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.

It also allowed me the room to eat this:

Hey.

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

And Two For Tea…

As much as I’d like to be, I’m not really a tea drinker.

I enjoy thinking of myself as misplaced Euro trash, but more of the waify, carefree, wine and cigarettes with lunch variety than the humorless, pearl-wearing, yellow-stained teeth variety.

More this:

Less this:

Of course, we’re talking strictly in stereotypes.

And I don’t smoke.

And I look nothing like Penelope Cruz.

Because it’s a cruel, cruel world.

Anyway.

My point is that despite all of the wonderful things I hear about tea, I much prefer getting my nighttime antioxidants from fermented grapes over sticks and leaves, and coffee is too ingrained into my mornings for me to wake up to anything else, and for those reasons I will probably never be a true convert.

However.

When I was in San Antonio a couple of months ago, my friend Stacy took me to a tea room that almost changed my mind.

Almost.

See, I’ve always maintained that when you visit a new city, it’s wise to make yourself friendly with a local. Stacy and I go back to our cubicle days on Fort Bragg, but we kept in touch after I ran off to make hot sauce in Costa Rica and she ran away with her husband back to Texas.

In a city like San Antonio, it’s easy to get lured in by its magical River Walk filled with overpriced restaurants, twinkling lights, touristy shops filled with trinkets to take home, and plenty of beautiful spots to sit and contemplate how many drunk spring breakers have peed off the boardwalk into the murky depths of the waterway. But with a local, you might be more inclined to visit the city’s rusty edge or the King William Historic District, where resides a squat maze of rooms that comprise Madhatters Tea House & Café.

Beamed ceilings, crooked rooms, mismatched chairs and local art define the quirky decor, and one look around made instant my decision to ignore the long line at the counter and treat it as a true sign that this was the place to have lunch.

The line traveled quickly, leaving us just enough time to peruse the extensive menu.

Of course, since this was a tea room, we decided to embrace our girly girl selves and ordered the Tea for Two, complete with crustless sandwiches, scones, and little mini desserts with fancy French names.

After ordering at the counter, we selected our tea cups and I was reminded for a second of what it’s like to just play. To make tea cup selection a big, stinkin’ deal. To forget for a minute about mortgages and Homeowners’ Associations and quitting my job and just have a tea party because dammit, sometimes you just want to lift a delicate cup from an intricate saucer, stick your pinky in the air, and curse your decision to leave the house without your wide-brimmed hat.

I don’t remember what kind of tea we drank, but it was delicious, served hot and steeping at our table in its own funky pot.

And excuse me? Crustless sandwiches? I always thought that was wasteful as a kid and so never requested my bread sans crust, but whoa. I was missing out. There’s something about thick, fluffy bread unimpeded by stiff crust, and tell me — will people start looking at me funny if, at almost-30-years-old, I start cutting the crust from my sandwiches?

If so, I’ll just tell them my teeth are rotting because I’m getting so old.

Meager as it looks, it was actually a pretty filling amount of food. And the trick, my friends, is to eat slowly. Savor the flavor. Sip warm tea. Enjoy conversation with long lost friends and pretend, just for an hour, that life’s as simple as we want it to be.

It wasn’t wine and cigarettes, but the effect, I think, was the same.

Red, Red, Rocks.

You know that feeling — that feeling you would get in a certain place as a kid — that made it seem as though it were filled with magic and wonder and that it was somehow much bigger, really, than it actually was?

Grandma’s house was not just Grandma’s house, but a cozy cottage that smelled of Grandpa’s spicy pipe tobacco and Grandma’s famous pumpkin bars and where handfuls of Werther’s Originals could be snatched from the old crystal dish as I ran through the arched kitchen doorway to splay across the soft, brown shag living room carpet. The kitchen floors were beautiful, speckled brown and orange and green and I’d wait, sometimes, in rare moments of patient composure, for the bird to pop out of the coo coo clock to indicate the hour. The basement was scary and filled with adventure. Boxes of old toys and musty don’t-touch-thats and the home’s only shower but that was okay because baths were a novelty at Grandma’s house. I wove yarn tissue box covers and baked peanut butter pies and picked raspberries in the garden and chased squirrels from the bird feeders. These things I did at grandma’s house, which wasn’t just a house, but a world. I’d rub my cheek against Grandpa’s rough stubble and snuggle up to his warm flannel shirt. He used to tap his rings to his own tinny tune on the steering wheel when he drove as I slid around on the worn leather seats. His truck had a square orange pillow I liked to squeeze.

But then.

But then I grew. And the house became a house. An old one with ugly linoleum floors and creaky steps and I had to wash my hair in the sink and barely reach to touch the top of the archway as I passed beneath, the coo coo bird mocking each slow passing hour. And the magic wasn’t just lost for me, but lost for them. And then Grandpa was gone, and now, with just Grandma, it feels not like a house but a trap. Because I want more for her, you know, than lonely last years. I don’t know what happened to that faded orange pillow.

Time changes things, it’s true, and not always for the worse but sometimes for the better — though even the better, sometimes, can feel worse if you know what I mean.

Take, for example, the Garden of the Gods near Colorado Springs.

Stunning red rock sprung from unearthly ground against a backdrop of towering Rockies.

My family used to go there when I was still a kid and we were still a family.

I remember it being vast. Rugged. We couldn’t just drive to everything we wanted to see — we hiked. Of course, some of these memories could just be small worlds made big in the mind of a child, but on our most recent trip to Colorado, I saw that still it had changed. More roads. Easier access. More people. Less… magic.

On the one hand, simplified access to this free and natural wonder is fantastic. People who might never have bothered can now behold, but sometimes I think. I think those who mightn’t bother if access were more difficult are those who throw the trash. Those who scream and shout. Those who just want to go, go, go and not stop, for a second, to see if the magic is still there.

Wide, paved paths.

So tempting to leave the trail…

Kissing camels.

Fortunately, I was with Justin’s family. They came out to visit while we were staying with my mom to say goodbye before he left for Afghanistan and, despite my disappointment with the throngs of people with whom we had to share the Red Rocks, exploring the park and the nearby town of Manitou Springs with them was a wonderful way to spend the day.

Gard family. There’s only 547 of us. From left to right: Hannah (Justin’s sister), Andrew (Justin’s brother), Becca (Justin’s sister), Ashley (Justin’s sister — are we sensing a pattern?), Jack (Justin’s nephew), Jon (Ashley’s husband), Me, Justin, Justin’s mom and dad. (Thanks, Aunt Lori for taking the photo!)

Travel tip: Explore with fun people who wear bright shoes. Seriously. They’re way better than boring people with boring shoes.

Tip: Travel in packs. Other tourists will get scared and you’ll have the whole place to yourselves.

Tip: If you’re going to climb, don’t photograph the evidence.

Uhh…

Climbing? We’re not climbing. (This is Brad. Remember Becca and Brad from our trip to Spain?)

Pegg! (Sign: “If you are not a technical climber using proper gear and a permit, stay on the sidewalk!”) Seriously. “Progress” makes the park safer and less fun.

The Gard Men are RIPPED. (Photo by Hannah Gard.)

Even little Jack was a champ.

Late lunch in the adorable town of Manitou Springs was the perfect way to relax after the park.

It turns out the improvements made to Garden of the Gods over the years are what made it possible for us to see it as a family.

And in the end, I guess that’s not such a bad thing.

After all, time does change things.

It always will.

My family has grown exponentially. It laughs. It plays. I miss them sometimes.

And the future, to me, doesn’t look so bad.

See our tour of the Coors Brewery HERE and a chalk art festival in downtown Denver HERE plus the best hot dog ever right HERE.

Sometimes I Have Fun.

Sometimes, I like to have fun.

I don’t know if you know this about me.

But it’s true.

Sometimes I like to jump out of airplanes and sometimes I like to build closet organizers and sometimes I like to cook fancy chicken but sometimes, my friends, I just like to have fun.

The kind of fun where you don’t even think about it. You just do it.

Well. After my whirlwind tour of San Diego and before the piercing situation in Austin, there was a concert.

There was a concert in New Braunfels, Texas.

Where?

Exactly.

I don’t know much about New Braunfels.

But I DO know they have excellent ice cream cones.

And I DO know they have plenty of Ooohs and Ahhhs.

And I DO know that their Whitewater Ampitheater is where the Avett Brothers decided to have a concert.

Which makes New Braunfels a-ok in my book.

My friend Stacy (remember her?) first introduced me to the Avetts a couple of years ago, and I’ll admit it. I’m hooked. It could’ve been the timing in my life, it could’ve been the sexy banjos, it could’ve been the fact that their lyrics abound with gems like:

The wind that blows from here to California
Never stops to turn and wonder why it goes.

and…

A jet plane and a big idea
I jump over the sea
What-ifs hot on my trail
But they can’t catch me, oh no

and…

Now I’ve grown too aware of my mortality
To let go and forget about dying
Long enough to drop the hammer down
And let the indolence go wild and flying through

and…

Decide what to be and go be it.

So when Stacy called and said she bought me a ticket, I knew I had to go to Texas.

(Note: If you want me to visit you, I can be bought.)

Even though Texas in July is hot.

And the concert was outside.

But it mattered not that Stacy, her sister Andrea and I found ourselves drenched and tipsy in a crowd full of sweat-slick people, because they were our people.

Even (sigh.) the super tall ones. (This is me, by the way. Incredulous and sweaty. I mean glowing. Glowing like a pig.)

Despite the tall folk, we me managed to have some fun.

(Stacy and me. Rawr.)

Crazy sisters.

I’m not big on crowds. I’ll be the first to admit it.

But there’s something — something — about experiencing your favorite music live.

Exhilaration, defined.

For all of the sweat, for all of the people, for all of the porta potties and drunk guys and yes, even for Texas, I would do it again.

Thank you, Stacy! It was everything I dreamed it would be.

(Minus the part about the Avetts inviting me back to their bus to serenade me with a private show, but hey. We can’t have everything.)

Where The Highway Ends – Chillin’ in the OBX.

Okay.

So I know that I just took a trip, and I haven’t even finished telling you about that. Or, for that matter, the one before that. Or the one before that.

But that’s okay, I figure, because things don’t need to happen chronologically in blog time. In blog time, time does not exist as we know it in life.

It’s not even a line.

It’s a viscous fluid, like tanniny wine.

Anyway.

I just took a trip, but if this post of yore was any indication, I was still in need of a getaway.

And while planes are awesome and can transport me from coast to coast in a matter of hours, sometimes I just need to get in my car and drive. If you don’t know that feeling — if you’ve never had it before — I think you’re probably lucky. And I think your car, unlike my tracker, probably doesn’t have over 160,000 miles on it.

Go, Tracker – Go!

Jack Kerouac probably said it best in On the Road — a book I didn’t at first fully appreciate (and probably still don’t), but inside of which find snippets of virtue here and there whenever I happen to need it — he said, “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

And that’s how it feels — meditation on wheels.

So when Justin’s aunt and uncle (the same ones we visited in Philly earlier this year) invited me to stay the weekend at the beach house they’d rented with their two kids and Justin’s grandparents, I could hardly say no. Especially after I realized it was only 4 hours away. And especially when I realized it was in North Carolina’s Outer Banks (also known to the trendy peeps as OBX) — somewhere I still hadn’t been.

(Okay. So my dark brown hair and green eyes don’t exactly make me visually fit in amongst these toe-heads and gingers, but with them, you don’t need to look like them to be treated like family. Which we are anyway, through marriage, but you know what I mean.)

After work on Friday, I came home, fed the dogs, left my neighbor some feeding instructions, threw some stuff in a duffel bag, and just started driving. Of course, as with any road trip, I made sure I had my mix CDs from the late ’90s and cranked up the tunes.

Why does driving away always feel so good?

I had to stop and pick up some boiled peanuts to bring to my hosts.

Welcome to The South.

Eventually, after about 4 hours, I reached the end of Highway 64 and consequently entered a whole other universe.

We’re not in Fayettenam anymore.

A universe with stilted, shaker-sided beach homes and salty air and nary a uniformed soldier in sight.

The Outer Banks are a series of barrier islands just off the northeast coast of North Carolina. During hurricane season they have a tendency to get battered and beaten as they protect the mainland from the onslaught of the ocean’s fury, but now, during summer, they’re a laid-back refuge with dotted chains of trinket shops and surf towns with thought-provoking names like Nags Head and Kill Devil Hills and Duck.

Duck? Like the animal that quacks, or that thing you do when hurricane winds hurl a tree branch your way?

As I started heading North from Nags Head towards Duck, I caught an incredible view.

And then another.

And then — WHAT IS THAT?!

Really, what IS that?

Dunes.

Sand mountains.

People frolicking and dancing, drawn to the sunset and the soft, soft sand.

I’ve never seen anything like it. I had to pull off to the side, kick of my sandals, and climb.

When I got to the top, I expected to see water, but no.

Just more dunes.

It was incredible.

Word on the street is you can hang glide off of these. If this is true, I will be back.

But my shadow was long, and true to my M.O., I was already late for dinner.

So I headed back down.

The rest of the time, I spent doing what you do when you go to the OBX: Eating, Drinking, Beaching, and keeping tabs on the sun.

Not my sand castle. Unfortunately.

Automobiles aren’t allowed on the beaches, and they’re lined with gorgeous beach houses — not hotels — so they feel more pristine and less crowded than my coastal areas in the U.S.

I really enjoyed the town of Duck. It sits on one of the narrowest sections of the OBX, and our short walk to the beach included a simultaneous view of the ocean and the sound. The town was quaint, with a great selection of restaurants, shops, and a fantastic boardwalk. The walking/bike paths are fantastic, and our 7 mile bike ride made me feel less guilty about our late night dinner at Blue Point.

Outer Banks North Carolina Blue Point Restaurant

Punny. And delicious.

Crab saute with salmon and spoon bread.

Pork chop with Parmesan grits, pineapple, and radish.

Pickled shrimp.

The food was pricey but tasty, although I wish I could have tried it 6 years ago, before the restaurant expanded. The she-crab soup was decidedly the best item ordered. I didn’t get a chance to take a photo before it was demolished.

I suspect you’re mainly paying for the service (which was impeccable) and the view (which we didn’t get to see at 10:00 p.m.). If you’d like to try it, make reservations early so you can watch the sunset over the sound.

In my 36 hours at the OBX, I’m obviously no expert, but I shall impart my wisdom anyway.

What to Bring:

A car (mainly so you can bring everything else)
Recreational ocean stuff (to include bathing suits, towels, toys, kayaks, surf boards, paddle boards, paddle ball, boogie boards, jet skis, yachts, etc. If you have it, bring it.) Really, you can probably rent or buy pretty much anything you forget.
Sunscreen/Sunglasses/Sunbrellas
Bikes
Patience (traffic can be annoying)
Surfer ‘tude.

What to Buy:

Groceries (if you’re staying in a beach house, which likely you are, it gets expensive eating out for every meal. Buy groceries.)
Duck Donuts. Just trust me on this.
Hammocks. Apparently OBX is the place to buy hammocks.
Seafood. Eat lots — and lots — of seafood.
Hang gliding lessons.

Next time, my friends. Next time.

And There Was No Alcohol Involved. I Swear.

There inevitably comes a time during every trip when I get… antsy.

I know — it’s not enough that I get antsy when I’m not traveling. No. I also get antsy when I am traveling. And while I don’t always act on it, I often feel that I need some kind of change. Some kind of drastic purchase or body modification in order to commemorate the trip.

After leaving San Diego, I had an itch. And since I wasn’t having any promiscuous sex, I knew exactly what it was.

“Let’s get tattoos!” I suggested to 2 of my long-lost loves, Stacy and Becs, over coffee in Austin one morning.

Stacy and I used to work together on Fort Bragg, and Becs was one of my hot-sauce makin’ employers in Costa Rica. Somehow, via the twisting roads we like to call Fate and my own sheer good fortune, they both ended up living in Texas — San Antonio and Austin respectively, and only a couple of hours apart.

I was feeling extra comatose, which was horrific because I only had one day to spend with Bec.

So they took me to Austin Java in order to drug me back into consciousness.

“Hellooo… are you listening? I said tattoos.”

Once they realized I was actually awake, the caffeine having worked its way through my capillaries and into my alertness and pleasure sensor receptacles (it’s all very sciency), the momentum snowballed.

“No tattoos,” Bec said. “But there’s a piercing I’ve been wanting to get for a while.”

What? Awesome. Let’s go.

A quick check with the barista, who was overloaded with ink and holes and obviously an expert on the subject, and we were on our way.

Welcome to Diablo Rojo. We totally belong here.

Okay, Bec — Time to pick your poison.

So many choices…

Dainty and demure?

Statement tribal?

Large and in charge?

I’ll admit — I have no clue where most of these are supposed to go.

Fortunately, the expert piercer from New Zealand knew exactly what she was doing.

“This isn’t going to hurt… any more than sticking a metal needle through nerves and cartilage.”

These boots mean business.

Whenever you get a piercing, you have to get “the talk” on how the place sterilizes its needles and how to properly care for your new punctured body part. If they don’t give you that talk, you should probably sober up immediately and get the f*ck outta there.

She’s still IN!

Wanna guess what she got?

…anyone?

Sterilizing the surface…

Just relax…

It’s no worse than a pap smear… it’s no worse than a pap smear…

Ta da!

“Hey, Devil — my eyes are up HERE.”

Anyway, she’s pulling. It. Off.

I, however, as the queen of now-cliché piercings and tattoos (yes, I have a navel piercing circa 1998 and a “tramp stamp” circa 2000), decided to hold off until I know what I really want.

I did make an impulse purchase at the coffee shop, though — and it was slightly more expensive than a couple of grande, non-fat chai lattes (though not by much):

“Beach Houses,” painted on a piece of scrap wood, by local artist and elementary school art teacher, Mike Johnston.

I think I love it — nails and all.

The Hotel California Ain’t Got Nothin’ On the Hotel del Coronado.

In case you’re worried (which I’m thinking you’re probably not), I’m working on the mother of all instructional posts so that you, too, can build your very own closet organizer out of plumbing fixtures.

Because, you know, I’m pretty sure this is the kind of stuff that keeps you up at night.

It does for me.

In the meantime, Let me tell you a little more about my time in San Diego.

As you can tell from my ah-maz-ing view from a balcony at the Marriott Marquis & Marina, the city itself does not actually sit directly beside the Pacific Ocean.

View From Mariott Marquis & Marina Balcony San Diego

Wait. That’s looking directly down. Let’s tilt her up a little.

There. If you follow my Facebook page, this shot might look familiar.

The water behind the American flag is actually a bay, which is protected from the rough oceanic elements by the spit of land you see beyond, known as Coronado.

Some people call Coronado an island, which gives my inner geoscience student a veritable eye twitch. It’s not an island. It’s technically a peninsula. The main part you see above is the widest — over a mile across — while further south (beyond the bridge in the photo), it narrows down to a small strip that eventually connects back with the main California coast just north of Mexico. So technically you could cross over to Coronado and walk to Tijuana, making this… not an island.

UPDATE: A marketing representative from the Hotel del Coronado (known to locals as the “Hotel Del,” according to Dennis) actually read this post on my blog (whoa!) and submitted the following comment: “To give you a bit of history, Coronado used to be an island … at high tide. The skinny strip of land now called Silver Strand that connects Coronado to Imperial Beach used to be a lot smaller. During high tide it would become submerged (thus turning Coronado into a true island). It was later filled in with sand, turning it into the peninsula we know today.” Thanks for the clarification! That definitely explains why it’s often referred to as “Coronado Island.”

The last time I was in San Diego, I took the Coronado bridge across the bay and rode directly to the beach. This time, my friend Angie and I opted for a ferry, since we didn’t have a car. There are a couple of ferry options, including the Coronado Ferry and the ferry operated by the Marriott. The Coronado Ferry is cheaper, costing $4.25 (I think) each way for an adult, while the Marriott ferry is $6.00 each way. We still opted for the Marriott ferry since it left from nearby and ran every half hour. Anyone can take it — you don’t have to be staying at the hotel.

The captain was exceedingly helpful, and the ride only lasted about 10 minutes (if that).

Of course, once we got to Coronado, we realized the Coronado ferry actually drops you a little closer to actual… stuff.

About half of the fat part of the “island” is occupied by a Naval base. The other half is a small town with shops, restaurants, pasty tourists, beautiful homes, and tanned Seals (not the kind with flippers). We decided to walk across the width, just to get a feel of the place and catch a glimpse of the ocean. If you’re wearing decent shoes, let me just say that a walking tour is the perfect way to appreciate the beauty of this place.

Skyline views…

Gorgeous homes…

Flowers and fruits to smell along the way…

Cozy niches to wine and dine…

And finally, at long last, the Pacific.

The beach here was fairly crowded. Of course, we had to walk through the famous Hotel del Coronado and couldn’t help but gawk at the extravagant wood moldings and opulence dripping from the giant crystal chandelier.

I’m pretty sure I flipped out over this old school cage elevator.

Unfortunately, my iPhone could do nothing to capture the sheer size of the place. If you make it to Coronado, the hotel is definitely worth a look. We hiked back a different way from where we came. If you find yourself walking, take care when crossing some of the busier roads. We thought we were avoiding the hustle of tourism and commuters by walking through quiet neighborhood side streets. Unfortunately, those led to a major thoroughfare near the bridge, which is the only way by vehicle to cross the bay.

Honestly, I’m surprised we didn’t end up tiny smears on the side of the road.

But hey.

As you can tell from the photos, there are worse places to die.

So You Want to Eat and Drink in San Diego? You Should Probably Start Here.

So in my last post, I intimated — no, I bragged — that I had some of the best food and drinks in San Diego.

Now. I want you to read that as, “I thoroughly enjoyed the food and drinks I had at these places in San Diego” and not, “This is the absolute best stuff you could possibly get in San Diego” because frankly, I don’t know if it was the best in San Diego because I was only in San Diego for 3 days.

All I know is that what I consumed at the following choice establishments was phenomenal, as was the service and overall atmosphere.

*DISCLAIMER: Of course I inadvertently left my nice DSLR camera in my hotel room, along with my sunscreen, apparently, for the majority of my excursions, so you’ll have to settle for the dark, blurry images provided by my iPhone.

First up?

My friend Suzy, a lovely lady I used to work with during my cubicle days at Fort Bragg and who happened to be traveling to San Diego around the same time, was adamant about finding us a “craft cocktail” bar.

Read the rest of this gem…

Travel Tip #472: How To Look Like You Know What You’re Doing. Kind Of.

I have said it before, and I’ll say it again.

Traveling alone, while completely thrilling in a scary-adrenaline-pumping-whoa-I-just-had-sex-without-a-condom kind of way, is best when punctuated with familiar faces. Even better when those faces happen to be local.

See, when you have access to a local, and I mean more than a quick information exchange on an airplane or subway though that’s certainly helpful too, you have access to the heart of a place. The keys to the Camaro. The ear to its secrets.

And in San Diego, not only did I meet up with long-lost non-local friends, but I met a friend I’d never actually met — an online friend and someone whose words I’ve been reading for over two years, so really it seemed like we’d never not met because honesty, if you haven’t figured it out by now, is kind of hard for a blogger to avoid.

So it’s like we’re in each others’ heads.

Dennis Hong is the founder of Musings on Life and Love, as well as a new relationship advice site called Lemon Vibe, and a regular contributor to Cracked.com and Dear Wendy and probably another one or two or seven that I’m forgetting. He’s a molecular biologist-turned-high-school-teacher or something along those lines, the American kind of Asian, argumentative, wicked smart, swing dancer, lover of scotch and unwitting connoisseur of saki, has a lovely girlfriend named Melissa, and is an exceedingly talented and prolific writer.

See? Must mean I know him like the back of my hand.

Which doesn’t really mean much, when I think about it, because I doubt I could pick my hand out in a lineup.

Anyway.

Like I said. While exploring an unknown place on your own can be an incredible, mind opening experience, consulting with a local is, more often than not, the most efficient way to dig around its guts.

He showed me one of the best places for food.

(More on this place HERE.)

He told me one of the best places for drinks.

(More on this place HERE.)

He showed me his mad swing dancing skills at a place whose surface screamed I’m just a pub! by day but hiked up its poodle skirt by night.

Henry’s Pub

He showed me saki. And made me drink it.

Uhh… Don’t remember the name of this restaurant.

And he left me with advice of other places to check out, like Kansas City Barbecue, the locale where Goose sings Great Balls of Fire to his kids and the lovely Meg Ryan in Top Gun:

And the Top of the Hyatt, which is a FREE — yes I said FREE — elevator excursion to arguably the best view in San Diego.

It took me no less than 3 elevator rides from the Hyatt’s impressive lobby to get into the correct one — the one that would take me to the top.

This is me. Bored in an elevator. You can’t tell, but I was really excited to get in the right one.

Are we there, yet?

Oh, yes. We are most certainly there.

There’s also a bar up there called — get this — Top of the Hyatt. I didn’t get a drink or even go inside because the place is über fancy which made my jean shorts feel a little Daisy Duke but not as sexy so I skipped it, but here’s my take: If you’re in San Diego, go to the top of the Hyatt (the floor). If you’re in San Diego and have money to spend on drinks and are wearing something nicer than Jean Shorts and don’t smell like Saki, go to the Top of the Hyatt (the bar). Even if they’re extra pricey (they probably are) and not that great (they’re probably not), the euphoric view more than makes up for it.

Since I have an intense aversion to travel research, I never would have known this existed if it weren’t for Dennis. It was kind of awesome, completely free, and kind of awesome.

So.

Find yourself a local.

And if your local happens to be a swing dancin’ Asian, consider yourself extra lucky.

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