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My Peanut Story. (It’s Not You — It’s Definitely Me.)

“But that moment when I first hit the keys to spell out THE END was epochal. I remember rolling the last page out and adding it to the stack that was the finished manuscript. Nobody knew I was done. Nobody cared. But I knew. I felt like a dragon I’d been fighting all my life had just dropped dead at my feet and gasped out its last sulfuric breath.

Rest in peace, motherfucker.

Next morning I went over to Paul’s for coffee and told him I had finished. ‘Good for you,’ he said without looking up. ‘Start the next one today.'”

-Steven Pressfield, The War of Art (also author of The Legend of Bagger Vance)

I think it’s safe to say that over the past several years, I’ve been systematically working through a series of physical and mental exercises designed to fine-tune my focus on what it is I should be doing with myself.

I think I’ve always known, but it’s odd. It’s odd how I’ve managed to avoid it for so long.

My friend Catherine from Simply Solo once wrote about Peanut Stories.

What?

Peanut stories. The term comes from a book she read, Plan B by Jonathan Tropper, in which a troubled adolescent girl can attribute the point her life took a negative turn to the time she was a toddler who nearly choked to death on a peanut she found on the floor. Apparently the scolding lectures from the doctors at the hospital were enough to render her mother incapable thereafter of any “real” parenting for fear she was inadequate and unfit in her role, so the girl started acting out as a deliberate-though-subconscious way of encouraging her mother to take notice.

It was her peanut story.

An exact point she can attribute to a changed path.

Of course, we all have them. Every major (and sometimes not so major) decision we make could potentially become a peanut story. Should I go to college? If so, which one? Should I steal this lipstick? Should I swallow this pill? Should I order the steak or the fish? Which one is less likely to cause a bout of food poisoning that will land me in the hospital for a week and cause me to lose my job and my house and become an embittered waitress at a Waffle House?

These things happen.

But really, I think the term “peanut story” should be reserved for the times when you are truly responsible for the choice that you made — for that imperceptible mental shift — the slightest click of an errant gear — that drives you to make the wrong decision. The choice that goes against your nature.

The choice that changes your nature.

I used to think my peanut story was the time I quit college. I was halfway through my sophomore year, fully immersing myself in the independent partying, experimenting, educational scene that encompasses a tiny liberal arts college in the midwestern hills, when I made the choice. After enduring daily phone calls with my 16-year-old sister who was caught in the midst of our parents’ divorce, I made the decision to pack up my Tracker and leave. I was too far away. She needed me.

And it’s true. Those moments – the tearful goodbyes with friends and professors, the haggling with financial aid advisors and dropout paperwork, the waiting for my dad to drive out with a trailer and help hit rewind on my life – were altering. They made me harder. Weary.

It was the moment I realized my parents were human.

But it’s not my peanut story.

I realize now that I was exactly myself when I made that decision. I know that although it altered the course of my life — ultimately leading to a month-long road trip around the western United States which birthed my love of travel, a first-hand account of the ugliness that can absorb two people who once said “I do,” the meeting of the man who would one day become my husband, and the eventual completion of the Bachelor of Science I don’t use today — it was a course that needed to be taken.

Rocky, potholed, and much, much harder than Botany 101.

But it had to be done.

It had to be lived.

And so that’s not my peanut story.

My peanut story is this:

Before I left college, the terribly expensive college my parents insisted I attend, my father and I struck a deal. He would pay for the debt I’d accrued the past year-and-a-half — a substantial amount despite my half-tuition merit scholarship — and I would be responsible for any educational debt I obtained thereafter. Fair enough. Life happened. Years passed. I moved home, worked, counseled, cajoled, parented, traveled, fixed watches, waited tables, rented a room in a tiny apartment, and otherwise floated on in a haze of directionless unattachment. I grew up and down. Became an adult before I was ready, responsible for things I shouldn’t have been responsible for, and relishing my lack of encumbrance for anything to do with my own personal development. I met Justin. He pulled me from the haze and moved me to Georgia. I made friends. I learned how to be in a relationship. I finished school. Married. Moved to North Carolina. Bought a house. The day I called my dad to tell him we were closing on our first home is the day he told me I was inheriting the sixty thousand dollars of debt — plus interest — he hadn’t actually been paying. It was my name, after all, on the loans. And the thing is, he’d paid for my wedding. So generously. The wedding I didn’t even need to get married. Not a word about his ability — or inability — to deal with this. Not a word until I was married, a home-owner, and a newfound contributor of a substantial amount of marital debt. My plans had been to write. We could afford the house on Justin’s income alone, and I would work part-time and write. But this? This required more.

I made the choice.

I knew it wasn’t my right choice. That it went against my nature. That it wasn’t what I wanted.

But a corporate job was what I needed.

It was my debt. My responsibility. And I couldn’t just leave it to Justin to foot the bill.

What I didn’t know was how it would end up affecting me. How it would affect my marriage. How it would turn me — the person who, until a couple of years into it, could absorb the manic-depressive phone calls from the people she loved. Who could deal with the fact that her future stepmother might be younger than her. Who could reflect the Lifetime movie plots of her life like so many little white ping-pong balls because, hey.

Doesn’t everyone have shit to deal with?

But the one thing that was MY decision. That thing I could help. That wrong choice I made to ignore my calling was like a moth in my clothes closet.

Holes, everywhere.

Right through my good humor. My high spirits. My easy laughter. My love.

Its flutter was so quiet — its wings so soft — I didn’t even know it was there.

But now I do. And I can assess the damage with an objective mind.

This thing was my fault. My doing. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway.

I have long-since forgiven my father and mother for the things that make them human. My mother for being depressed, and my father for not having the courage to tell me about his financial situation. They did so many things right when I was a kid. Their biggest mistake was being too selfless. They lost themselves trying to be who we needed them to be. I thank them for making me the woman I am today. And so I don’t tell these stories to drudge up bad feelings or anger or pity because neither of them has fully learned to heal inside.

I tell them because it helps me recognize that we all have a peanut story.

And the bitch about a peanut story is that there’s really only one antagonist.

And it’s not the person you want it to be.

It’s never the person you want it to be.

But knowing that — learning that — makes it possible to change.

To end this one.

To start the next.

This wasn’t an easy one to write. What’s yours?

It Turns Out Luxury Travel Isn’t Just for the Rich and Famous.

Hey.

Let’s talk for a second about luxury travel.

I know — this coming from the girl who once wrote about the superiority of backpacks.

Until recently, I hadn’t had much experience with “luxury” travel.

What do I mean when I say “luxury?” To me, the answer to whether or not you’re traveling in luxury comes down to one simple question:

 

Would you rather sleep in your own bed, or your current travel bed?

 

If your answer is your own bed, then it’s very likely you’ve been resting your head on a lumpy hostel pillow, your back on a friend’s futon, or your body on the plastic cover you bought to place between yourself and the questionable mattress at the Motel 6. You, my friend, have not been traveling in luxury.

However, if your answer is your current travel bed, then congratulations! You’ve experienced the near-nauseating swipe of the credit card that means you’re very likely resting your derrière and other well-deserving body parts on a pressure-pointless Tempur-Pedic mattress, allergen-free faux down pillows, and 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

It will change your life.

See, it used to be that there were 2 things in this world on which I was comfortable splurging: A nice dinner out, or ingredients for a nice dinner in. Other than that, I’m a budget gal, through and through. (Well. Let’s be realistic. I’m not actually organized enough to have a budget. But I do watch our spending, keep a relatively close eye on money coming in and money going out, and never buy things I cannot afford.) Much of the time when Justin and I travel, we try to stay with people we know in order to save a substantial amount of money. The last time we went to Hawaii, we stayed with my extremely generous aunt and uncle on the air mattress on their guest room. When we went to Spain, we stayed with Justin’s extremely generous sister and her boyfriend on the futon in their tiny flat in Malaga. We call it “travel mooching,” and it’s a great way to go if you’re on a budget, have friends in fantastic places, and would rather spend your money on an incredible meal or an interesting piece of art or a jump from a Cessna Caravan.

These things happen.

It’s not that we’re cheap — it’s just that we like being close to family since we live so far away from everyone.

And also we’re cheap.

But when I was planning this trip to the North Carolina mountains, I knew that the point was to relax. Let Justin unwind from Afghanistan. No art hunting, no mountain hiking, no plane jumping. We didn’t even buy tickets to the famous Biltmore Estate, which is apparently the largest home in America. It’s one of those things I’d love to see one day, but the idea of spending over $100 to stand in line for a home tour is something for which I have to psyche myself up — and I’m not going to squeeze it into a 3 day vacation. No way.

Because we wanted an intimate and relaxing experience, I decided it would be a Bed & Breakfast vacation. Justin and I had stayed in a B&B once before, just over 7 years ago, when he proposed to me in St. Augustine, Florida. We were the youngest couple staying there then, and we were still the youngest couple this time around. I’m not sure why this is, except that maybe young, modern couples don’t understand the appeal of a B&B. I’ll save that for another post. Suffice to say, when Andi wrote and told me we should try the Banner Elk Winery & Villa on our way to Asheville, it sealed the deal.

We pulled up to the house, not really knowing what to expect. I’d been in touch with Michelle, one of the wonderful owners, but I knew no one would be there that day because it was Monday, the one day the winery is closed each week, and they don’t have an on-site inn keeper.

It was like a postcard.

Banner Elk Villa

How can I describe to you the tranquility of this place?

The villa itself is perched on a hill at the bottom of a mountain valley. Vineyards drape down its slopes in graceful lines, and the winery sits at the bottom near a pond. Porches and vestibules abound — there is no lack of a cozy nook with a picturesque view.

When some people think of a B&B, they automatically think of stuffy, antique-filled rooms. Untouchable heirlooms. Creaking furniture. Oldness.

And some are like that, I’m sure. But while in the photos many might appear “too fancy” for relaxation, they’re actually designed for comfort. That 100-year-old settee? The comfiest, cushiest, reading sofa you’ve ever experienced. That hammered copper kitchen island? A gathering place for morning coffee. That leopard print entry chair? A conversation-starter, that’s what. These things are meant to be used — that’s why they’ve lasted so long.

This B&B just happened to be the perfect combination of old-world charm and modern comforts. The decor was quirky and comfortable. The atmosphere — soft, jazzy background music, crackling fires, and a well-stocked kitchen was relaxing, to say the least.

We stayed in the more modestly priced Blueberry Suite which, with its grand carved 4 poster bed, insanely comfortable Tempur-Pedic mattress and ultra soft sheets, huge bathroom with jacuzzi tub and multiple shower jets, and panoramic view of the winery and pond, certainly didn’t feel modest.

It felt, I’d say, exactly how I’d want my own home to feel if I had no limit on disposable income.

And that, my friends, is luxury.

They’re lucky we couldn’t fit that bed in the Honda.

A girl could get used to a splurge like this. Pretty soon I’ll be demanding moist towelettes on airplanes and a bowl full of M&M’s — just the green ones — waiting in my hotel suites.

And so it begins.

Private Chef’s Dinner for Two? We Can Now Cross THAT Off The List.

I think we should just take a moment to appreciate something.

House red.

Orzo salad with braised asparagus ti ps and Manchego(?) cheese.

Crab Rangoon in puffed pastry.

Purple potato-encrusted halibut over a bed of swiss chard and pureed parsnips.

Cheesecake with chocolate and pistachios.

Obviously, I appreciated it a little more than you can.

This is what happens when you order a private dinner from Chef Jackie at the Banner Elk Winery and Villa. (It was dark in there for dinner, so please ignore the odd photo lighting.)

We opted for the Chef’s dinner since we knew we wanted the first day of our mini-retreat to be as relaxing as possible. The last thing Justin needed upon his return from Afghanistan was me screaming and grabbing his arm as we negotiated winding mountain roads back to the b&b in the dark after dinner.

I am so glad we splurged. It was very cool watching her cook and enjoying casual conversation while we inhaled course after delicious course.

What better way to spend an evening than with my two best loves — food, and my husband?

Probably in that order.

Kidding.

I think.

Halloween: Pretty Much The Poster Night For Bad Parenting.

Aaaaand, we’re back.

Everything’s back to normal.

Trust me — this is not a good thing.

If you’ve been reading this blog for over a year now (and if you have, wow. Thank you. Sincerely.), you’re probably aware of the fact that I usually face Halloween with a certain amount of trepidation — and not for fear of creepy costumes or scary decorations or eerie soundtracks, but for the future of America.

Last year, however, I had hope. I had hope for the future because of this story (which you really should read).

See, I usually spend the evening perched on my neighbor’s front porch, hiding my alcoholic beverage behind the rails (this year it was mulled cider spiked with Southern Comfort), oohing and aahhing at the adorableness of the tiny people.

A miniature peacock hugged me. Hugged me — the Halloween Grinch. And, just for a while, she melted this icy cold heart of mine.

But then it started happening. The scary stuff. The stuff that makes me fear for our future and wonder — what the hell happened to my generation?

I see it. I see it more and more every year and it haunts me. Parents drive down the darkened streets in minivans — minivans! —  and drop their kids door-to-door, many of whom haven’t even bothered to don costumes. They don’t say, trick-or-treat!, and they certainly don’t say thank you.

I mean, not to sound like the crusty old man on the front porch rocker, but hey — I grew up in Minnesota. My costume was usually hidden beneath a behemoth layer of long johns, snow pants, sweater, jacket, scarf, mittens, and hat, but dammit, it was there.

AND I walked.

In the snow.

Up-hill.

Both ways.

Some of my favorite foggy memories are those of my dad letting go of my bemittened hand so I could run up a sidewalk, yell trick-or-treat with the utmost enthusiasm, graciously thank my benefactor, and reach back for his waiting hand while assessing my latest haul.

If his hand had been, instead, the cold metal handle of the wood-paneled Dodge caravan — his proud smile and flushed cheeks just the back of a headrest and impatient sigh — the memory wouldn’t be special.

It probably wouldn’t even exist.

Don’t you get that, parents?

You are turning every special moment — every chance to bond with your children and your neighbors — into a chore you just need to get through. If you can just check this one thing off the list, you can move to the next.

It’s no wonder we see less and less porch lights every year.

It’s no wonder we see more and more fat, lazy, ungracious children.

You are raising greedy, rude, impatient snobs.

Yep. I said it.

No costumes necessary, I guess. The monster’s already there.

I know. I’m opening myself up to a bit of a backlash, here. But I guarantee you — the only people who might get mad or defensive at what I’ve had to say are the exact people to whom this applies.

Of course there are exceptions — illness, disabilities, houses are really far apart in the country, no money for costumes, etc. But the rest of you? Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember what it was like when your parents just took time? Or when you wished they would just take time? When the night was special and it was just for you? When you saw their smiles and sensed their joy when, just for a night, they let the scheduled task list fall by the wayside so you could have fun? Real fun?

Wheelchair Costume

Who hasn’t seen this photo of the wheelchair costume floating around social media? Why do you think it made so many people smile? I’ll give you a hint: It’s not just because the kid is adorable. It’s not just because his costume kicks ass. It’s because a loving parent took the time to make it for him. The same parent who likely walked with him, from house to house, to fill his jack-o-lantern with goodies. The same parent who probably taught him to say, “trick-or-treat.” The same parent who probably taught him to say, “thank you.” The same parent who probably taught him — and still teaches him — that you have to work for the things you want in this world.

Even though I didn’t see any Central American Revolutionary Fighters this year, there were still some who tried. The younger ones who toddled from house to house or were pushed in strollers and the older ones who ran, elated, across yards and through artificial fog doing their very best impersonations of Superman himself — who yelled and leapt and smiled and took joy in the night — those are the ones who still give me hope.

Who still have a shot at learning how to just be.

Who don’t have to just get.

Who won’t, necessarily, grow up feeling entitled.

Those are the ones who get extra candy. And who probably will, for the rest of their lives, while the others just sit, do nothing, receive nothing, and then wonder why.

Okay, Fall. You Win.

I hate to get all Anthony Bourdain on you (except way nicer and shorter and not quite as pompous but let’s be honest — almost.) by writing one travel post after another and continuously waxing on about the importance of throwing out your itineraries and talking to locals and aimlessly wandering cobblestoned streets with no real plan in mind. (The exception, of course, being dinner reservations. Because food is awesome.)

But the thing is, I have to just go with what I’m feeling. Sometimes it’s painting. Sometimes it’s cooking. And sometimes — most times — it’s travel.

In fact, in an instantaneous and clichéd moment of clarity, I just now realized.

THAT is why I’m domestiphobic.

My love for travel.

While I definitely enjoy some domestic activities — especially those that improve my knowledge of wine, food, photography, turning my home into a comfortable retreat, reading with my husband, playing with my mutts, and wine, I am terrified — terrified — that I will allow these things entrap me in a vortex of stagnancy.

That alluringly hypnotizing momentum of mediocrity.

I don’t want that for myself.

Or my family.

So I write what I feel. And for right now, while I still have some stories and photos to share, it’s travel.

I know this confuses some people. Why do you love it so much? they ask. Don’t you miss your own bed? Your own home? Your closet, your husband (when he’s not with you), your dogs, your ability to relax and unwind?

Of course. Of course I miss these things. All except that last part. Because the thing is, if you haven’t learned to relax and unwind while you travel, I have news for you:

 

you just aren’t doing it right.

 

If you know how to relax, there are plenty of aspects about travel that counterbalance the things you miss, like meeting interesting travelers and locals. Tasting exotic foods. Repeating your tattered, worn-out stories to new and shiny faces. Absorbing foreign sights and sounds and experiences that keep you — your soul — young.

Alive.

Interested in life.

Before heading to Asheville, Justin and I decided to spend a night at a B&B in the town of Banner Elk, NC at the suggestion of Andi, from My Beautiful Adventures. (Seriously. She has a top-rated travel blog, runs her own business, and still has time to council lil’ ol’ me on where I should take my husband to relax upon his return home from Afghanistan. Kind of awesome.)

After a romantic dinner at the villa (more on that in another post) and a coma-like slumber on the most comfortable hotel bed ever (more on that in another post), and a glorious breakfast of mimosas, coffee, blueberry/pomegranate(?) juice (because everyone needs at least 3 beverages with breakfast), eggy toast, bacon, swiss chard/purple potato concoction, home fries, and yogurt with granola and fresh fruit (more on that — well, here:

)

we asked Jackie, our incredible Chef/hostess/innkeeper/overall just awesome person if there was anything else we should do before heading to Asheville. Of course, she said we needed to head to the winery for our complimentary tasting, but since that didn’t open until noon, we should head out to the “high vineyard” to check out the views.

Her instructions were simple: Turn right at the stop sign, stay left at the place where there’s “kind of” a fork in the road, don’t drive off of the winding mountain path for 1-2 miles, turn left at the Christmas tree farm, park along the dirt road, unplug the electric cow fence, climb over the barbed wire, and viola! High vineyard.

Ooookaaayyy….

If the travel mojo has taught me anything, I knew we had to go with it.

And of course, our skepticism exploded all over the inside of Justin’s practical 4-door sedan when we arrived at the high vineyard.

Banner Elk Vineyard

We wanted fall colors? We got fall colors.

Okay. So in the past I know I’ve been guilty of saying I dislike fall. And it’s still true. I mean, I like fall — I like the colors and the fuzzy socks and the crackling fires (well, not-so-much crackling in our case, since ours is gas, but you get the gist). What I don’t like is its implication of impending winter.

The cold. The ice. The lack of sun.

She’s so dreary and boring and long.

Ick.

But.

She does put on a pretty good pre-game show, doesn’t she?

 

(Yes, we brought a tripod to the top of a mountain. Pretty much just your typical day. And yes, I ran back and forth with a timer setting at a high altitude, which is why I look like I’ve been running back and forth with a timer setting at a high altitude. Just to get this picture for you. You’re welcome.)

I can’t tell you how long we lounged there, near the top of the mountain, bathing in the sun and warmth and wondering if the man with the sprawling estate on the next hill over was watching us through telescopes.

Hey.

No place is perfect.

But this one, I think, was pretty damn close.

UPDATE: It would probably be helpful to mention that the place where we stayed in Banner Elk was the Banner Elk Winery & Villa. Highly recommend it. Also, check out a screenshot from today’s webcam:

This is just over a week after our stay. Travel Mojo, man. Dig it.

Travel Tip #257: No Commode Is Too Good for YOUR Derrière.

I don’t know about you, but I’m not a huge fan of public restrooms.

Especially in extra touristy areas.

Although, they’re admittedly worse in some of the not-so-touristy areas, like Bagaces, Costa Rica.

One time I got locked inside the restroom at a bar in Bagaces, which was really only a coffin-like broom closet with no toilet paper and a splintery wooden door and happened to be the only fully enclosed room in the entire bar, but damn it if it wasn’t the best and more secure closed room ever, because the proprietor had to kick the door in with her foot to rescue me from my claustrophobic-induced panic as the walls started caving in around me.

But I digress.

There’s really nothing to do about those kinds of restroom situations except to carry a roll of toilet paper on your person and hope that someone — anyone — can hear you scream.

But there is something you can do about nasty restrooms in many heavily populated, touristy, first-worldy locations — the kind where every single commode is stuffed to the brim with toilet paper (if you’re lucky), bowel contents (if you’re not lucky), or covered in urine because someone was too dainty to sit fully on the seat and ironically has become the very culprit of the crime she was so worried about falling prey to, which, we all know, is sitting in someone else’s piss. So because she was so worried about getting some on herself, she dribbled more than a drunken sailor and worse, didn’t bother to clean it up.

Because she’s too good to wipe her own mess.

Apparently.

And obviously that scenario mostly applies to women, but I’m sure men can relate too, when it comes to the concern of cracking their heads on a porcelain urinal after slipping on an unknown wet floor substance likely deposited by an over-hygienically concerned patron who refuses to touch anything after he washes his hands and streams water across the chipped ceramic tiles as he maneuvers the door open with his elbows, therefore making life much more dangerous for everyone else.

Because these things happen.

And if everyone would just keep their pee in the toilets and the water in the sinks and thoroughly wash their hands like good boys and girls, we really wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.

But again, I digress.

Sometimes there’s something you can do to avoid these public human waste dumping monstrosities all-together.

When my friend Stacy and I were wandering around The River Walk in downtown San Antonio, Texas, we found ourselves in need of a facility. We were, however, on a fairly quiet sector of the walk, away from the bustling restaurants and shops and public restrooms. What was nearby were hotels. Seemingly dozens of high-class, glass-doored, glimmering, shiny, luxurious hotels with back door access to The River Walk.

For some, we could just walk right in.

What? We’re not in a public restroom? We totally thought ALL River Walk restrooms had marble tiles and wicker wastebaskets and totally private stalls. Huh.

For others, we coyly conversed just outside the doors until a Chanel-draped guest exited with her toy poodle (I swear that really happened, although maybe it wasn’t Chanel. Or a poodle.) and we slipped inside before the chance was lost forever.

Solid granite counters, anyone, with an intricate mosaic tile surround? Doubt they had THESE in the public restrooms.

Stacy feeling extra privileged as she enters the molded wood stall.

The thing about hotels is that once you’re inside, no one really dares ask whether or not you belong there.

And most have public restrooms in the lobby or better still, for us, in the finished and rarely occupied lower levels.

And we’re not really doing anything wrong — we’re just peeing, for crying out loud.

I’m sure the hotels would rather we go inside than whip out a shenis (don’t watch video at work) and go on the side of the building like common vagabonds.

I introduced my upscale hotel restroom crashing method to my baffled husband last week when someone — let’s just say it wasn’t me — announced that we’d have to leave the lovely Biltmore Village soon because someone — let’s just say it wasn’t me — had to do something that one would rather not do in a crowded restaurant restroom or other public facility.

Grabbing his hand and hauling him across the street, I whispered, “Act cool — we totally belong here,” as we strolled past the valet and crept in the back door of The Grand Bohemian Hotel.

Grand Bohemian Hotel Asheville

It turns out we didn’t actually have to sneak since this stunning space is very much open to the public with an art gallery, restaurant, and — you guessed it — public restrooms.

Back entry.

Antlered ceiling, anyone?

I’m pretty sure these are the coolest mirrors ever.

I have more photos of this amazing hotel to share with you later, but, lucky for you, this post is specifically dedicated to bathrooms.

So.

The next time you’re wandering around Tourist Land searching for a restroom, head for the hotels instead. I’m pretty sure this is sound — and totally legal — travel advice.

If it’s not, don’t call me from prison. You don’t know me. We never even had this conversation.

I will not take responsibility for your decision to poop in a hotel where you’re not paying to stay.

(But do write and tell me about it so I can amend this little post. Thank you.)

Curate Menu

Mostly The World Is Filled With Good People. You Should Meet Them Sometime.

Well. I’m back.

I didn’t mean to neglect you for the entire week — I really didn’t. But there’s just something about the B&B atmosphere — the bed and breakfastry of it all — that makes one sloggy.

See? Thirty-five words in and I’ve already made up 2 of them.

I even brought a computer along with perfectly good intentions of using it, but I find that when I’m surrounded by food and wine and luxury bedding and fall leaves and wine, I have absolutely zero motivation to turn it on.

Zero. (This image is straight from the iPhone. No filters or instagrammin’ or enhancements. Just pure, unadulterated, vineyardy goodness.)

Plus, we had a full case of Travel Mojo happening, and you don’t interrupt the flow of good TM with trivialities like technology.

Especially when there’s a full case involved.

What?

You’re unfamiliar with Travel Mojo?

Well that could be because I made it up.

In fact, maybe I should trademark that.

And its acronym. So it’d be: TM™.

Awesome.

Anyway.

Travel Mojo is what happens when a trip just has good vibes. You go into it all, hey. Whatever happens, happens. I might make reservations at a couple of restaurants just so we don’t turn into B&B porch lumps and starve to death, but other than that, I’m not going to over plan it.

And you know what happens?

Rainbows and butterflies and fantastic people and complimentary drinks and entire free meals, that’s what.

It’s letting go of the anal schedules and planning and trying to squeeze every possible attraction into an already overstuffed agenda because the thing is, the world is full of wonders.

And trying to see them all will only stress you out.

It’s about kicking off your shoes, enjoying the drive, and sticking your toes into random photos of fall foliage.

It’s about books.

And conversing.

And sometimes just silently admiring a particularly interesting view.

I know.

We’re getting old.

But don’t get me wrong — there was also raucous laughter, swing dancing attempts and inebriated strolls through the city of Asheville.

And the TM was with us then, too.

And while it really was with us the whole time, it culminated on our last evening in Asheville.

See, I actually spent an entire day planning the basic milestones — food and lodging — of this trip before Justin came home from Afghanistan (which for me and my miniscule attention span is remarkable). I’d heard that Asheville is the type of town where you need to make reservations pretty much every night of the week. Many of the restaurants are small, privately owned boutique eateries that concentrate on quality over quantity, so I spent an impressive amount of time just deciding where we should dine.

And the winner for our last night was a place called Cúrate (cu-rah-tay), which apparently means “to cure yourself.”

And that, it did.

They say they serve authentic Spanish style tapas (“small plates”), but having been to Spain and eaten Spanish tapas, I would say the ones at Cúrate are significantly better. By far.

The Chef, Katie Button, quit her prestigious PhD program in Neuroscience (yes, and that’s after earning her master’s from L’Ecole Centrale in Paris, France, and her bachelor’s from Cornell University) in “pursuit of passion, life, and happiness.”

Sounds like my kind of chick.

All of this information is available on the restaurant’s website, but I’d actually read it in a book about North Carolina chefs just down the street from the restaurant while we waited for our reservation, which meant I was super excited when I saw Katie in person. Like, celebrity sighting excited.

I used the Open Table app on my phone to reserve us a place at the bar. (If you’ve never used Open Table to make reservations, you should start immediately. It’s so simple to use.) From there, we could see all of the action because the restaurant’s kitchen actually runs along the back wall of the bar.

We were practically inside it.

Curate Menu

The atmosphere was my favorite — small, energetic, and full of shiny glassware.

 

We ordered many phenomenal dishes:

Butternut squash soup with smoked Spanish paprika.

pimientos de piquillo con queso de cabra

Piquillo peppers stuffed with caña de cabra cheese (my favorite dish).

gambas al ajillo

Sautéed shrimp and sliced garlic.

pincho moruno

Lamb skewers marinated in moorish spices.

berenjenas la taberna

Fried eggplant with honey and rosemary.

Tapas dining is perfect for me because when it comes to menu options, I’m often paralyzed with indecision. But at a tapas restaurant that doesn’t matter, because I can try a bit of everything until I can’t try no mo’.

We were pretty much at that point when I stared talking to one of the couples sitting next to us. In an intimate setting like the one at Cúrate, it’s easy to start commenting on what your neighbors order and from there, strike up a conversation. (If the thought of starting a conversation with strangers terrifies you, start thinking of it the way I do — if they’re rude and unreceptive, they’re not the kind of people I’d enjoy talking to anyway.)

It turned out they were celebrating a birthday, and they ended up sharing their intricate sugar raspberry dessert with us and the couple I’d been talking to on my other side.

Before long, the birthday couple was ordering us more drinks and we ended up having a grand old time — it felt like we’d been friends all along, even though we didn’t even know each others’ names.

Then they were saying goodbye as we wrapped up conversation with the couple on the other side. I snapped a photo, we hugged, and they walked out of the door.

A few minutes later, we asked for our bill.

Server: Can I get you anything else?

Us: No thanks, that was fantastic! Could we please have our ticket?

Server: Um. It’s already been taken care of.

Us: What?

Server: The couple that was next to you. They took care of it.

Us: No, they just bought us drinks. We still have to pay for our food and original bottle of wine.

Server: You’re not getting it. They paid. They picked up your entire tab.

Us: ….

Server: Have a nice night!

Seriously? Speechless.

Maybe they’d had too much to drink and felt overly generous. Maybe they just really liked us. Maybe it was their way of thanking Justin for his military service. Maybe they’re just extraordinarily nice people.

Whatever the reason, we won’t forget them.

The Travel Mojo – it works in mysterious ways.

I actually feared discussing the Mojo because I was afraid that would weaken its power.

But you know what?

I think it’s like most positive forces in the Universe: The more you give, the more you get.

It’s not about hoarding and saving and tucking it away where no one else can see.

It’s about spreading the wealth. Sharing the fortune. Pouring butter over everything and not adding any calories.

If you see this couple, please let me know. Pronto.

Travel Mojo.

It’s energy and smiles.

Can you feel it?

Cúrate on Urbanspoon

What? Kokomo Isn’t A Real Island?

Right now, I’m in the mountains.

Or at least on my way to them.

Not the craggy, hassleback peaks of the Alps or the snow-capped and rugged expanse of the Rockies, but the rolling, layered, ripples of the Appalachians.

Specifically, the Blue Ridge.

Unlike the jaggedly exuberant and youthful Himalayas (they’re still growing, you know), the Appalachians are ancient. Worn. Wrinkled remnants of a continental collision between masses of land that no longer exist. Like so many humans, they shrink with age and their beauty takes on the understated glow of wisdom.

In the summer they’re covered in blankets of green and blue, but in fall? Their famed and fiery warm hues are nationally — and perhaps internationally — renowned.

I can’t wait to see it.

And neither should you.

But right now, you can’t. So in the meantime, take a gander at these juxtaposing images from my 30th birthday celebration in the Florida Keys last week. (My little sister, Kelly, is the beauty with the long blond hair. My bff, Alaina, is the beauty with the short blond hair. I know. I like to surround myself with beautiful people.):

It’s hard to believe. One week I’m riding around a string of tropical islands on a motorized scooter with my new homosexual sugar daddy, and the next I’m facing autumn’s cool mountain beauty, nestled snugly in the warmth of crackling fires, spicy red wine, and a well-known embrace.

Life, when I travel, is difficult to grasp.

And that’s just the way I like it.

Where We Stayed:

Island: Key West
Hotel: Sheraton Suites
Recommendation: I’m not going to lie. I was initially disappointed when my sister Kelly, best friend Alaina and I waited until the last-minute to book a room for a Friday night in Key West because it seemed like all of the great B&B’s near Duval Street (the island’s “main drag”) as well as some of the larger beach hotels were completely booked. But Kelly pulled through with a 2 room suite at the Sharaton. For just shy of $300 for the night (after taxes, fees, and all of that extra hotel jazz), it was an excellent place to stay. The lobby (complete with complimentary virgin mojitos) was chic and welcoming, as was the staff. The outdoor bar was great, and the ‘tender made sure my non-virgin mojitos were very tourist friendly. The room was stunning with 2 queen beds, a pull-out couch, and an exemplary bathroom (granite counters and a tile shower surround). I’ll admit I was baffled by the fact that the hallway outside of our room had the ocean view, but really. Our main purpose for the space was to sleep. And I can guarantee that we probably slept much better there than outside of the crowded bars of Duval. Of course, it was a bit of a drive (5-10 minutes) to get to town, but we had a car and some locals with a free parking space, so it wasn’t too cumbersome. Also, the hotel offers a free shuttle and the phone numbers for cabbies if you don’t care to drive.

Have you ever seen so much cabinetry in a hotel room?

Also. If you can drive from Miami to the keys, do it.

 

Driving across a dotted chain of islands, over a series of bridges and out into the Caribbean ocean is an experience best tried first-hand.

And the thing is, you never know what gems you’ll unearth along the way.

Travel Tip #232: Dress Maybe Not to Impress, But At Least to Get Free Upgrades.

Look.

Until a few years ago, I had pretty much been one of those I’m-going-to-dress-as-comfortably-as-possible-because-I’m-never-going-to-see-any-of-these-strangers-ever-again kinds of people when I was traveling.

It was just… easier.

I’m pretty sure it’s my mother’s fault (love blaming the parents) because I can trace it back to my family’s trip to Disney World when I was 8 years old. My little sister and I had never been on a plane, and for my mother, it was a rare treat. She was so excited that she ran out and bought all 4 of us those zippered nylon track suits in posh color schemes of the late ’80’s — my dad in blue, mom and sister in matching pink, and me, ever the coolest tween (so not), had the best one in all black with splashes of the hottest fuchsia.

At least, that’s the way I remember it.

(Not us. But it could’ve been. source)

We represented the epitome of stereotypical American tourists as we swish-swished down the airport corridors.

I’m pretty sure we wore visors.

And while at the time we honestly thought we were trendy as hell, the truth is that we were dressing purely for comfort. “And the jackets unzip!” my mom explained that morning as she tucked my long-sleeved turtleneck into the pinched elastic waistband of my swishy pants. “So you can easily take it off if you get too warm on the plane.”

Had I been at all in tune with my surroundings that day, the only warmth I would’ve experienced was that of embarrassment as we swish-swished past the besuitted occupants of business class and tucked ourselves safely into coach. Instead, I occupied myself by creating masterpiece drawings in my sketchpad of the wonders I saw outside the airplane window: a network of rectangles depicting farmlands on one page; some puffy clouds — aka. “The Kingdom of the Care Bears” on another page; and a genius blank page in between representing the time we actually flew through the clouds.

Hey. This was pre-camera and my first taste of travel enthusiasm. I worked with what I had.

The thing is, I’ve never been a proponent of doing something solely for the benefit of others.

I mean, hey. If you like that 6-gauge septum ring, then you wear it with all of the pride of the bull that you apparently think you are.

But when traveling? I’ve just learned over the past few years that dressing up, even just a tad, has several more significantly positive aspects than that of well-dressed strangers not wondering if you smell as wrinkly as you look.

For example. I was headed to the middle-of-nowhere North Carolina last Wednesday morning to drop my dogs off at their kennel before driving over an hour in the opposite direction to get to the airport in time to catch my flight to Florida. I’d taken Justin’s car since my beloved Chevy Tracker’s back right tire seemed a little flat and I didn’t think I had time to fill it before I left. So of course, as seems to be the general law when you make a decision that’s supposed to make your life easier, one of Justin’s tires blew when I was 45 minutes away from my house. And when I say “blew,” I mean exploded.

So there I was, on the side of the road with 2 mutts strapped into my back seat, cursing myself for never bothering to learn how to change a tire. It didn’t take long though, as I stood there making phone calls, for a friendly military officer to stop and change it for me.

Now.

I’d like to think he would’ve stopped regardless of what I was wearing, but let’s face it — my airport-ready sweater dress, tall boots, and leather jacket probably didn’t hurt.

And I don’t think it’s just because I’m a woman. I think a well-dressed man looking helpless on the side of the road is more likely to find assistance than someone looking bedraggled. It’s just human nature. Accurate or not, general scruffiness, ball caps, and saggy jeans conjure images of serial killers.

And people don’t tend to stop for serial killers.

Also, I think better dressed people are more likely to get assistance from airport employees. Think about it: They have one of the most under-appreciated jobs in the universe. They show up to work wearing pressed suits, uncomfortable shoes, immaculate hair, and they have to take orders from tourists all day. Have you ever had to work for someone who knew less about the job than you? Now imagine that person showed up to work every day wearing sweat pants and a fanny pack. Would you resent him more, or less?

Point made.

Finally — and this is really the kicker — it turns out that “uncomfortable” dress clothes can actually be more comfortable than “comfy” clothes.

Think about it: Well-worn jeans can be the best if you’re working around your house or your yard or off running errands. They’re industrial, don’t wrinkle, and can wear coffee spills like they’re in style. But for travel? No way. After a couple of hours on that plane, you notice them squeezing in places they never used to squeeze — pinching in places they never used to pinch. You find yourself tucking belly folds of skin back under the waistband and urging them to stay there. And they ride up. They ride up like they’re in some epic race to see which leg can crawl up your butt the fastest, except for when you squeeze yourself into that miniscule airplane restroom. Then? Then you couldn’t pull them up if your life depended on it.

Jeans are no good for travel.

Think dresses. Long or short, depending on the season, in soft wools, light cottons, and other breathable fabrics. If you’re a man, think slacks. Again, soft. Breathable. What’s not comfortable about that?

Think layers. The more you wear, the less you pack. Airplanes can get chilly, so bring that cardigan or jacket on board.

Think comfortable shoes, but not tennis shoes. Unless you wear tennis shoes on a regular basis, don’t even pack ’em. Get yourself a nice pair of flats or boots with chunky heels — something you can wear rushing through terminals if need-be, but will also look nice with that sun dress or those khakis you packed and plan to wear later.

The greatest thing about looking good is feeling good. When I got off the plane in Florida, I was ready to grab some dinner with my sister without stopping to freshen up.

My sister. (Okay. Admittedly, at the Taco Beach Shack in Hollywood, Florida, dressing “up” means putting on a shirt. But whatever.)

And while my pasty northern skin will always give away the fact that I’m no beach local, the dress made me feel good.

Katie Domestiphobia

It also allowed me the room to eat this:

Hey.

Never could’ve happened if I’d been wearing jeans.

 

“Missed” Doesn’t Really Begin To Describe It.

I’d like to think that, aside from the occasional electric dog fence malfunction or memory card stuck in a CD drive debacle, I can mostly handle things around the abode while Justin is deployed.

That is, apparently, up until about 2 weeks prior to his return.

That, my friends, is when normally functioning cogs in this massive network of machinery operating our 1,600 square foot ranch home decide to methodically malfunction, one by one, and end up resembling nothing more than a smoking pile of dead robotic waste by the time he sets foot in the U.S.

Normal people would think this would be great timing.

Normal people would think, Hey — perfect! The modem crapped out and the electric fence blew a fuse and that tire decided to explode just in time for the Man to come home and fix them.

Because tires and modems and electrical thingamajiggers are Man jobs.

But me?

I’m not normal people.

And the timing couldn’t be more horrific.

See, this makes it seem like I couldn’t hold down the Fort. That while he was off in some foreign land doing whatever it is that he does over there, I wasn’t Man enough to hold it together. I couldn’t keep my eye on the prize. I couldn’t grease the wheels and tune the gears and keep everything functioning. I managed for just most of the time, but that was probably a fluke because it all went to shit mere days before his return.

And that, to be perfectly honest, feels like crap.

So instead of being all, Oh hi! So glad you’re home! Here’s a beer! Put your feet up while the chicken bakes and I’ll turn on the fireplace while you pick something to watch on Netflix, I had to be all, Oh hi! So glad you’re home! I’d give you a beer but it all went to skunk when the blown fuse broke the electric fence and stopped the fridge. You can’t watch Netflix because the internet’s down, but feel free to read a book while I run to the store to buy some chicken for that meal you like because I actually thought you were coming home tomorrow — not today — and don’t turn on the fireplace because the propane guy was supposed to come this morning but I had to cancel on account of picking you up because — again — I thought you were coming tomorrow and apparently I suck at everything.

Which actually turned out to be okay because really, there’s only one thing a guy who’s been deployed for 4 months wants, and it ain’t chicken.

And that is probably the strangest thing about a military homecoming. Everyone — and I mean everyone — knows when you’re having sex. And then they call you. Seriously. This happened more than once. And if you pick up the phone, they say, WHY are you picking up the phone?!

Then I say, Oh, didn’t you know? I’m a multitasker. That’s right. A little to the left. So what’s up? I haven’t talked to you since yesterday. Oooh. That’s it.

And then they hang up.

Okay, I made up that last part. But really, I say, He’s been home for 5 hours! Do you REALLY think we’re still having sex? It’s been 4 months. FOUR MONTHS. This ain’t 50 Shades of Grey. Real people need real recovery time. And if you thought we were still having sex, then why are you calling me? Perv.

And then they hang up.

Okay, I don’t say that last part, either.

Really, I just tell them he’s out picking up our takeout pad Thai, and then I listen to the judgmental gasps before I have a chance to explain just why I didn’t buy the damn chicken have a home cooked meal ready for his return and that he’s been craving Thai food for months anyway and you know what? I’m not sure why I picked up the phone, either!

And then they hang up.

Not really.

But the thing is, no one really knows what goes on in a relationship besides the two people who are in it. We might think we have ideas on how others function based on stories they’ve told or semi-candid moments we’ve witnessed, but really.

This is us we’re talking about.

All I know is:

  • The weirdest feeling in the world is getting nervous to see someone you’ve lived with for 9 years.
  • We like Thai food from the little place in the strip mall in Spring Lake, and he hasn’t been able to eat it for 4 months.
  • I’m terrible with computer stuff and electrical stuff and anything involving preparation whatsoever and honestly, if everything had been perfect upon his arrival, he probably would’ve thought I’d been cheating on him.
  • Fires are overrated when you finally get to experience the touch of another person again.
  • Four months. It’s a long time. A long time of worry. A long time without touch. A long time without sex. A long time to get used to a place without the other person in it. To form new habits. To become set in our ways.

And so.

No one else really knows.

No one, except us, knows how much time we should be spending together. How much time we should be spending apart. Or whether or not it’s acceptable that one of us — let’s just say it’s not me — has somehow developed the idea that it’s okay to now pee with the door open.

(it’s not.)

Anyway.

It’s just us.

We’ll figure it out.

And that’s the way I like it.

Here’s a little video I made of his homecoming. It’s called, “Justin’s Homecoming,” or also known as, “You’re Home! Will You Please Weed the Patio?”

Enjoy:

(This was my first foray into internet video making. Yes. Next time I will turn the camera horizontal. Thank you.) :)