
And that was before it started raining!
We darted into Macy's 5th Avenue, which was an absolute holiday dreamland. Until we crashed out and fell asleep on the couches.
Five girls, ragged and dirty from having driven all night, wet and dressed like homeless sheep, lumbered into Macys and fell asleep in the home section.
And no one bothered us. Macy's was not even phased.
We woke up and stumbled over to a nearby coffee shop just to get our hands on something warm before deciding to check out some reeeaaall fucken Brooklyn pizza. But not in Brooklyn. yet.
We touted around Times Square, saw the lights of Broadway, the giant tree at Rockefeller center, watched couples ice skate in the rain! Who cares about the weather! We were newly rested, a little bit of rain couldn't stop us!
And so at around 2 am, we decided it was time to head back to the Ferry and book it to Hoboken.
Instead, we had a Subway adventure. Not the restaurant! Silly.
Around 2:30 am, when we still had not reached our desired location, we prepared to exit the train and regroup. Remember when you were a kid, and your folks called you in to the room and gave you that look that made your heart sink all the way to your b-hole? That's how I felt exiting the station. I mean, New York isn't known for any sort of cleanliness (sorry, Guiliani- you did your best), but there was something exxxtra dirrty about this.
Seeing this look in my eyes, an uncharactaristically dapper young man stopped us in our tracks.
"You must be lost."
"No, no, we're fine... we've got it under control. We're just... switching... trains?"
"Where are you staying"
Ashamed, we offered up.
"I want you to cross the street and go down into the other station. Take that train to whatever stop, and then take the next train back to the ferry. Do not look at anyone, stay tight in a group, and move quickly."
DONE, SIR.
No, I don't know where we ended up. It made some pre-hipster white dude in a fedora sktech out. It was probably just Brooklyn, but on the not yet gentrified side. I DON'T CARE. None of us wanted to be there.
The next day, Lindsay decided to drive into the city. She was from New York! She could handle the pressure! She knew where we could park safely all day!
Here's how the conversation went the next night:
"Hi... we're a little lost. We're just looking for our car, we parked on xth and xxth"
"YOU MEAN HARLEM?!?!"
Tune in next week!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
All of the women in Marin County eat their young
That's an acutal line from an actual song I heard a homeless man singing on the ferry dock in Sausalito.
This story takes place in that very harbor.
Sausalito, CA is a beautiful little town who's residents are consistently ready to tell you is "much more European and progressive than the rest of the country". It sits right on San Francisco bay, looks directly across to the city, Angel Island, and Alcatraz. Just a hop over the Golden Gate Bridge, it is peppered with adorable cafe's and quaint shops that sell overpriced pastries and surrealistic sculptures of anthropomorphized animals. Oh, and tourists.
They also do not have any public transportation into the city, because then the poor people would come over. But they won't tell you that.
There is exactly one homeless person in Sausalito, and his name is Bo, and everyone knows him. They keep him around for the same reason they hire hispanic nannies, listen to hip hop (not rap! fuck you, that's too mainstream.), and eat with chopsticks.
But this is the Bay Area! Home of dissention from the man and all that other bullshit hippies stood for! Enter Gate 6, the houseboat cooperative(you read that right) where all the real hippies live. Of course, I wanted to live there.
So I met a dude who lived on a sailboat in Sausalito Harbor. Not quite gate 6, but after nearly a month without a consistent or guaranteed place to sleep, my hair was looking particularly terrible and my pants smelled like peanut butter and old cheese. $400 a month for a bed on a sailboat?! I'll take it!
Jerry was in his early 50s, and seemed nice enough. Mostly, he was willing to let me sleep in a bed, consistently, every night, for really cheap. I would have a shelf and full access to the microwave for food, and a half of a cabinet for my belongings. I would get the captains cabin, and he would sleep in the sitting area. The bed came with a parking spot and a key to the shower/bathroom which was on the dock.
Also, I couldn't tell anyone where I lived because no one was supposed to be living on the boats, but he had an arrangement with the dockmaster.
Oh, yeah, that all sounds totally reasonable. When can I move in?
I paid Jerry a $100 cash deposit (I was to pay him the rest in the morning when the bank opened, as he would only take cash and not a check- no red flag there) and we sat on deck of the sailboat for a few hours while he regaled me with stories of his youth, and I told him all of my youthful goals and aspirations. Jerry then took me on a walking tour of Sausalito, introducing me to various notable locals. Jerry seemed legit, and I was mostly excited about sleeping in a real bed that night! With sheets that I didn't have to return in the morning! And I would be guaranteed a bed for the next night! And the one after that!
I left Jerry to treat myself to a celebratory brew on Rodeo Beach.
As I mulled over my exciting new living prospect, I realized... I was going to be essentially sharing a room and all of my living space with a 50 some year old sailor who would only take rent payments in cash. Also, I was living there illegaly, as was he. Also, it was a 400 square foot sailboat. Also, it was a sailboat.
I don't watch a whole lot of slasher porn, but I feel like that's a pretty good beggining.
*ring ring* "Hi, Marin Headlands hostel? Do you have an open bed tonight?"
I called Jerry and told him that I found a more suitable housing prospect (LIE), but that I enjoyed his company and would love to meet for tea or a glass of wine in Sausalito some day. And also that I would like my $100 deposit back.
Shockingly, I never heard back from Jerry
When I got into my car to go to work the next morning, there was a note attached:
"Lady from Miami with the big eyebrows,
I am sorry I don't remember your name. Are you still looking for a place to live? I am looking to rent a room in my house in Mill Valley. I want to rent to someone with a Mini Cooper.
<phone number>, Mario"
Draw your own conclusions to that gem.
This story takes place in that very harbor.
Sausalito, CA is a beautiful little town who's residents are consistently ready to tell you is "much more European and progressive than the rest of the country". It sits right on San Francisco bay, looks directly across to the city, Angel Island, and Alcatraz. Just a hop over the Golden Gate Bridge, it is peppered with adorable cafe's and quaint shops that sell overpriced pastries and surrealistic sculptures of anthropomorphized animals. Oh, and tourists.
They also do not have any public transportation into the city, because then the poor people would come over. But they won't tell you that.
There is exactly one homeless person in Sausalito, and his name is Bo, and everyone knows him. They keep him around for the same reason they hire hispanic nannies, listen to hip hop (not rap! fuck you, that's too mainstream.), and eat with chopsticks.
But this is the Bay Area! Home of dissention from the man and all that other bullshit hippies stood for! Enter Gate 6, the houseboat cooperative(you read that right) where all the real hippies live. Of course, I wanted to live there.
So I met a dude who lived on a sailboat in Sausalito Harbor. Not quite gate 6, but after nearly a month without a consistent or guaranteed place to sleep, my hair was looking particularly terrible and my pants smelled like peanut butter and old cheese. $400 a month for a bed on a sailboat?! I'll take it!
Jerry was in his early 50s, and seemed nice enough. Mostly, he was willing to let me sleep in a bed, consistently, every night, for really cheap. I would have a shelf and full access to the microwave for food, and a half of a cabinet for my belongings. I would get the captains cabin, and he would sleep in the sitting area. The bed came with a parking spot and a key to the shower/bathroom which was on the dock.
Also, I couldn't tell anyone where I lived because no one was supposed to be living on the boats, but he had an arrangement with the dockmaster.
Oh, yeah, that all sounds totally reasonable. When can I move in?
I paid Jerry a $100 cash deposit (I was to pay him the rest in the morning when the bank opened, as he would only take cash and not a check- no red flag there) and we sat on deck of the sailboat for a few hours while he regaled me with stories of his youth, and I told him all of my youthful goals and aspirations. Jerry then took me on a walking tour of Sausalito, introducing me to various notable locals. Jerry seemed legit, and I was mostly excited about sleeping in a real bed that night! With sheets that I didn't have to return in the morning! And I would be guaranteed a bed for the next night! And the one after that!
I left Jerry to treat myself to a celebratory brew on Rodeo Beach.
As I mulled over my exciting new living prospect, I realized... I was going to be essentially sharing a room and all of my living space with a 50 some year old sailor who would only take rent payments in cash. Also, I was living there illegaly, as was he. Also, it was a 400 square foot sailboat. Also, it was a sailboat.
I don't watch a whole lot of slasher porn, but I feel like that's a pretty good beggining.
*ring ring* "Hi, Marin Headlands hostel? Do you have an open bed tonight?"
I called Jerry and told him that I found a more suitable housing prospect (LIE), but that I enjoyed his company and would love to meet for tea or a glass of wine in Sausalito some day. And also that I would like my $100 deposit back.
Shockingly, I never heard back from Jerry
When I got into my car to go to work the next morning, there was a note attached:
"Lady from Miami with the big eyebrows,
I am sorry I don't remember your name. Are you still looking for a place to live? I am looking to rent a room in my house in Mill Valley. I want to rent to someone with a Mini Cooper.
<phone number>, Mario"
Draw your own conclusions to that gem.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
hostile hostel part II
For the newcomers:
I'm terrible at planning and moved to San Francisco back in 2008 without a clue, and without a home. After a few days at the impeccably weird Marin Headlands Hostel, I found a two night cancellation at the Pacific Tradewinds hostel in the city. It was right in the middle of Chinatown! Score! My body was alive with excitement! I was living in the city now, just like I had planned! I was unstoppable!
STOP.
I won't bore you with the fiasco of finding a safe place to store my car which was loaded with all of my earthly possessions on the streets of San Francisco's Chinatown, which is famous for dirty restaurants, street trinkets, and David Lo Pan, and NOT for safe places to be alone after dark.
If there is one critical thing SF is lacking, its space. Humans, restaurants, brothels, bodegas, and the like are crammed haphazardly into increasingly tiny places for exorbitantly large amounts of money. The Pacific Tradewinds hostel is no different.
It consists of two floors, the first being a common room situation with a kitchen and sitting area, the second being a long hallway of sleeping decks with no separation betwixt them all, and huge locking rubbermaid containers to store your belongings in. Weird, but not overwhelmingly so. It's a hostel, it's in the heart of the city, I'm destined for greatness and I don't give a shit about whether or not some dude can watch me sleep or use a boxcutter to steal the only pair of jeans I own.
The man at the check in desk is an unreasonably attractive New Zealander ( I KNOW!) who explains to me the ins and outs of places I should avoid while looking for permanent housing.
Did I mention that whilst hostel hopping I was actually looking for a place to live and also had started my new full time job? Well, I was.
Fatigued, frustrated, a little more than depressed, definitely weirded out, but somehow still intoxicated with the romance of it all, I plopped down on the couch to dine on an extravagant meal of peanut butter and saltine crackers (my only source of sustenance for the past week and a half, it would continue to get me through for at least another month). I met a lovely German girl who was learning English, and had been instructed to read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" as part of her lessons. Have you read it? If you have, you know it's a terrible way to learn English. If you haven't, congratulations, that's a good 72 hours of life you have that the rest of us don't. Trying to explain religious allusions and the complexities behind the beginnings of the American Civil War to a German foreign exchange student was about as much fun as it sounds, so we gave up and asked hot New Zealand man to suggest something better to do.
A group of upstanding young gentlemen invited us on their pilgrimage to a bar around the corner called "Shanghai Kelly's". Racism is still funny! But only to me.
What do you need to know? The bouncer at Shanghai Kelly's is a 6 foot tall transvestite with a baseball bat and platform heels that Elton John would lose it over.
Welcome to San Francisco, you made it, girl.
I stayed at Pac tradewinds for the one other night before miraculously finding an opening at the fancy hostel in fishermans' wharf. For the next 5 or 6 days I was able to sneak in on a cancellation every morning and enjoyed their free parking, continental breakfast, social gatherings, and rooms with doors.
After that I moved to the Green Tortoise, back in North Beach/ Chinatown for two nights before resigning back to the Marin Headlands Hostel where I stayed for another week or so.
At this point, I was smelly, exhausted, lonely, and frustrated, and jumped at the first successful housing offer that came my way. Hint: it lasted 3 hours.
To be continued!
I'm terrible at planning and moved to San Francisco back in 2008 without a clue, and without a home. After a few days at the impeccably weird Marin Headlands Hostel, I found a two night cancellation at the Pacific Tradewinds hostel in the city. It was right in the middle of Chinatown! Score! My body was alive with excitement! I was living in the city now, just like I had planned! I was unstoppable!
STOP.
I won't bore you with the fiasco of finding a safe place to store my car which was loaded with all of my earthly possessions on the streets of San Francisco's Chinatown, which is famous for dirty restaurants, street trinkets, and David Lo Pan, and NOT for safe places to be alone after dark.
If there is one critical thing SF is lacking, its space. Humans, restaurants, brothels, bodegas, and the like are crammed haphazardly into increasingly tiny places for exorbitantly large amounts of money. The Pacific Tradewinds hostel is no different.
It consists of two floors, the first being a common room situation with a kitchen and sitting area, the second being a long hallway of sleeping decks with no separation betwixt them all, and huge locking rubbermaid containers to store your belongings in. Weird, but not overwhelmingly so. It's a hostel, it's in the heart of the city, I'm destined for greatness and I don't give a shit about whether or not some dude can watch me sleep or use a boxcutter to steal the only pair of jeans I own.
The man at the check in desk is an unreasonably attractive New Zealander ( I KNOW!) who explains to me the ins and outs of places I should avoid while looking for permanent housing.
Did I mention that whilst hostel hopping I was actually looking for a place to live and also had started my new full time job? Well, I was.
Fatigued, frustrated, a little more than depressed, definitely weirded out, but somehow still intoxicated with the romance of it all, I plopped down on the couch to dine on an extravagant meal of peanut butter and saltine crackers (my only source of sustenance for the past week and a half, it would continue to get me through for at least another month). I met a lovely German girl who was learning English, and had been instructed to read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" as part of her lessons. Have you read it? If you have, you know it's a terrible way to learn English. If you haven't, congratulations, that's a good 72 hours of life you have that the rest of us don't. Trying to explain religious allusions and the complexities behind the beginnings of the American Civil War to a German foreign exchange student was about as much fun as it sounds, so we gave up and asked hot New Zealand man to suggest something better to do.
A group of upstanding young gentlemen invited us on their pilgrimage to a bar around the corner called "Shanghai Kelly's". Racism is still funny! But only to me.
What do you need to know? The bouncer at Shanghai Kelly's is a 6 foot tall transvestite with a baseball bat and platform heels that Elton John would lose it over.
Welcome to San Francisco, you made it, girl.
I stayed at Pac tradewinds for the one other night before miraculously finding an opening at the fancy hostel in fishermans' wharf. For the next 5 or 6 days I was able to sneak in on a cancellation every morning and enjoyed their free parking, continental breakfast, social gatherings, and rooms with doors.
After that I moved to the Green Tortoise, back in North Beach/ Chinatown for two nights before resigning back to the Marin Headlands Hostel where I stayed for another week or so.
At this point, I was smelly, exhausted, lonely, and frustrated, and jumped at the first successful housing offer that came my way. Hint: it lasted 3 hours.
To be continued!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
when the lights go down in the city
shit gets gnarly.
As I graduated college and discovered the world was my oyster, I met a unique and fascinating woman who took a risk and hired me over the phone for a job 3,000 miles away. She was (and is) so compelling I got in my tiny blue car and drove to San Francisco, California for a job I really knew pretty much nothing about, because I wanted to be friends with this person and all of her wacky San Franciscan staff.
That all was eventually met with great success, and ended in two incredibly fun and happy years, in spite of the insufferably bad weather of the pacific northwest.
That's not the funny part.
Job in hand, I packed all of my clothing (two whole suitcases because I'm terrible at being a woman) and a single box of "treasures" into my mini cooper and set forth in the pursuit of manifest destiny. I figured I would stay in hostels for a few nights until I found a sublet to rent- this was a big city with ample housing, or so I assumed from the plethora of listings in Craigslist.
One week later I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and pulled up to the stoop of the only hostel I had bothered to research, and hadn't even bothered to make a reservation at. Mistake #1. Surprisingly, the nicest and least expensive youth hostel (in the best part of town) in the summer in San Francisco was all booked up for the next week. Nice work, college grad. The lovely people at Fisherman's Wharf hostel handed me a list of other hostels in town that might have room. NO DICE, save one which was in an area of town labeled "Tenderloin"
If you've been to SF, I need go no further.
If you haven't, my explicit instructions from aforementioned mentor for newcomers to the bay were thus, "Just avoid anything that says "Tenderloin" or "Theater Disctrict". Call me and you can stay on my couch, but do not stay in that part of town." Not wanting to impose on my new friend before I even met her, I was defeated on my very first venture into adulthood.
Enter Mario, a chipper biciclyst (spelling?) who turned out to be a more than a little weird. But he rescued me on this day by telling me there was a naught often used hostel just on the other side of the Golden Gate in the Marin Headlands. Hold back the waterworks! Things are turning up! There were a mere 3 people staying in the Marin Headlands Hostel that night. I made a weeks' worth of reservations, and Mario cycled off. (don't worry, he comes back)
Night one at the hostel went off without a hitch. There was only one other woman there, an elderly adventurer who went to bed early and awoke before dawn.
Night two, I met my two other hostel mates. Devon was in his mid twenties, an oddly shaped new-zealander who had flown into Anchorage, AK, bought a car, and was making his way across the USA. He had a trunk full of microbrewed beers and wore chacos and cargo shorts. Christopher was from SoCal, probably a tri-althlete, and was primarily interested in showing off his pecs, drinking said microbrews, and coordinating a midnight hike through the headlands to the point bonita lighthouse. (Side note- this was really, very far away. And it was freezing outside)
Other side note- this was a dry hostel, and as it turns out, with good reason.
Travelers alike, we three made dinner and laughed and told stories of our adventures. I lamented over missing my opportunity at the fancy hostel, and regaled them with stories of its luxuries- continental breakfast in the morning, proximity to the bus line, group activities... a sauna. I WAS JOKING. No hostel ever has a fucking sauna.
Didn't matter. Christopher (who had begun to partake in those warm ass trunk beers Devon willing or not) declared, "This is a nice- ass hostel (It was). We deserve a fucking sauna." He sheperded us into the men's room where he intended to run all the showers on hot so we would continue our soiree in a sauna. It was hella cold, and we thought, "what the heck- this can't get that weird."
Big mistake, because apparently in LA "ghetto co-ed bathroom stall steam room" means "everyone wants to see me naked".
I mean, I guess we deserved it. After about 5 minutes of joke-telling and wasting water in the men's room, Christopher dropped trou and started dancing like a madman. It was like a trainwreck, except that by the time we realized we were staring slack-jawed at his junk, we exited the room laughing so hard we had to hold each other up. (Decidedly not how you should react to a train-wreck, and also not to a naked dude)
You think that would discourage a man.
NOPE
Devon and I decide this calls for a microbrew, because the only option at this point is to catch up (an objective we never reach). We retreat to the sitting room and start playing trivial pursuit or catchphrase or something.
"Hey, the hot water ran out. ...pause... WHY ARE YOU GUYS SITTING OUT THERE IN THE COLD? IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE SAUNA, LETS START THE FIREPLACE."
"Um... I just... there isn't any staff here and I don't think they want us to start any fires."
(New Zealand accent) "Also, you still aren't wearing any pants."
Christopher looks down. "Yeah... we should hike to point bonita. If I put on pants will you hike to point bonita?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
This went on for a good 15 minutes before Christopher returned to the men's room to clothe himself.
Needless to say, with the discovery we were not hiking to point bonita, those pants came right back off.
Oh and he started the fire.
Epilogue:
I followed Devon every time he went the bathroom, lest I be let alone with DJ Exhibitionist. Okay, it was only one time before he declared Christopher and I were both very weird, even for Americans, and it was time for him to go to bed.
I'm not sure what ever happened to Christopher or his pants, but I hope they made it to point bonita.
As I graduated college and discovered the world was my oyster, I met a unique and fascinating woman who took a risk and hired me over the phone for a job 3,000 miles away. She was (and is) so compelling I got in my tiny blue car and drove to San Francisco, California for a job I really knew pretty much nothing about, because I wanted to be friends with this person and all of her wacky San Franciscan staff.
That all was eventually met with great success, and ended in two incredibly fun and happy years, in spite of the insufferably bad weather of the pacific northwest.
That's not the funny part.
Job in hand, I packed all of my clothing (two whole suitcases because I'm terrible at being a woman) and a single box of "treasures" into my mini cooper and set forth in the pursuit of manifest destiny. I figured I would stay in hostels for a few nights until I found a sublet to rent- this was a big city with ample housing, or so I assumed from the plethora of listings in Craigslist.
One week later I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and pulled up to the stoop of the only hostel I had bothered to research, and hadn't even bothered to make a reservation at. Mistake #1. Surprisingly, the nicest and least expensive youth hostel (in the best part of town) in the summer in San Francisco was all booked up for the next week. Nice work, college grad. The lovely people at Fisherman's Wharf hostel handed me a list of other hostels in town that might have room. NO DICE, save one which was in an area of town labeled "Tenderloin"
If you've been to SF, I need go no further.
If you haven't, my explicit instructions from aforementioned mentor for newcomers to the bay were thus, "Just avoid anything that says "Tenderloin" or "Theater Disctrict". Call me and you can stay on my couch, but do not stay in that part of town." Not wanting to impose on my new friend before I even met her, I was defeated on my very first venture into adulthood.
Enter Mario, a chipper biciclyst (spelling?) who turned out to be a more than a little weird. But he rescued me on this day by telling me there was a naught often used hostel just on the other side of the Golden Gate in the Marin Headlands. Hold back the waterworks! Things are turning up! There were a mere 3 people staying in the Marin Headlands Hostel that night. I made a weeks' worth of reservations, and Mario cycled off. (don't worry, he comes back)
Night one at the hostel went off without a hitch. There was only one other woman there, an elderly adventurer who went to bed early and awoke before dawn.
Night two, I met my two other hostel mates. Devon was in his mid twenties, an oddly shaped new-zealander who had flown into Anchorage, AK, bought a car, and was making his way across the USA. He had a trunk full of microbrewed beers and wore chacos and cargo shorts. Christopher was from SoCal, probably a tri-althlete, and was primarily interested in showing off his pecs, drinking said microbrews, and coordinating a midnight hike through the headlands to the point bonita lighthouse. (Side note- this was really, very far away. And it was freezing outside)
Other side note- this was a dry hostel, and as it turns out, with good reason.
Travelers alike, we three made dinner and laughed and told stories of our adventures. I lamented over missing my opportunity at the fancy hostel, and regaled them with stories of its luxuries- continental breakfast in the morning, proximity to the bus line, group activities... a sauna. I WAS JOKING. No hostel ever has a fucking sauna.
Didn't matter. Christopher (who had begun to partake in those warm ass trunk beers Devon willing or not) declared, "This is a nice- ass hostel (It was). We deserve a fucking sauna." He sheperded us into the men's room where he intended to run all the showers on hot so we would continue our soiree in a sauna. It was hella cold, and we thought, "what the heck- this can't get that weird."
Big mistake, because apparently in LA "ghetto co-ed bathroom stall steam room" means "everyone wants to see me naked".
I mean, I guess we deserved it. After about 5 minutes of joke-telling and wasting water in the men's room, Christopher dropped trou and started dancing like a madman. It was like a trainwreck, except that by the time we realized we were staring slack-jawed at his junk, we exited the room laughing so hard we had to hold each other up. (Decidedly not how you should react to a train-wreck, and also not to a naked dude)
You think that would discourage a man.
NOPE
Devon and I decide this calls for a microbrew, because the only option at this point is to catch up (an objective we never reach). We retreat to the sitting room and start playing trivial pursuit or catchphrase or something.
"Hey, the hot water ran out. ...pause... WHY ARE YOU GUYS SITTING OUT THERE IN THE COLD? IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE SAUNA, LETS START THE FIREPLACE."
"Um... I just... there isn't any staff here and I don't think they want us to start any fires."
(New Zealand accent) "Also, you still aren't wearing any pants."
Christopher looks down. "Yeah... we should hike to point bonita. If I put on pants will you hike to point bonita?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
This went on for a good 15 minutes before Christopher returned to the men's room to clothe himself.
Needless to say, with the discovery we were not hiking to point bonita, those pants came right back off.
Oh and he started the fire.
Epilogue:
I followed Devon every time he went the bathroom, lest I be let alone with DJ Exhibitionist. Okay, it was only one time before he declared Christopher and I were both very weird, even for Americans, and it was time for him to go to bed.
I'm not sure what ever happened to Christopher or his pants, but I hope they made it to point bonita.
View of the Golden Gate Bridge from the Marin Headlands
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sorellone
I have a little sister. I have never thought of her as a little sister, probably because she has always been cooler than me. She is also talented, funny, smart, snarky, adventurous, brave, intuitive, and all the other adjectives you want to be when you grow up. She's also a badass, and a roustabout. Oh and she's really, really pretty. Except for her fat neck.
Because the story of my adventures and misadventures wouldn't be complete without properly introducing her, my next post will backtrack a few weeks along my Italian adventure.
For anyone who was ever in their early twenties, traveling abroad held a great deal of meaning- a chance to renew, to learn about the world, to find yourself, to find anything. For those of us lucky enough to do it, we were determined to come back somehow more whole. At the very least, we were determined to come back with a great story to show for it.
Lara had funded her grand european adventure to take place as a backpacking trip with her best friend, a golden hearted, shaggy haired nomad who had an uncle living in Switzerland. As per usual, his very getting to the airport involved shenanigans of the highest decree- a carpool of perambulatory hippies, a flat tire, lost baggage, found baggage, etc. The die had been cast.
The two of them separated for two weeks while he joined his sister in Scotland, and Lara joined me in Venice. With very limited knowledge of Italian betwixt the two of us, short on funding, and high on hopes- our grand adventure was a two- week whirlwind of delicious food, museums, bodegas, alleys, haggling for stamps, and trying to figure out the train system.
Did I mention my sister is very pretty? The kind of all-american, apple pie pretty you only see in music videos and tv shows from the early 80s when righteous hair and daisy dukes were whats up. The kind of pretty European men go ga ga over.
We were sitting on the edge of a canal, eating a pizza from our favorite stand when a dashingly handsome blonde sailor pulled up to the shore in a gondola.
"Ciao, bella. Sei Americana?"
Blushingly... "Si...si."
"Oh, good! Mi chiamo Alejandro. Come with me, I will give you a ride."
"Oh, thank you so much, but we can't afford it." (Gondola rides in Venice cost upwards of $90 for a 1/2 hour)
"No, there is no charge for you. You are too pretty for a charge."
Blushingly..."You are very kind, but we really have no money. We can't pay you anything."
"I tell you this. I will give you a ride in exchange for one kiss from you."
SOLD
Alejandro helps us down off the embankment and into his gondola, sweeping us under bridges and through the canals of Venice. He stops a few times along the way to brag to his friends, all the while charming us with stories of Italy, and how he became a Gondolier. He speaks five languages, has lived all over Europe, and Lara and I are giddy with excitement.
Our chauffer stops at one point and exclaims, "Alright. It is time for my kiss now." So seester follows his lead as he takes her hand and leads her up to his perch on the back.
It was like a movie star kiss. You know that famous picture of the sailor kissing the nurse in Times Square? He brushed her hair back and almost doubled her over, planting one right on her mouth.
He tasted like cigarettes. (Forrest Gump...eh? eh? No one actually said that on this afternoon.)
I believe he actually tasted like roses and a little bit of sweat. So maybe just as gross.
A few minutes later, he dropped us off where we began, a million thank yous spewing from both our mouths and his.
As I've said before, it helps to travel with other vagabonds. It is even more fun if your traveling partner has brass balls and the insane confidence of Crazy Horse.
Because the story of my adventures and misadventures wouldn't be complete without properly introducing her, my next post will backtrack a few weeks along my Italian adventure.
For anyone who was ever in their early twenties, traveling abroad held a great deal of meaning- a chance to renew, to learn about the world, to find yourself, to find anything. For those of us lucky enough to do it, we were determined to come back somehow more whole. At the very least, we were determined to come back with a great story to show for it.
Lara had funded her grand european adventure to take place as a backpacking trip with her best friend, a golden hearted, shaggy haired nomad who had an uncle living in Switzerland. As per usual, his very getting to the airport involved shenanigans of the highest decree- a carpool of perambulatory hippies, a flat tire, lost baggage, found baggage, etc. The die had been cast.
The two of them separated for two weeks while he joined his sister in Scotland, and Lara joined me in Venice. With very limited knowledge of Italian betwixt the two of us, short on funding, and high on hopes- our grand adventure was a two- week whirlwind of delicious food, museums, bodegas, alleys, haggling for stamps, and trying to figure out the train system.
Did I mention my sister is very pretty? The kind of all-american, apple pie pretty you only see in music videos and tv shows from the early 80s when righteous hair and daisy dukes were whats up. The kind of pretty European men go ga ga over.
We were sitting on the edge of a canal, eating a pizza from our favorite stand when a dashingly handsome blonde sailor pulled up to the shore in a gondola.
"Ciao, bella. Sei Americana?"
Blushingly... "Si...si."
"Oh, good! Mi chiamo Alejandro. Come with me, I will give you a ride."
"Oh, thank you so much, but we can't afford it." (Gondola rides in Venice cost upwards of $90 for a 1/2 hour)
"No, there is no charge for you. You are too pretty for a charge."
Blushingly..."You are very kind, but we really have no money. We can't pay you anything."
"I tell you this. I will give you a ride in exchange for one kiss from you."
SOLD
Alejandro helps us down off the embankment and into his gondola, sweeping us under bridges and through the canals of Venice. He stops a few times along the way to brag to his friends, all the while charming us with stories of Italy, and how he became a Gondolier. He speaks five languages, has lived all over Europe, and Lara and I are giddy with excitement.
Our chauffer stops at one point and exclaims, "Alright. It is time for my kiss now." So seester follows his lead as he takes her hand and leads her up to his perch on the back.
It was like a movie star kiss. You know that famous picture of the sailor kissing the nurse in Times Square? He brushed her hair back and almost doubled her over, planting one right on her mouth.
He tasted like cigarettes. (Forrest Gump...eh? eh? No one actually said that on this afternoon.)
I believe he actually tasted like roses and a little bit of sweat. So maybe just as gross.
A few minutes later, he dropped us off where we began, a million thank yous spewing from both our mouths and his.
As I've said before, it helps to travel with other vagabonds. It is even more fun if your traveling partner has brass balls and the insane confidence of Crazy Horse.
Friday, May 6, 2011
One time I ate horse, and maybe joined the mafia.
Here's the thing about traveling with hippies and vagabonds. We can't possibly be satisfied with getting a hotel (or hostel, I went to college, too), gallavanting around the city, maybe getting a drink at a local dive and asking a respectable looking citizen (usually a cop) where you can get the best street food. No, we insist on getting lost in the jewish ghetto, renting an apartment with two crazy stoners who don't speak english, and convincing the city bus driver to take us 45 minutes out of town so that we can get hammered on the beach with a bunch of strangers, all under the guise of going to language school so that you can tell your faculty advisor back in Tallahassee you didn't totally obliterate his advice of spending the semester studying art history in Florence.
When traveling abroad you either are these vagabonding roustabouts, or you meet them, or hopefully both.
While studying language in the tiny southern town of Lecce, Italy I befriended a great number of Ohioans who were a great asset to me largely because the citizens of Lecce took interest in their amble busoms and blonde locks, and left me to begging for sparkly trinkets and leftover pastries with the rest of the gypsies and vagrants. I'm still great friends with a few of these beauties (the vagrants and hippies), and spend an unholy amount of my time on facebook being jealous of their glamourous, employed lifestyles. Because they actually went to class and were motivated and intelligent. Lots of love, ladies!
Unfortunately, I fell out of touch with the perpetrator of this story. A lovely blond from Akron, Ohio, she had, naturally, started dating one of the local citizens who owned either an art studio or a wine shop. When the subject of cuisine came up one night, he was taken aback when we admitted to never having eaten horse before, because we're american and don't eat animals that star in sitcoms. He promptly told us he would take us out to dinner and we were to meet him at 72 Via Carlucci (or something) at 9 pm for an early dinner. Italians sleep until 11, wake up and eat and yell at each other, take a nap from 2-5, then start their business at 6 pm, retiring for the night at 4 am.
We met Marcello in front of a huge, wooden door with wrought iron handles at about 9:45 because only Americans and maybe the English are ever on time for anything. He knocked thrice on the door when a large, bushy man who looked like Hagrid, or maybe Brutus (from Popeye not Caeser) cracked the door. "Ciao, Marcello. Chi sono?"
"Amici, amici. La mia ragazza e una amica. Possiamo?"
"Si, si, si. Si puo."
Don't speak Italian? Neither did I, so don't worry about it.
We gingerly walk through Hagrid's living room, you know, like you do when you have to know a secret password to get into the house of fuckin Don Corleone. Around the corner, through the dining room, into the kitchen and... oh, good, there's a stairwell in the pantry.
Up the stairs to another door.
knock knock knock.
"Ciao, ciao Marcello. Benevenuti, ragazze."
"Benvenut...o? Grazie?"
"Per favore, vieni vieni."
"Gra...zie?"
Through the parlor, around the corner, and into the dining room, Donica and I try not to touch anything or make eye contact. Marcello has not said a word to us since we arrived at Sonny Red's hideaway.
Upon arrival in the dining room, we are seated and our five course meal is begun. Italians do not mix entrees or flavors, despite what the Olive Garden would have you believe. Salad and bread is served entirely separate from soup, which is served before pasta, which is served before meat, which is followed only by dessert. You are to finish each course before the display of the next, lest everyone at the table laugh and make fun of you for watching "The Godfather" too many times. Stupid American.
It was in this manner that each of us was presented with our fourth course, a steaming plate of horse chunks covered in red sauce, and no bread to sop it up or make me feel like I wasn't eating Mr. Ed.
Honestly, I've always been an adventurous eater, and not squeamish at all, but horse just wasn't for me. It was freakishly tender and you know what, I have seen "The Godfather" too many times. movie reference, eh? get it? eh?
But the Tiramisu was out of this world.
The company and conversation was pleasant if not weird. We tried our best to communicate and laugh at each other's cultures. And bonus- we left from a secret exit at 4 am which was at least 6 blocks from where we started. Also, the next night Marcello took us to Mare di Castro, a nearby coastal city, to swim in the Adriatic sea at midnight and dine on Octopus, which has since become one of my favorite foods.
When traveling abroad you either are these vagabonding roustabouts, or you meet them, or hopefully both.
While studying language in the tiny southern town of Lecce, Italy I befriended a great number of Ohioans who were a great asset to me largely because the citizens of Lecce took interest in their amble busoms and blonde locks, and left me to begging for sparkly trinkets and leftover pastries with the rest of the gypsies and vagrants. I'm still great friends with a few of these beauties (the vagrants and hippies), and spend an unholy amount of my time on facebook being jealous of their glamourous, employed lifestyles. Because they actually went to class and were motivated and intelligent. Lots of love, ladies!
Unfortunately, I fell out of touch with the perpetrator of this story. A lovely blond from Akron, Ohio, she had, naturally, started dating one of the local citizens who owned either an art studio or a wine shop. When the subject of cuisine came up one night, he was taken aback when we admitted to never having eaten horse before, because we're american and don't eat animals that star in sitcoms. He promptly told us he would take us out to dinner and we were to meet him at 72 Via Carlucci (or something) at 9 pm for an early dinner. Italians sleep until 11, wake up and eat and yell at each other, take a nap from 2-5, then start their business at 6 pm, retiring for the night at 4 am.
We met Marcello in front of a huge, wooden door with wrought iron handles at about 9:45 because only Americans and maybe the English are ever on time for anything. He knocked thrice on the door when a large, bushy man who looked like Hagrid, or maybe Brutus (from Popeye not Caeser) cracked the door. "Ciao, Marcello. Chi sono?"
"Amici, amici. La mia ragazza e una amica. Possiamo?"
"Si, si, si. Si puo."
Don't speak Italian? Neither did I, so don't worry about it.
We gingerly walk through Hagrid's living room, you know, like you do when you have to know a secret password to get into the house of fuckin Don Corleone. Around the corner, through the dining room, into the kitchen and... oh, good, there's a stairwell in the pantry.
Up the stairs to another door.
knock knock knock.
"Ciao, ciao Marcello. Benevenuti, ragazze."
"Benvenut...o? Grazie?"
"Per favore, vieni vieni."
"Gra...zie?"
Through the parlor, around the corner, and into the dining room, Donica and I try not to touch anything or make eye contact. Marcello has not said a word to us since we arrived at Sonny Red's hideaway.
Upon arrival in the dining room, we are seated and our five course meal is begun. Italians do not mix entrees or flavors, despite what the Olive Garden would have you believe. Salad and bread is served entirely separate from soup, which is served before pasta, which is served before meat, which is followed only by dessert. You are to finish each course before the display of the next, lest everyone at the table laugh and make fun of you for watching "The Godfather" too many times. Stupid American.
It was in this manner that each of us was presented with our fourth course, a steaming plate of horse chunks covered in red sauce, and no bread to sop it up or make me feel like I wasn't eating Mr. Ed.
Honestly, I've always been an adventurous eater, and not squeamish at all, but horse just wasn't for me. It was freakishly tender and you know what, I have seen "The Godfather" too many times. movie reference, eh? get it? eh?
But the Tiramisu was out of this world.
The company and conversation was pleasant if not weird. We tried our best to communicate and laugh at each other's cultures. And bonus- we left from a secret exit at 4 am which was at least 6 blocks from where we started. Also, the next night Marcello took us to Mare di Castro, a nearby coastal city, to swim in the Adriatic sea at midnight and dine on Octopus, which has since become one of my favorite foods.
Probably not the door we went through, but a nice one nonetheless.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
...it starts
For those of you who never played "The Lion King" on SNES- get out of my blog.
I've been reading a lot of memoirs lately. Thanks a lot for yet another obsession, Lauren. Thusly, I have decided that funny things happen to me and I should have a place to chronicle said events.
I used to have a LiveJournal, so I'm pretty expert at this blog business. Also, I have a lot of free time because I'm employed by a nonprofit monster who swears 23 hours a week is more than enough to live on/ finish all your work. wrong.
Here's my favorite joke:
What's brown and sticky?
A Stick!
There's more where that came from so don't worry.
So, basically, I'll dedicate this weblog to recounting stories of the weird and wonderful people I've met along the way. This is including but not limited to: homeless john, shabu the healer of fears, star wars cop, and dave the professional zombie.
Props to Maurice Sendak for writing a book that I was convinced was about my sister and years later realized was actually about me. Parts of it... the middle part anyways. (That is a reference to the title of my gournal for those of you who don't dedicate hours and hours of your day to reading childrens' literature)
I've been reading a lot of memoirs lately. Thanks a lot for yet another obsession, Lauren. Thusly, I have decided that funny things happen to me and I should have a place to chronicle said events.
I used to have a LiveJournal, so I'm pretty expert at this blog business. Also, I have a lot of free time because I'm employed by a nonprofit monster who swears 23 hours a week is more than enough to live on/ finish all your work. wrong.
Here's my favorite joke:
What's brown and sticky?
A Stick!
There's more where that came from so don't worry.
So, basically, I'll dedicate this weblog to recounting stories of the weird and wonderful people I've met along the way. This is including but not limited to: homeless john, shabu the healer of fears, star wars cop, and dave the professional zombie.
Props to Maurice Sendak for writing a book that I was convinced was about my sister and years later realized was actually about me. Parts of it... the middle part anyways. (That is a reference to the title of my gournal for those of you who don't dedicate hours and hours of your day to reading childrens' literature)
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)