Well folks, as Katie mentioned earlier, we made it into Bagaces safe and sound despite our best efforts to get kidnapped and sold on the black market.
We showed up on our host family’s doorstep late Monday night exhausted, sweaty, and smelling like animals at the county fair. And, for some reason, they still let us in. Partly it’s because they’re the nicest people on Earth. And partly it’s because they knew we wouldn’t last an hour out in the Costa Rican wilderness on our own.
There seems to be a vast assortment of wildlife just waiting for a couple of clueless gringas like us to try to befriend it–and, considering my appalling lack of survival instincts, I probably would’ve been mauled by parakeets and lizards by the time I reached the end of their driveway.
Anyway, we’ve been extremely busy since we got here (hence the embarrassing lack of posts from me) getting to know our gracious host family, learning what we’ll be working on while we’re here, scoping out the area, settling into our super-sweet digs, and maintaining a code-red level of alertness for all potentially sting-y/bite-y things.
So busy, in fact, that we haven’t really had time to take any pictures. Gulp.
But we will. And toot-sweet. Promise.
In the meantime, you’ll have to settle for my first impression of Costa Rica, which is: It’s beautiful, humid, breathtaking, unpredictable, buggy, wild, quaint, laidback, green, quiet, noisy, and rugged.
And here Katie and I are, living all up in the mix.
On any given day, we see birds and volcanoes and horses and cows and huge thunderstorms and green fields and dogs and friendly locals in old pick-up trucks who wave and honk hello as they nearly run us off the narrow dirt roads. And that’s just on our mile-long walk to and from work.
Still, by far, the best commute than I’ve ever had.
So apparently we’re a lot more efficient at this travel business than anyone gave us credit for, because we ended up arriving in our host town a bit earlier than our host family expected us. Apparently, they thought we’d get hung up in customs or at the bus station and have to hole up in San Jose for the evening.
But our dirty, sweaty selves made it in record time – thanks to the help of a couple friendly strangers and sheer luck.
We took a cab, plane, another plane, another cab, a bus and finally a truck to get here, but we are here.
After waking up at the ass-crack of dawn this morning (thanks east-coast time zone), we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and cup of excellent coffee overlooking some distant volcanoes, went on a tour of our new small town, were introduced to the other interns and employees here, grocery shopped in a nearby town, ate chicken burritos for lunch, and are finishing up the day doing some office tasks in an attempt to earn our keep.
I promise we will be sharing pictures soon. But I actually have to take some first. There’s been a lot to soak in. And a lot soaked, period. At one point today I thought I could wring out my shirt. And no, it wasn’t raining. But we did witness our first torrential downpour this afternoon, complete with sideways rain, nearby lightning strikes, and about a half-a-dozen mini power outages. No one even blinked.
Today we’re making the seven-hour road trip up to Maryland to see our dear friends Erin and Chuckles. From there, Erin and I will fly to Costa Rica in a couple of days. I’m all packed and ready to go (I think), and all I can do now is sit here twiddling my thumbs waiting for the hubs to get off work.
Work?
I think I’ve forgotten what that is…
All I know is that I’ve managed to squeeze my life into two bags. My entire world, for 2 months, will look like this:
For 2 months, these two bags will function as my closet, bathroom vanity, library, pharmacy, “home” office, and primary source of neck and shoulder pain.
As you can see, I have left no room for souvenirs. That’s why they invented digital photography, memory cards, and the post office.
Packing light is not my forte.
Regardless, how do I feel about the fact that my life has been condensed to a couple of backpacks?
The kind of morning where you awake, bleary-eyed and bewildered as to how you arrived in this bedroom, this body.
The kind where you open your eyes to find your shirt has twisted completely around you, your pajama pantlegs are hitched up past your knees, and your hair has fashioned itself into an intricate network of Sailor’s knots. Your mouth gives off the distinct impression that it spent all night gumming a gym sock like a Werthers Original.
And now you are jonesing for a caffeine fix.
So you sit up, spend a moment orienting yourself to your new vertical-ness, kick off the sheets, swing your knees to the edge and let your feet, Lewis and Clark, scout the way to the kitchen.
But upon arriving at your destination, something’s amiss. You go to scoop some coffee and…
Huh.
You stand there for a moment, unconvinced. Let out a little cough.
Perhaps you’d be more apt to appreciate the dramatic irony of the situation if you were able to fully open your eyes.
Another minute of silent reflection. Then, you start grasping at straws:
You check the coffee machine just to be sure you didn’t already scoop coffee, then suffer a mild stroke that damaged the coffee-scooping short-term memory region of your brain.
Coffee? Are you in there already? Do I need to go to the hospital?
No such luck.
You stand there stupidly in the center of the kitchen, scratching yourself. Giving this information a minute to sink in.
“Well that sucks,” you say out loud, to no one in particular.
Then you get serious. You consider your options. You do a quick equation in your head, calculating the time it would take to get dressed and brushed and scrubbed into a version of you passable enough to venture into the outside world and adding that to the distance to the nearest coffee shop, then subtracting by how much you despise Starbucks’ burnt-tasting coffee and insane price tag and, finally, dividing by how weak your resolve is to go entirely stone-cold caffeine-sober today.
You’re not exactly sure what the final answer is since you’ve always sucked at math, but you know you don’t want to go.
I’ve mentioned before that when I first got into this blogging business I had zero intention of posting recipes. Ever. I originally thought that would be like Elmer Fudd writing articles on behalf of PETA, or the Backstreet Boys trying to teach us the artistry of compelling lyrics.
It just didn’t make sense.
But then this happened. It was back when I had a full-time job and was trying to write a new post every single day. Back before I had an awesome writing partner to relieve the pressure.
I’d wanted to reveal our finished kitchen, but the problem was, it wasn’t finished. So in a desperate attempt to fill some space, I showed you the (burned) spinach salmon bundles I’d made for dinner that night. They were burned, people! I’m so not good at this. But for some reason, some of you told me you liked the post. And some of you even tried the recipe. Which is pretty damn cool.
So I started showing you more of my recipe endeavors. Not because I’m a great cook – I’m not even a very good cook. But like I said in that first recipe post:
I’m not really a “pinch-of-this, dash-of-that” type of person, but more of a “put-the-measuring-cup-on-the-counter-and-bend-down-to-eye-level-to-make-sure-I’m-getting-just-the-right-amount” type person.
Cooking doesn’t come naturally to me. But I can follow instructions – if I haven’t had too much wine. (At least Erin doesn’t have to worry about that nasty business anymore, eh?) And I guess I’ve been justifying the continuation of the recipe posts by thinking there are more of you out there, like me, who’ve been afraid of cooking well into “adulthood” and just need a little encouragement in the way of pictures and “been-there-done-that” mess-up stories.
Because I’ve finally learned that IT’S OKAY TO MESS UP IN THE KITCHEN.
At least I hope it is, because I do it all the time. So, I’ve come to you today with another recipe. But if these are starting to bore you and you really couldn’t give two hoots about what I’ve stuffed into my expanding waistline last night, do let me know. It won’t hurt my feelings – they aren’t even my own recipes!
But I do feel especially compelled to share what I made last night. It was so… different. So out of my usual comfort zone, and it turned out delicious, so yes. I have to share.
Aside from acquiring some of the ingredients, it was deceptively simple to make. It contained some of my usual friendly ingredients like pasta and butter. But it also contained a couple I’d normally shy away from, like Japanese mayonnaise and chili garlic sauce. I stopped at a local Asian market to pick up those things, and let me just tell you – I will be back. The food they had there was incredible! And scary. But mostly incredible! Oh, the sushi I could (attempt to) make…
So the original recipe that caught my eye yesterday can be found here. The only thing I changed was cooking up a bed of pasta for the main dish. You know, ’cause I like to keep it light.
Portobello Shroomies with Creamy Scallop Topping
Do NOT be scared of this concept. Beef-less as it is, this was fit for company.
To make them, you will need:
3 Tbsp. butter, divided
4 large Portobello mushroom caps (My little po-dunk grocery store lets me buy these pre-packaged or in bulk, so you shouldn’t have a problem finding them.)
Garlic Powder
1 Tbsp. butter
2 lbs. scallops (I bought the super cheap 4 oz. bags of “mini” scallops. They were 2 bags for $3, so I bought 4 bags. Even though that’s only 1 pound, the amount turned out to be perfect to cover the mushroom caps.)
1 cup Japanese mayonnaise (I bought the recommended Kewpie brand. It has a freaky little cartoon baby on the front. I hope this mayo isn’t made out of babies.)
1/2 teaspoon chili-garlic sauce (They actually had this at the commissary on post, but I bought the jar at the Asian market. I’m a wuss when it comes to spicy food, but I actually wish I’d added a bit more of this. The flavor was great, and I found the mayonnaise a little overpowering.)
2 Tbsp. green onions, chopped
8 oz. linguine (optional)
Drizzle of olive oil (optional)
*Missing from team photo: Garlic powder and pasta. I think they were spotted fooling around under the bleachers.
Directions:
1. Defrost your scallops (assuming you’re not lucky enough to live somewhere you can get fresh seafood and had to buy frozen) according to the package directions. And if you decided to make a lovely bed of pasta for your shroomies, go ahead and get your water boiling.
2. Thoroughly rinse your Portobello mushrooms. Don’t be scared of the gills – they actually feel kinda good to the touch. (Is that weird??) Divide the 3 Tbsp. of butter into 4 equal pieces. Melt a piece in a sauté pan over medium-high heat, then add a mushroom cap and cook until soft in the center. (This took approx. 2-3 minutes per side for me.) Repeat with the remaining mushroom caps and butter.
*I found this to be a bit meticulous. If I make this again, I’ll probably use my large grill pan and cook all 4 caps at once. Cooking them one at a time forced me to rinse the pan between mushrooms because the butter would begin to burn.
3. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil. As the mushrooms cook, place them on the sheet gill side up, so they make little “bowls.” Mmmmm… fungus bowls. Generously sprinkle them with garlic powder.
Oh, and your pasta water should be boiling by now, so salt it and add the linguine.
4. Preheat your broiler and set the oven rack about 6″ away from it. Do you use your broiler? I do all the time. It’s FANTASTIC. Just remember to leave your oven door cracked open a couple inches while your food cooks. That’s all there is to it!
5. Melt the last tablespoon of butter in a skillet over medium-high heat and sauté your scallops until they’re lightly browned. If you’re using larger scallops, they’d probably be great seared. But mine ended up kind of boiling in the pan because they were cheap and frozen and filled with water. No worries, though – they still turned out great.
Fill each mushroom cap with the scallops.
6. In a small bowl, mix together the cup of Japanese mayonnaise and 1/2 (or more) teaspoon of garlic chili sauce.
*Be careful not to let go of the foil top of the chili sauce while you’re opening it, lest you splatter red sauce all over your counter and walls. I’ve been putting my backsplash to good use. But that’s probably just me.
This Kewpie brand Japanese mayo looked strange. It came in a very flimsy plastic bottle inside a loosely wrapped plastic pouch. But the mayo itself was very similar in consistency to the mayo we’re used to – just a bit of a different flavor and probably worth purchasing if you’re going to try this recipe.
Anyway, mix the mayo and chili sauce together and spoon that mixture over your scallop-filled mushrooms.
7. Stick the pan under the broiler until the topping turns bubbly and slightly brown (about 3-5 minutes). WATCH CAREFULLY. The broiler can do wonderful things, but it can also burn food in an instant.
8. When your pasta is done, drain it and add a drizzle of olive oil to keep it from getting dry and sticky. I also added a bit of the mayo/chili sauce topping, which worked really well.
9. When your mushroom topping is nice and bubbly and starting to brown, take them out of the oven. Chop up a green onion (or two) and sprinkle on top of the mushrooms. I ended up only using the green part of the onion.
10. Assemble! Dish some pasta onto a plate, then use a STRONG spatula to maneuver a mushroom cap onto it. I say this because I used a WEAK spatula for the first one, and it splattered upside-down (of course) back onto the baking sheet.
Yes, these things happen to me.
All. the. time.
Sorry, no picture to commemorate my humiliation.
But I do have these:
This should have some plain roasted asparagus sitting next to it. Yum.
So think you might try it? Or is this just a little too freaky for you?
In the midst of all the packing and airline melodrama Katie and I had going on last week, my body decided thatit, too, would capitalize on this opportune time to start actin’ a fool. And act a fool, it did.
I could easilyramble on for the next five paragraphs about the symptoms I had and what all led up to the final diagnosis — and I did in the first draft, before remembering that long-winded monologues detailing your every pathological idiosyncrasy generally make people want to chew their legs off or jump in front of moving vehicles to make it stop.
So, instead, let’s just say the good news is: I’m not dying. Can I get a what-what?!
However, the bad news is… I can no longer drink wine.
While there’s no way to test for it — since, technically, it’s not even an actual allergy — recent events seem to indicate that I’ve developed an intolerance to the sulfites in wine.
For those of you who’ve had no reason to ever learn about sulfites — because, why would you? — they’re preservatives added to extend the shelf life of processed foods such as baked goods, soup mixes, pickled foods, dried fruit, potatoes and potato chips, trail mix, jams, maraschino cherries, condiments, juice, molasses, guacamole, etc.
Dang. There goes my world-famous Molasses Pickled Prune Bread with Guacamole Marmalade recipe. The PTA Council will just have to find another Refreshment Coordinator for the monthly meetings.
Even then, sulfites and I would be cool if that were all but, for whatever reason, they had to go and “naturally occur” in grapes. And then wine had to go and “be made out of” grapes. And then I had to go and “be sensitive” to grape sulfites. Really, there’s a lot of blame to throw around here.
By the way, I couldn’t find any pictures, but here’s what I’m guessing a sulfite looks like:
Sulfites are characterized by douche-y smirks, Ray-Bans and circa-early ’90s soul patches. Also, they’re known to lurk around local high school hang-outs, wear button-down flannel shirts with the sleeves ripped off, and drive beater Camaros they claim to be “restoring”.
It’s no wonder my body decided to wisen up and lay the smackdown on these suckers.
The cause for sulfite sensitivity is unknown, but apparently it’s pretty common for people to randomly develop it later in life, and the only “cure” is to avoid foods that trigger a reaction. Which is a pretty lame cure if you ask me.
Never in a million years would I have suspected such an utter betrayal by my internal organs but, apparently, developing new allergies is one of the many sadistic tools your body has at its disposal to destroy your will to live as you get older, thus paving the way for your bitter-ass retirement years.
Fortunately, my sensitivity seems to pertain specifically to wine and certain juices (Orange, I’m looking at you), so I guess I should be thankful that my culinary habits don’t require a major overhaul. Plus, some friends have put me onto certain low-sulfite wine brands to try and I can still drink beer like a champ (or at least as well as I was able to before, which was actually not at all like a champ).
Normally, this would be the part where I indulge in a little righteous self-pity but, during my exhaustive Google research over the past week, I’ve come across a number of blogs written by people with sensitivities to all sulfites, and it definitely puts things into perspective. Considering they’re as much a staple of the American diet as flour and eggs, this means every grocery shopping trip, restaurant, social gathering, buffet, snack tray and baked good made by a well-meaning neighbor is a minefield of potential toxins for them. And you don’t hear them whining.
One blog I especially loved was Wine NOT!, written by a spunky, hilarious lady who’s adapting hilariously to her new lifestyle. Seriously, cannot emphasize the hilariousness enough.
Hilariosity? Hilariality? Hilaritude?
Whatever, just go read her blog.
(Ed. Note: Ok, I actually just clicked on her blog and today’s post is about scooping a growth out of her neck with a melon baller. So if you’re not into that sort of thing, maybe wait until tomorrow to start reading.)
Anyhoo, what I’m trying to say is, in the Grand Scheme of Things, considering all the potentially horrible diagnoses I could’ve been handed, I got off easy like Lindsay Lohan on a drug charge.
When I woke up this morning, the first thought that went through my head was, “Why am I still here?!”
I know that’s not an ideal mantra to start the day, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t supposed to be laying in my own bed. I was supposed to be sitting at the airport, waiting to get on my flight to Central America. But now as I sit at my kitchen table, breathing in the aroma of my freshly brewing coffee, I’m realizing – if I was supposed to be there, I’d be there.
By the way, if you’re curious, here is a demonstration of how I drink my coffee (excuse the extra wide aperture and shaky hand. I obviously hadn’t yet consumed any of the much-needed coffee at the time – which was a few minutes ago – these pictures were taken):
First pour cream into bottom of cup.
Then pour coffee.
Finally, dump in prolific amounts of sugar.
Basically, the resulting beverage should taste like sugar-laden cream with a hint of coffee. I like the smell better than anything.
Now back to our regularly scheduled program.
So. I guess the fact that I’m sitting here drinking a cup of coffee-flavored cream instead of having my naked body scanned in 3D at the airport means I need to figure out what to do with my unexpected, extra un-paid week.
If I really feel like getting dirty, I could paint all of our trim or clean out the garage – two things that could desperately use my attention. And knowing me, I might just decide to start one of those projects late Thursday afternoon when I should be getting ready for the long drive up to Frederick, MD so I can chill with Erin for a couple of days before we leave. I find I work best under pressure.
But considering I still need to pack and take care of a few other mundane things before I head out, I should probably stick to small projects for now.
Our neighborhood has a community garage sale twice per year. Yuck. There are so many other things I’d rather do with my time than dig through other peoples’ unwanted crap so I can let it sit in my own garage until I donate it to Goodwill because I never did figure out how to affordably reupholster that old chair that would’ve been so perfect if it weren’t covered in that awful maroon velvet or where to hang that one painting that could’ve looked so cool in a retro sort of way if my entire house was cool in a retro sort of way. Which it’s not.
And yet every six months I find myself getting up at 7 a.m. on a Saturday (which actually isn’t unusual anyway) to get to the “good stuff” before someone else nabs it. What can I say? We live in the stix and garage sales bring out my competitive side.
Plus, I love, love, love haggling with people.
At the last sale I snagged this set of mirrors. The old lady wanted $15 for the pair, but I got her down to $8. Sucka!
Now I’m no designer, but I’ve watched enough HGTV to know nothing says style like gilded gold mirrors. Right??
Okay, maybe not. But I thought they might look cool if I spray painted them, because while the color is awful, the detail is kinda interesting.
So I covered the mirror part in frog tape and newspaper, bought some semi-gloss white spray paint, and went at it. I don’t really care for spray paint with its non-environmentally friendly qualities. But. I wasn’t about to try to take a brush to the little nooks and crannies of these puppies. In the end, laziness won-out. But if anyone has “greener” suggestions, I’m open to ’em.
I’m actually pretty happy with the finished product. Alaina thinks I should sand off some of the white for a more antiqued look. I think Alaina should get her ass back in her kitchen and get it finished so we can see the final pictures already. (You know I love you, A!)
What do you think? I think I’m done. Unless I decide to paint them a funky teal or something, which I’m seriously considering.
Now, as usual, I just need to figure out where to hang ’em.
And because it’s 4:38 p.m. and I’m still in my pajamas.
And because my brain is mush from the last three chaotic days spent rescheduling the trip to Costa Rica** since the airline we were going to be flying out on Monday decided to — how shall I put this delicately? — sh*t the bed.
And because I think we all could appreciate somethin’ cute n’ fluffy right now. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, we’re all gettin’ somethin’ cute n’ fluffy.
And because the only productive thing I’ve done all day is brush my teeth and I intend to keep it that way.
A few notes about the video:
1. That’s Roxy. We have two cats, but she’s the only one we like. The other one shrieks at us and hides a lot.
2. The clip ends rather abruptly because, a millisecond later, I say something to the camera and my morning voice is not cute. I sound like a transsexual undergoing hormone replacement therapy. And if you’re at all familiar with that, you know it’s not a good sound.
2. This video was taken at our old house. Please do not gaze upon the abject horror of our living conditions and pity us. We did this to ourselves. Those shoes and boxes by the couch? Stayed that way for four months.
3. I promise I will not dredge up an old cat video from the archives for my next post. At least, I’m pretty sure I won’t. I mean, I’ll try my hardest not to but being lazy is feeling pret-ty good right now…
* Oh, and, by the way, we’re happy to announce that the Costa Rica trip is back on track with only a week-long delay. In the words of Chuckles: Boo -yah! Details to follow when I feel like rejoining the human race. Thank you and goodnight.
** Ok, Katie did most of the calling and negotiating. But it was really tiring hearing about it.
When I was little, I used to ask my mom to drive really, really fast down this hill with a dip at the bottom on our way to daycare. I got such a thrill from that tiny uprising in my stomach – that flutter that happens when your body is thrown off-kilter from gravity.
Why don’t we get the same happy rush when the same thing happens with our emotions?
Today was a helluva day. You see, the airline on which Erin and I booked our tickets to Costa Rica is having some financial troubles, so they decided to cut back on their flights. They decided to cut back on our flight just over a week ago. The online booking agency through which we booked our flight *cough*CheapTickets*cough* did not notify us of this fun fact until a couple of days ago.
It was not until today that we were able to negotiate an itinerary change and get ourselves on another flight. Because as much fun as it would be to get stuck in Cancun with unlimited funds, our funds are not, to say the least, unlimited.
Just a minute ago I received another call telling me the new flight has been canceled. That fluttery, uprising thing happened with my emotions. The guy from Cheap Tickets might have heard me cry.
In 2004 it took me over 27 straight hours to get from Valdosta, Georgia to Strasbourg, France. I traveled by car, plane, subway, another subway, train, and another car to get there.
So it’s really no surprise to me that this happened.
The thing is, cliché as it sounds, I’ve learned to try to make the trip itself part of the fun. I know it can be a pain in the ass to get somewhere – especially when I really, really, really want to just be there. So I have to do what I can to enjoy the ride.
Even if what I really want to do is punch someone in the face.
After all, 27 hours is 27 hours. That’s more than a full day of my life that I can never get back.
It took me a month to get from Omaha, Nebraska to Omaha, Nebraska (by way of Washington, California, Arizona, and Colorado, to name a few). I traveled by Tracker.
When people ask what we’ll be doing during our free time in Costa Rica (if we ever get there), they seem surprised when I tell them we don’t know. But it’s like the Gin Blossoms said, “If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.”
The same holds true, I believe, for a trip. Too much planning can only lead to disappointment and missed opportunities. We won’t be lethargic in our off-time – but we’ll always be open to something we didn’t plan – especially because we didn’t plan anything.
For the Tracker’s Wild Western Extravaganza road trip, I didn’t even know I’d be traveling with anyone until a couple of days prior. I had just given notice to one of the restaurants that employed me, and a fellow server thought my trip sounded fun and asked to come along.
We had never really hung out, but Lizeth was a 5 foot-nothing feisty Latina who shared my freestyle travel philosophy. She ended up coming with me all the way to San Francisco before flying home (she actually had to go back to work – sucka!), and it ended up being much more fun than if I’d gone alone.
At our own leisurely pace, we were able to explore Seattle’s colorful, energy-packed Pike Place fish market…
…get a free bottle of whisky from a sketchy motel employee…
…hug a soldier…
..and even stumble across Seattle’s famous wall of gum one night when we became completely and utterly lost. We didn’t know it was famous. We just thought it was a gross (but cool) wall of gum.
It turned out getting lost on those downtown streets was a great way to learn our way around the city.
If we had been on an itinerary, we might not have climbed the Astoria Column and ruined our ability to walk without a limp for the next 2 days. (Lesson learned? Calves do not like spiral staircases.)
Nor would we have stopped for a tour of the cheese factory in Tillamook, Oregon, land of, “Cheese, trees and ocean breeze!” If we hadn’t stopped, I wouldn’t have been able to leave my souvenir brick of spoiling cheese under the mattress of that hotel in San Francisco. (That’s another story for another time, but trust me – they deserved it.)
Sure, you miss a couple of things when you don’t plan. We’d hoped to catch the famous sandcastle contest in Cannon Beach, but instead all Lizeth caught was soaking wet pants when we had to wade across the bay to get into town. All I caught was a kite to the back of the head. No joke.
The sandcastles had already washed away with the tide.
And without a GPS, the excitement of seeing the unmistakable bright orange peaks of the Golden Gate Bridge rising behind a hillside caused us to stick our heads out the windows like a couple of terriers attempting to taste the wind.
And even though we didn’t plan, we were still able to hit many of the major tourist attractions.
We drove through the giant Redwood tree:
We embraced the culture of Fremont:
And we soaked in the famous San Francisco architecture:
It’s comforting to know that as long as I have my mind, I’ll never forget the barefoot, guitar-playing hippie who offered us pot not 3 minutes into our lunch stop in Arcata, California. Or getting lost on the BART and ending up in The Castro (where the look-but-can’t-touch eye candy was excruciatingly palpable). Or seeing Kurt Cobain’s old house in Seattle.
And after Lizeth flew home, I drove down the 101 to L.A. and absorbed the art and energy of Venice Beach. I crashed on a friend’s couch in Phoenix and climbed Camelback Mountain. (Okay, I only made it halfway – but it was Phoenix in July! I don’t care of it’s a “dry heat” – 111-degrees F is HOT.) I changed into shorts on the side of the road in the middle of the deserted desert when my a/c decided it’d had enough. I got food poisoning in Albuquerque and had to sleep it off in my car at noon with the windows cracked. I witnessed a red-hot sunset behind the Rockies, a lightning-riddled rainstorm between myself and the sun causing the colors to blur like a saturated watercolor painting. Fireworks welcomed me into Colorado Springs later that evening, and I watched more from the deck of my great-aunt and uncle’s home, cocktail in hand, overlooking the Garden of the Gods and the rest of the city far, far below.
These things – these things that happened by chance will always resonate because I remember them the way they were – not the way they should have been. And that’s why it’s okay that we still don’t have a flight. We will. When we do.
I’m not completely zen. If I could leave a brick of stinky cheese under the airline’s mattress, I would. But I can’t.
So, my friends, that is why I don’t plan. I happen to like being a terrier with my head out the window.
